by Leigh Riker
Emma sank deeper into her chair. She couldn’t even venture into Owen’s room. She certainly didn’t feel ready to discuss him with strangers.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered to the dark-haired girl beside her.
“I felt the same way the first time I came.” She leaned closer. “It’s harder some days than others. But, please. Stay. You won’t be sorry.”
Emma couldn’t imagine that, but she took a breath and nodded.
She would try one meeting—that was all. Then she’d decide whether to continue.
The next two hours passed in a blur.
“I lost my wife a year ago,” the gray-haired man said. He shifted from one foot to the other and gripped the edges of the podium. “I can’t seem to accept that she’s gone.” Tears filled his eyes and he could say no more. The moderator led him back to his seat, where he hunched into himself and sobbed aloud. Several people got up to speak softly to him. Another man sat next to him, one arm around his shaking shoulders.
Emma swallowed, her stomach rising into her throat.
“Hang in there,” the girl said. “It gets easier.”
Emma doubted that, although Max Barrett had said the same.
“Emma,” the moderator said. “Would you like to share your story?”
“Not today,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Whatever it is, no one will judge you here.”
The comment brought her upright in her chair. Did others wonder if there was something, anything, they could have done to change a tragic outcome? All she could think of was Thad.
“I’m sorry, I can’t—” She started to get up.
But the girl beside her gently drew her back down. “You don’t have to,” she said. “Everyone understands.”
Emma forced herself to stay but didn’t really hear the rest of the testimonials, confessions, or whatever they were called. Her mind had shut down. Only tomorrow’s to-do list kept her in her chair. Call Melanie. Send Grace to meet a potential client whose smaller project might be perfect to expand her role at the shop and engage her more.
At the end of the meeting she glanced up, as if from a daze, to see people standing, gathering belongings and exchanging a few greetings here and there. Most of them began edging toward the front of the room instead of the rear exit, where someone had set out an urn of coffee. She hadn’t even noticed the enticing smell. An open box of doughnuts sat beside foam cups and paper napkins.
Her heart sank. No way was she going to enjoy a social hour here.
The girl slipped an arm through hers. “Emma, it’s good to meet people. You’ll feel more relaxed once you get to know a few of us. My name’s Jody.”
Her probing look changed Emma’s mind. She must appear half crazy, not normal at all. “Just half a cup,” she said at last, “or I’ll be awake all night.”
She followed Jody to the front, kept her head down while she poured dark coffee into a cup. She added sugar, then cream. Stirred with the little wooden stick provided. Jody handed her a napkin with a doughnut.
“Eat. You’ll feel better. The shakes can be hard to deal with.”
The gray-haired man joined them at the fringe of the group—all those people who were milling about, laughing and talking. “This is the part where we pretend nothing bad happened to us—even after more than one meeting.”
“I probably won’t be coming again,” she said.
He smiled. “That’s what we all say.” Then he moved on.
The more she heard, the less she wanted to be part of this. How could it help anyone to be exposed, then to socialize as if this were a book club or church auxiliary committee? With Jody walking beside her, they stepped out into the cool late afternoon.
“Goodbye, Jody. It was nice to meet you.”
Jody reached out for a hug but afterward Emma almost ran for her car, stumbling on the gravel. She was halfway home when she realized she’d never asked Jody about herself.
* * *
IN THE PAST year Emma had come to dread her drive home each day. The farther she got from town, the closer she came to the house on the first brow of the mountain, the tighter her hands gripped the steering wheel.
Even the gorgeous natural scenery along the road often failed to register with her. Autumn here was spectacular, yet in November, she barely noticed the streaks of russet and orange on the hillside trees to her left or the sheer drop-off beyond the guardrail to the still-green valley on her right.
Emma was still wondering why she’d ever thought that grief meeting could be for her. A part of her wanted to turn around instead of meeting Christian at the house. But the household organizer part of her needed to make that assessment and, yes, move on. As long as they had to renovate, maybe the new cooktop should be relocated. Was there some better way to use that space?
Emma pulled into the drive but Christian’s truck wasn’t there yet. She went inside on her own and stood shaking her head at the gutted kitchen. The smell of acrid smoke still hung heavy in the air.
Emma, how could you be so careless again?
For another moment she surveyed the ruined—now bare—area. No more charred alderwood cabinets. No more double ovens on that far wall so Emma could host Thanksgiving dinner. The new kitchen wouldn’t be finished by then and Frankie had already offered, saying it was her year anyway, though Emma couldn’t remember. “Your house is not functional,” Frankie had said.
True, and yet how she wished for that once-normal obligation.
Mama, let me help. I use your mixer to make potatoes.
And the day before the holiday, I can do punkin pies with you.
Emma strode from the damaged kitchen, then up the stairs. Her late-night walks along the hall and in the garden hadn’t helped to reorder her thoughts, her feelings. Neither had the chat room or the local group. Maybe she would work on her files.
In the growing darkness she didn’t switch on the hallway lights. She bypassed the playroom, then, at Owen’s bedroom door, she stopped. While she waited for Christian this was her chance...to find the courage that for so long had been lacking.
If she did this, she might be able to repurpose the room at last—assuming she could convince Christian about the playroom, too. She was going to need the space here all too soon. Nicole hadn’t found her a new office anywhere else.
Finally, she eased open the door and her breath caught at the familiar scents—the smell of his clothes, even though the pungent smoke hovered up here, too. Of course it did. Heat rises. Her legs gave out, and she sank onto his blue truck bed.
On the carpet still lay a wreck of little cars.
Emma gazed around the room at the wall of shelves filled with books and games—Chutes and Ladders in a box tattered from too much handling—then at his dresser, where his corduroy pants and little jeans still lay in neat rows inside the drawers. The floppy bear he’d called Grizzle was slumped in a far corner as if depressed by Owen’s absence.
The grief meeting had been a mistake, but she couldn’t continue to live in this limbo. Taking a deep breath, she stood to open the hamper in his closet. She pulled out the bundle of clothes that had been there since the week before the accident. She buried her face in them, in that scent of little boy, then made herself straighten.
It was high time she did his laundry.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“EMMA. WHAT ARE you doing?”
Christian was standing in the doorway. A quick glance at her watch told her she’d been here for several hours. But tonight there was no dinner to burn. She glanced up, a pair of corduroy pants in one hand.
“Laundry” was all she said. She folded the now-clean pants, relishing the warm feel of the fabric—like a soft teddy bear, like Grizzle. “Atlanta was no fun,” she guessed.
“I drove
back empty. The next load wasn’t ready. Sorry I’m late,” he said, as if he could be that eager to get home. “I left a lot later than I’d planned to, and the traffic coming back was a dead stop most of the way until I hit the cutoff to 153.”
“Atlanta’s always like that.” Emma laid the folded pants in a waiting white plastic bag.
She couldn’t look at him. In the past months Christian had developed dark circles under his eyes and lost weight, but he was still broad-shouldered and solid. And every time she saw that same look in his eyes, she melted.
“Forget Atlanta,” he said. “I asked what you’re doing in here.”
Emma wondered how to salvage the situation. If she couldn’t, they were headed for another argument, probably a very bad one.
Hoping to avoid the confrontation that was building toward a long overdue explosion, she tried to lighten her voice, but instead it came out sounding glib. “You know me. Can’t resist the urge to tidy up.”
Trembling, she sorted through the pile of fresh laundry on the bed and found the last pair of pants.
Christian pulled the corduroys from the bag and tossed them on the bed.
“Tidying up? There wasn’t a single day of his life when Owen didn’t leave his clothes on this carpet. Books and toys everywhere. Gummy bears in the sheets...that’s how he was.”
“Christian, please don’t.”
“Don’t what, Emma?”
He took her arm, drew her around to face him. Emma jerked free of his grasp and began to pick up the pants.
“I hate loose ends,” she said. I hate what’s happened to us. Because of me.
He swept a hand toward the pile of clean laundry on the bed, then at the dresser drawer still hanging open like the mouth of an animal, like Bob waiting to be fed. And finally, he looked toward the connecting door to the playroom.
Whatever patience he’d had seemed to snap. “We’re talking—no, as usual talking around—a lot more than some ‘loose end.’ What were you planning to do? Give all this to Goodwill? Or that fancy consignment shop on Signal?”
“Yes. It’s time. And we’re here to work out a new arrangement for the kitchen. I was just waiting for you.”
She started for the door but he held her back. For a long moment he gazed at her, his eyes troubled, a frown line between his brows. “And here I’d wanted to talk to you about something else...now I find you putting his things in garbage bags.”
“I can’t keep this room or the playroom—” she flung an arm out “—as they were, like shrines. If we’re going to stay here, we have to change things. Just like the kitchen. We have to edit our lives.”
His jaw clenched. “Sometimes I wonder. Do we have a home here—or just another showroom for your business?”
“That’s not fair.” She dropped onto the bed again.
“Then hear me out.” Christian sat beside her and took her hands in his. “I stopped at Max’s shop before I went to Atlanta today. He talked about his wife.” Christian glanced at the white bag. “He reminded me how important it is to remember the ones we’ve lost.”
“Christian, losing Owen was the most devastating thing in my life. Our lives,” she quickly added. “We’re all trying to put things back together. And we will. We can.” She squeezed his hands. “If we try harder, every day, to keep going, to be normal again, sooner or later we will be. I know we will.”
“And what is normal?” he asked with a catch in his voice. “Me coming home every night from the office instead of driving a semi? Kissing you in the kitchen the way I used to do? With Owen clapping his hands? What is normal? Is it you folding his clothes and giving him away?”
“I’m not! But they don’t belong here anymore! They’re only things. He will be three years old for the rest of our lives, Christian! Why can’t you see that?”
“Oh, but I do. The memories we already have are the only ones we’ll ever have. Nothing, nothing is ever going to be that kind of normal again.”
She drew a harsh breath. “Then we need to make a new life, a different one, from whatever we have left.”
“I don’t want life to be different if that means forgetting him.” He let her hands go. “I had an idea this afternoon, Emma.” He held her gaze. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now—and I’d like to establish a family foundation. In Owen’s memory. Something that could help other families going through difficult times the same as we are.”
His tone gained enthusiasm. “I’m not sure about the details yet but some kind of support—financial, emotional and, yes, maybe even physical—for people whose kids are sick or injured or gone. Something,” he said again. “Maybe even more than that. I don’t know right now.”
Emma rose. “And how will that help us?”
“It’s not about us,” he said. “It’s about him. It’s about those other people.”
She blinked. His big heart was another reason she’d fallen in love with him, and she shouldn’t dampen his excitement now. But he’d never had to protect himself in the same way she had, and for him the foundation was a positive idea, a way to move on in his life without letting Owen go. That was progress, wasn’t it? She could understand that.
But he wasn’t the guilty one.
His idea was worthwhile, but she couldn’t get caught up in his foundation this fast. Honoring Owen was a lovely idea, but she was the reason he was gone. This foundation would be a constant reminder of the pain she’d caused.
“You and I have a little money we can free up to get things started. Dad’s not happy with me right now but I hope he and Mom will add to that. I’m going to talk to him,” Christian went on. “Once we’re underway, I’ll solicit other donations. We certainly have plenty of contacts. Well,” he said, “what do you think? Maybe we can even use the anniversary party for a launch. That’s something my mother might be able to get on board with.”
“I don’t know how I feel,” she said at last.
Christian’s expression fell. She’d disappointed him—first by doing the laundry of all things and now about his new idea—but being reminded every day of what had happened might drive her mad.
“I also talked to Rafe today. I’m going to lease the General,” he said. “That’s the second thing I had to tell you. Doesn’t that help?”
“I know that wasn’t an easy decision,” she said. “And I appreciate that you did it for me. But as for your foundation—I need to think about that.”
Right now she needed to lock it away somewhere, just as she’d stayed away from the online support group because of Thad. Just as she wouldn’t go back to that local group’s meetings.
Obviously, she and Christian weren’t on the same page. Emma feared they might never be.
“Then you think about it,” he said at last. “I’m going to see Dad. You and I will talk again.”
A second later she heard the clatter of his footsteps going down the stairs. The back door opened, closed. She heard his truck drive away. Then there was silence.
That familiar, dreaded silence.
Emma stood in the center of the bedroom, in the house she’d once loved, smoothing Owen’s pants over and over in her shaking hands.
She wondered if that tragedy—the one she couldn’t seem to share with Christian—was the only thing that kept them “together.” Because no one else could possibly understand.
* * *
CHRISTIAN HARDLY REMEMBERED the drive to his parents’ home—it was nothing but a blur. At least the tourists who crowded here in the summers were gone, no longer clogging the highway and slowing down to rubberneck at the ever-changing and spectacular views.
He’d wanted so badly for Emma to see the foundation as a good thing that might help close the distance between them. He could only hope his parents had a different opinion.
He found his fathe
r in his upstairs study, reading glasses perched on his nose, the daily Times Free Press on his lap. He’d fallen asleep.
“Dad.” Christian gently nudged him and Lanier opened his eyes, looking confused. It was one of those moments when he saw that his father wasn’t getting any younger, that despite his often blustery manner, he was even beginning to look frail.
Sooner rather than later it was all going to be up to Christian. Was his decision to go out on the road the right one, after all? He touched Lanier’s arm again. “Sorry to wake you.”
His father’s eyes sharpened. “I was out like a light,” he admitted with a sheepish smile rather than using his usual resting my eyes excuse. “Where’s Emma?”
“Up at the house,” he said. “She had some things to finish.” Getting rid of our little boy. “I came up here to tell you about an idea I’ve had.”
“Should I be sitting down?” His dad laughed a little. “Oh, wait. I am.” He straightened in his easy chair to give Christian a searching once-over. “This looks serious.”
“It is. Very.”
“Just don’t tell me you two are moving to Colorado or Texas. Leaving Mallory Trucking, me and your mother, behind.” His eyes sparkled. “Taking you out of my will would be a pain and I don’t have the time right now.”
“Not surprising since you’re picking up the slack.” Christian shook his head. “Chet Berglund is all surface smiles and a good job title with no substance. He prefers playing tennis to actually working hard.”
He took the chair across from his father and told him about the foundation, his words coming faster and faster. He finished with, “It’s a more than worthy cause.”
“You don’t have to sell me, Christian.” His father shifted. “I already agree with you.”
Wow. “That’s nice for a change.”
