by Leigh Riker
Christian heard the sorrow in his tone. “Dad.”
“I shouldn’t have to say this, but you’re my only son, Christian. If Owen had lived, one day you might have been in my position, pleading with him to take over the business you’d devoted your life to. You have good ideas—you always do. Why lose this opportunity to carry on a strong family business, to make a real difference?”
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“I realize I can’t steer this ship—there I go again—much longer. I’m getting older, more out of touch by the day. I have enough trouble just sending an email but all the new technology, some of which affects our business...”
Christian was half out of his chair. Sweating, he darted a glance at the door. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take over. I just can’t stay here right now.”
“But how does driving a truck help Emma? Your marriage? You should think about that,” he said.
Christian couldn’t disagree. “I need the open road first, the chance to clear my head and, yes, to think about everything.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know, a month, maybe two. Can we call this something other than a resignation—say, a short leave of absence?” he asked. “It’ll be a chance for me to get a better take on what our drivers need. Like the GPS systems we’ve put in every truck.” He tried a smile. “It’ll be kind of like Undercover Boss.”
His father didn’t smile. He leaned back in his chair. For a long moment he fiddled with the pen he’d thrown down, turning it over and over in his hand like a drum major’s baton.
“Then what?” he finally asked.
“Then I guess we’ll see.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMMA DIDN’T LIKE Christian’s decision, either. She was sitting at the built-in desk in the kitchen, going over the month’s bills.
“I have to agree with Lanier.” Her voice trembled. “What sense does this make, Christian? How will we survive?” She paused. “It’s not as if No More Clutter can support us. I haven’t found new space. I drove by a place in St. Elmo before coming home, but there’s no use taking Nicole to see it. It was too small and dreary. I may have to close my doors temporarily,” she said, “and your driving a truck won’t bring in nearly as much as being VP of Sales.”
“I can work overtime,” he said, his mouth set, “pick up extra trips.” Which didn’t sound any better to Emma. “I’ve done it before. We’ll be okay.”
“I’ll remind you of that when the next bills start rolling in and there’s not enough to pay them.” She snatched one from this month’s pile. “For instance, this latest barn bill has way too many charges—half of which I can’t even comprehend.”
“The General needed shoes.”
“Twice,” she pointed out.
“‘No feet, no horse,’” he said.
Emma knew the old saying but that didn’t help the situation. “And what about this? Teeth floating?”
“It’s like a checkup and cleaning at the dentist. No teeth, no—”
“Not to mention the monthly board bill alone. That went up right after last Christmas—”
“The cost of doing business. Like the higher rent on your shop,” he said. “Barns never make much money. The raise wasn’t that big.”
“Christian, we bought this house because we were both bringing in good money then. But since the accident—”
“It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. How could it not? I’ve lost half my business. I’m the one who heard the whispers whenever I stepped into a restaurant or a meeting room or a potential client’s space. Sometimes I still do. Even Frankie knows that.” She whirled around. “Have you forgotten the headlines in the local paper? The articles that implied I was a terrible mother? That I was guilt—”
“I can’t forget any of that.”
“If you’re going to drive a truck, you should at least sell the General.”
“No,” he said. “Not when you’d turn that playroom upstairs into an office, spend even more time there than you do with me, than you did with Owen—and I’m supposed to put up with that?”
“You think I was a bad mother, too.”
“I think he needed more of your attention. I said so from the start.” He cleared his throat. “Em, I’m proud of your achievements, but there was a time when your shop began to take over the rest of our lives.”
“I was trying to build my own business!”
“Owen was spending too much time at your store instead of here or with friends he could play with.”
“Are you kidding? I didn’t want him in day care. I wanted to be a hands-on mom—like my mother never was. He loved being with me, coming to my shop, playing with the drawers in the display units, drawing pictures at my desk...”
“When he should have been outdoors running around like any normal kid. Or with you right here in this kitchen at dinnertime playing with the spoons and banging pot lids.”
“He did that, too.” Emma’s stomach churned. Her mouth went bone-dry. For a second, she thought she might be ill.
“And you often stayed late.”
“I certainly couldn’t leave him with you at your office. Wallowing in the past won’t change anything now, Christian. We’ll stay stuck in this terrible limbo, when each of us needs to find a new way.”
“Each of us?” He was leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, a small muscle ticking in his jaw. “I tried, Emma. Yesterday when you came to tell me about Mom. I wanted us to enjoy your news, enjoy the day together.”
“Really? You’re the one who just quit his job to take time for himself.” Emma pushed the pile of bills aside, stood up, then turned her back.
She could feel Christian standing close behind her as he had at his office yesterday, with the strength she needed yet couldn’t seem to ask for. She could feel, again, the touch of his mouth on hers until she’d remembered that she was responsible for the tragedy that had torn them apart. Now she knew she’d been right.
He did blame her—at least for her neglect.
He stepped back and let out a breath. “I’m going to bed early. I have to leave at six tomorrow. I’m driving to Nashville.”
Emma leaned her head against a kitchen cabinet. “Drive carefully.”
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, Christian’s quarrel with Emma and all his memories rode with him. Not that he was surprised. He couldn’t seem to stop them, and one in particular nagged at him. Christmas morning, the year before last when everyone—Emma, Grace, his parents, himself and Owen—had gathered around the tree.
Owen had been two that year—going on three in March—and was amazingly articulate, letting them all know just who that cute little person really was and what he thought.
At dawn his Elf on the Shelf, which he’d named Bert, had already left for the North Pole—not to be seen again until next holiday season. Owen had bounced down the stairs to see Santa’s gifts under the tree and clapped his hands with delight. Presents were piled everywhere, under and around the lit tree, on tables and empty chairs. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and the cinnamon rolls Emma baked each Christmas for breakfast.
Struggling with ribbons and tearing off gift wrap, Owen exclaimed over each present. Then suddenly, he stopped and looked up at Christian.
“Daddy, where my bike?”
“Not this time, buddy,” Christian had told him, ruffling his blond hair and meeting his gray-green eyes. “You’re not old enough yet.”
Taking that in, Owen looked solemn. Then he suddenly grinned.
“Santa will bring it?”
“Yes,” he said, meeting Emma’s eyes over their little boy’s head with that parental smile they always shared.
“And you’ll help me?” Owen a
sked.
He nodded. “It’ll have training wheels, too,” Christian had said. “Next year.”
* * *
CHRISTIAN’S EYES WERE BURNING. The road beyond Monteagle stretched before him, I-24 shimmering and undulating like a gray ribbon. Christian pulled off the highway at the next truck stop. He needed coffee. Bad.
He needed more than that, but a mug of java would have to do.
Still smarting from the words he’d exchanged with Emma last night, he wasn’t that eager to get home. In a way she was right, at least about the General. During his leave from the office, maybe he needed to...not sell but—lease the horse, as Rafe had urged him to do. But he was right, too, about Emma’s business.
His footsteps dragging, Christian left the rig near the pumps, ready to fill up when he came back. Inside the store, he dropped onto a seat at the counter and smiled at the perky-looking woman in a pink uniform who came forward to take his order.
“What’ll it be?”
“Coffee. Black.” When she started to walk away, he said, “Add a doughnut to that. Or no, maybe a big slice of that sweet potato pie in the front display?”
He studied her smile—and thought of Emma again. So different now, so far away in all the ways that really counted. He couldn’t bear to think about the years unwinding for them like that ribbon of road, each of them going in opposite directions. Even Max had pointed that out.
He looked down at his jeans and sweatshirt and sighed. A real fashion plate, that’s what he was today, but he didn’t miss wearing a jacket and tie. He ran a hand over his jaw. Had he even remembered to shave that morning? He’d been so quick to leave the house. Maybe not.
He watched the waitress walk over to the coffee urn, where she poured a tall mug of the steaming brew that looked dark enough, thick enough, to keep him up all night. Not that he slept much anyway.
Early this morning he’d still been lying beside Emma, wide awake, with Bob twitching between them. His mind had been spinning in ten different directions when his cell phone alarm went off. Long before six he’d been on the road to Nashville. Why not? With the extra hours until his load was ready for the short-haul return trip, which was Christian’s trial run, he’d had time to stroll along Music Row, peer in at a few bars where jazz and country spilled out the open doors even at ten in the morning. Tempted to go in, he’d forced himself to keep on walking.
“Here you go.” The redheaded waitress pushed his mug across the counter, then leaned against its Formica top, apparently ready to chat. “Tell me your troubles, cowboy. I’m a good listener.”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t know where to start. But thanks anyway.” Taking a sip of coffee, he burned his tongue.
“Woman trouble? she asked. “She giving you a hard time?”
How did you know?
Christian was quiet for a moment, half hoping she’d go away. But there were few other people in the place, only a couple of drivers who were working the phones while eating lunch in the booths, probably trying to get a load so they wouldn’t have to deadhead on the way back. Another guy had just disappeared into the adjacent showers.
Christian glanced around, taking in the long counter, the kitschy diner-like decor, the smell of...what, his own sense of hopelessness? What harm could there be in getting something off his chest? That hadn’t worked well for him so far, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever see this woman again.
When she raised one already arched eyebrow, he let loose.
“It’s not my wife—exactly.” He cleared his throat. “We lost our boy almost a year ago. Can’t quite seem to get myself together.”
Her china-blue eyes grew moist. “I’m sorry, hon.” The endearment, as meaningless as it was, almost undid him. If he wasn’t in some battle with Emma that neither of them seemed to understand, he was at loggerheads with his dad or his mother. He hadn’t gotten anywhere with Grace, either. He had no one to talk to, unless he went back to Max Barrett’s place. “How old?” she asked.
“He was almost four.” His voice sounded hoarse, so he yanked out his phone. “This picture was taken not long before...” He gazed into Owen’s eyes, so like his own, studied his smile. Christian’s already tight throat closed until he couldn’t say another word.
The waitress blinked. “What a cutie.” She reached over to touch the back of Christian’s other hand, clenched around his coffee mug. “Want to tell me what happened? Was he sick?”
“No,” he said. “It was an...accident. Emma—my wife—had taken him to the barn where I board my horse. Owen loved that animal just as I did—as I do. They were friends from the time he could walk. He liked to feed the horse gummy bears.”
He showed her a group photo next, from that Christmas two years ago, and she said, “You have a lovely family.”
A chill rolled down his spine. I had a lovely family. Now they were all coming apart at the seams. After last night’s argument, maybe they’d simply go on like this forever, living in their own hell on earth. Quarreling about her failing business, about the General and this job. He forced himself to tell the waitress the rest.
When he’d almost finished Christian glanced up. Her face looked taut, as if she sensed what was coming next. “The accident,” he said, “that’s what we all call it—should have been avoided.”
Christian straightened on the stool. He put his phone away and drained his coffee, already sensing the hole in his stomach from too much acid. He set the empty mug on the counter and met her eyes, teary now. “Yeah, well. Sorry. Really made your day, huh?” he said. “Thanks for listening.”
“No problem.”
He felt a quick surge of anger. “The problem is, we haven’t—any of us—been the same since.” My marriage is on the rocks. He’d never thought that before. Never expected to after his youthful mistake with Melanie.
She shook her head. “Maybe it would help to think of it this way. I can’t have kids and now I’m on my own anyway. You were very lucky to have him.” She patted his hand. “He’s with the angels now.”
As if he’d been punched in the stomach, Christian jerked away.
He opened his wallet then pulled out a few bills. “Keep the change. I appreciated the therapy session.”
“No charge,” she said. “Anytime.”
When he left the restaurant, bypassing the racks of travel information near the door, the stuffed animals he might once have bought Owen and all the other souvenirs, he headed for the gas pumps. He’s with the angels. He couldn’t say he felt any lighter, but for now the memories promised to let him alone.
* * *
SITTING ON THE sofa in the great room with Bob beside her, Emma scrolled through the list of grief support groups on her laptop. In the kitchen dinner was cooking, but she had time and Melanie had at least steered her in the right direction. If she tried a support group online rather than in person, she might not feel exposed, as she had with the counselor. She could hear about other people’s experiences first, then participate as much, or as little, as she wanted to.
Each of us needs to find a new way, she’d told Christian.
When one chat room appealed to her, she clicked on the site. She read the About Us section, liking what she saw there as much as the subject could be liked. A few minutes later she’d successfully signed up and was introducing herself to the group.
Hi, I’m Emma, she typed. I’m thirty-five years old. Married. And last Christmas I lost my little boy in a barn accident.
There. She’d said it. Written it, anyway. With luck this short confession had been the hardest part.
She didn’t have to wait long before people began to respond. She couldn’t call this instant gratification, but it would do, assuming all the messages were supportive. One could never be sure on the internet.
I am so sorry for your loss, a woman c
alled Zee wrote.
Who caused the accident? another message asked, from someone whose name was Thad.
Emma responded simply, I did.
She waited and then Thad chimed in again. You should be behind bars.
Shaken, she could barely comprehend the next post from Zee. The words smeared in front of her eyes. Thad, that was a terrible thing to say. But the damage was already done.
Bob flopped against her, the dog’s chocolate-brown eyes fixed on Emma’s face as if to provide unspoken support.
But Thad replied again. Baby Killer, he wrote.
Dazed, Emma shut down the computer. Her pulse thundered loud enough to hear and her stomach turned over. Why would a total stranger condemn her so quickly? Someone who’d also suffered a loss? Unless Thad was just pretending, passing himself off as someone he wasn’t. She patted Bob’s sleek fur and the dog planted a wet kiss on her arm. Emma stared at the laptop, lost in her thoughts, until she smelled something. Bob tumbled off the sofa, barking as if to say Follow me.
Emma raced toward the kitchen. Before logging in to the chat room, she’d decided to make hamburgers for dinner. The meat had been simmering, but with Thad’s posts she’d forgotten all about it. When Emma turned the corner from the great room, she met billowing smoke that was rapidly spreading through the first floor of the house.
For a second, she could only stare in horror. A heavy black plume poured from the skillet up the front of the microwave above the stove. Bob was yipping now, running to the door and back again. The air in the kitchen was already thick, and Emma buried her nose in the crook of her raised elbow. With her free hand she grabbed the skillet handle—and pain streaked along her palm. Emma jumped back, tears springing to her eyes. She managed to shut off the burner, but as she did the smoking grease flashed into flames. Not even a pan lid could smother the flames now.
Coughing, she turned on the faucet, let the cold water flow over her burned skin, then filled a bowl and flung the contents at the open pan. It was the worst thing to do. She knew as soon as she’d done it. You didn’t throw water on a grease fire. The fire extinguisher! Emma ran into the adjacent laundry room but the extinguisher wouldn’t work. There was nothing more she could do.
