But he wanted to find out what had happened to her dreams. And he missed having a friend to listen to his ideas and get excited about his plans.
He needed a friend, the way Emma could have been in high school, if they'd found each other earlier. He suspected she could use a friend, too.
Eric chuckled as he climbed into his van. He'd have to be careful not to give his mother the wrong idea or he’d never hear the end of it.
"I'm a plumber, too," Otto informed his mother, and trotted over to the sandbox he'd been ignoring for weeks. A few minutes later, he was happily digging his own little trench.
Why, Emma wondered as she retreated into the house, had she let Eric go ahead? He'd never let her pay the full price, and she hated to take advantage.
Yet he'd made a good point; in his place, she'd act the same way. Emma liked being able to do others a favor, and she supposed it was only fair to allow him the same satisfaction.
Only she hadn't felt as if Eric were merely being kind. Not that he seemed to expect anything in return, either. In fact, she wasn't sure exactly what she had sensed about him; several times, she'd caught him staring at her, and yet his manner had never been more than politely friendly.
For one moment, as she hauled out the vacuum cleaner to begin her Saturday housecleaning, Emma indulged in a flight of fancy. She visualized Eric, stunning in a dark suit, arriving to spirit her away to a fine restaurant where they'd lean across the table and whisper to each other by candlelight.
She shook her head and headed for the cheerfully decorated living room with its scattering of toys. Romantic musings were all very well, but in reality the prospect of being courted by Eric Jameson would scare the heck out of her.
He might be working as a plumber, but he hadn't lost any of that taut energy. Whatever he applied himself to, he was going to succeed at it.
That was a good trait, of course. But Emma knew she had a natural instinct to take care of other people, to put their interests first. She'd given up most after-school activities to keep house for her father, when he could have taken his clothes to the cleaners and eaten frozen dinners. When Bill came along, she'd scaled down her career and kept her schedule flexible to suit his.
With a man as forceful as Eric, Emma knew, she'd have to fight like crazy not to lose herself. While she might be older and more confident now, she was also, finally, on the verge of a breakthrough in her career. And where that was concerned, she refused to compromise.
Well, the issue would probably never come up. After her plumbing got fixed, it might be another ten years before she saw Eric again.
Resolutely, Emma turned to her cleaning.
The rest of the day flew by. Otto didn't require much entertaining, not with a couple of laborers digging through their backyard and Eric dropping by from time to time to check on the work. She’d hoped to find out how his plan to become an architect had gotten sidetracked, but the occasion didn't arise. The pipe was laid, the laborers left and the dinner hour came and went. Somehow Eric managed to get the tub to drain and depart without Emma realizing it.
Trying not to feel disappointed, she fed and bathed Otto, shared his favorite Winnie-the-Pooh story with him for the fiftieth time, and put him to bed.
A few minutes later, reading in the living room, she heard a tap at the door. Surprised, Emma set her book aside and answered it.
"You weren't sleeping, were you?" Eric had changed out of his plumber's uniform into a blue pullover sweater. His slicked-back hair bespoke a shower.
"No, I—" Seeing him here at night, with the house quiet around them, made Emma's breath come quickly. "The tub drains great."
"I'm glad." His mouth quirked into a smile. "I'd hate to dig up half your yard and not solve the problem."
"You're good at your work, which is exactly what I would expect." She stepped back to let him in.
Emma tried to picture how the house looked to Eric, wanting him to like it. The architecture wasn't exactly Frank Lloyd Wright, but the California bungalow had a 1920's charm and she'd decorated in colorful Art Deco.
"You've nested." His voice sounded gentle. "A person could get comfortable here."
"I've made decaf. Want some?"
“Sure.”
She led the way into the kitchen, where a Tiffany hanging lamp cast colored reflections around the room.
As she fetched cups, Emma tried in vain to fluff hair that had gone limp during a sweaty stint with the vacuum cleaner. "You'd never guess I was a hairdresser," she muttered.
Eric turned a chair backward and sat down. "So you are a stylist, after all."
She poured their coffee. "Yes, but Bill didn't like me to work long hours. And then it took us forever to have children. It's only now that I'm starting to make things happen."
"Good for you." Amber light swayed across Eric's strong features, giving his eyes a mysterious cast. "Tell me about Bill the fireman."
"We had fun together," Emma said. "And he needed taking care of. If nobody fed him, he'd forget to eat. The laundry could never do his shirts right...." She stopped, hearing her own words as if through a stranger's ears. "I suppose that's why he seemed to resent Otto. But he would have gotten over it. How about you? Are you married?"
Eric shook his head. "No time. I've been supporting my mom and my brother and saving up. I'll be going back to Cal Poly next fall."
“Good for you!” So his father's death had left them strapped. "Looks like we've both had to wait awhile, but we're back on track."
"I don't think I could have waited much longer," Eric admitted. “I was going crazy.”
They both fell silent. Watching emotions flicker across his face, Emma felt a flutter of disbelief. Was Eric Jameson really sitting in her kitchen?
From time to time this past decade, she'd imagined running into him and what she would say, how she’d explain that even though she hadn't reached her goals yet, she hadn’t given them up, either. Then she'd laughed at her fancies, supposing Eric by now to be well established in Los Angeles or New York.
"Our tenth high school reunion," he said. "Did you go?"
"Otto and I had the flu. How was it?"
A shadow fell across his eyes, or maybe it was a trick of the light. "I didn't go, either, and I don't have an excuse. I'm a coward."
"Because you're a plumber?" Without thinking, Emma leaned forward and touched his arm. The contact felt more intimate than she'd expected, and yet she didn't want to overreact, so she left her hand in place. "Eric, I can't believe anyone would look down on you. It’s a good, honest job."
"And it pays well." He twisted the cup in his hands. "Sally's an assistant prosecutor in Boston. My friend Ted's doing his residency in surgery at Stanford. I'm pleased for them, and I like the work I'm doing. But I always thought I'd still be the leader of the pack."
Part of Emma wanted to reassure him that he'd accomplished just as much by taking responsibility for his family, but she knew more than pride was at stake. Eric's self-image was bound up in his accomplishments.
Instead, she said, "You'll get there. This is life, not some half-hour sitcom. Nobody expects us to work out all our problems and come up a winner by the next commercial break."
The look Eric gave her was full of appreciation and something more, a connection that reached right inside Emma and made her quiver. "I've missed you," he said. “We didn’t know each other well yet…” The words trailed off.
"We connected.”
“Usually I hate clichés, but that one fits. Oh, before I forget." Eric pulled a windowed envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. "I talked to my brother, who's my partner, and he wouldn't hear of charging you full price. And there's no hurry about paying.''
Emma peeked at it. The sum was even less than he’d estimated. "I don't feel right, accepting such a favor."
"There is something I'd like." Eric carried his cup to the sink. "A home-cooked meal. And a chance to talk some more. Are you free tomorrow night?"
On the p
oint of consenting, Emma remembered her commitment. "I can't. I'm meeting with a client—Genevieve Loos—about a possibility that might help my career. Could we make it next weekend?''
"Saturday at six? I'll bring the wine."
"I hope you like lasagna." Emma stood up reluctantly. "I'm glad we've met again. It makes me feel as if not so much time has gone by, after all."
"I haven't felt like a kid in a long while," he agreed. "And I'd kill for lasagna. That’s one dish my mother never fixes."
She saw him to the door, then sat in the living room, bits and pieces of memory bubbling up—silly incidents, almost-forgotten faces, a whole teenage world that had faded unnoticed.
Through the center of it walked the youthful Eric Jameson, his boyishness overlaid now with the multifaceted man he had become. A man Emma was only beginning to know.
We hope you enjoyed the opening chapters of Old Dreams, New Dreams by Jacqueline Diamond
By Leaps and Bounds Page 25
