by Leigh Riker
“We both wanted our house as soon as we saw it. I’d been happy until then in my condo in North Chattanooga, but when it came to the house and its location, we compromised.”
“That’s what marriage, I’ve learned, is all about. As for the bigger issues, Christian and I tangled all the time. I chalk that up to both of us being way too young for marriage. In fact, I’m glad now we only had Grace together. I hope that doesn’t sound harsh, but our divorce was hard enough on her.”
“Christian and I only had Owen,” Emma murmured, surprised at how easily the words came. “I thought if there weren’t any more children, we’d always have him...and Grace,” she added, realizing how true this was.
“Grace is lucky.” Melanie squeezed her hand. “She has two mothers.”
“She does,” Emma agreed. “Lately, though, we don’t seem to be in sync.”
Melanie sighed. “We’ve had our moments, too. But I agree that she and Rafe are a better match than Christian and I ever were, in part because he’s a bit older, more settled than she is. I know that’s been one of Christian’s objections.”
For a few minutes longer, they talked about everyday things—how much the girls would love their new window seat with its bright cushions, the sleepovers they could have with their friends as they grew older, and for Melanie the blessed organization of all their toys. Then Emma remembered an appointment with the printer and stood to go.
“You’ll come to the party, of course,” Emma said.
“We wouldn’t miss it.” As they walked downstairs, Melanie linked arms with Emma. “The foundation will not only be a memorial for your little boy. It will be something you and Christian share, something through which you can both heal.” At the front door she hugged Emma close. “I can’t thank you enough for the work you’ve done here. But more, and from the bottom of my heart, I want to thank you for being...the woman Christian loves.”
Emma blinked. But did he, really? In the way she’d always wanted to be loved? If last night was any indication, things were getting better.
Still, she hesitated in the open doorway. The van with her crew had gone and her car sat alone on the drive. All at once it struck her that she wouldn’t be coming here again. But Emma wanted more. “May I call you to have lunch some day? I think we can be friends.”
“We already are,” Melanie told her.
* * *
LATE THAT AFTERNOON Christian wheeled around the corner onto the side road that led to Mountain View Farm. He’d just traded the semi for his pickup truck when Rafe texted him from the barn. Christian had made the drive—thank goodness it wasn’t far—with his heart in his throat.
As soon as he ran through the open doors, blinking at the change of light, he saw Rafe walking the General up and down the aisle. The horse’s head was hanging low and when he looked up at Christian, he didn’t give his usual greeting.
Christian laid a hand on his neck. “What happened?”
“Hailey rode him earlier today. Gave him a pretty hard workout. Then she got a call, shoved the General into his stall, slammed the bolt home and rushed out to her car.” He added, “The kid who mucks stalls for me said she left a cloud of dust behind when she drove off. The boy’s new—not experienced—and he didn’t know to cool the horse down.”
“Not his fault, then,” Christian said, which didn’t help.
“I should have been here. But I was off-site. Talking to a farmer down the road about getting a new load of hay.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t gone more than an hour but that was long enough for the General to colic. I’m sure he went straight for his water bucket and a big bunch of feed while he was still hot.”
“Damn,” Christian murmured. He kept pace on one side of the horse with Rafe on the other, as if their very presence might comfort the General and be somehow bracing. Belly pain was no fun, and in horses it could prove fatal. “How bad is he?”
“I think the General will be all right,” Rafe said.
“What does the vet say?”
“He came right over. Said the symptoms were classic, which I already knew. The General was sweaty, anxious, his pulse was up a bit. Doc put a stethoscope to the stomach—and heard some promising gut sounds. He doubted anything would be needed except to keep doing what we’re doing until things move around inside and the General begins to feel better.” Rafe hesitated. “I know there’s some controversy about walking as a treatment. It can exhaust the horse, make it harder for him to fight the colic. But the General was pawing, and when he rolled in his stall I thought it would be better to keep him on his feet. Keep him from hurting himself.”
“Thanks, but I can take over now.”
“Nah, I’m caught up here. For a change.” Rafe patted the General’s neck. “I’ve become pretty fond of this guy. And I do feel bad. This is partly my fault.”
Christian studied him. Rafe was a competent, even talented, trainer, and he ran this barn with a strong and steady hand. The well-being of every horse here, and there were almost two dozen, seemed uppermost in Rafe’s mind, and if it hadn’t been for him marrying Grace too soon for her own good, Christian might have liked him more than he did.
But he had another strike against him right now.
“You have Hailey’s number?”
“Sure.” Rafe reached into his jeans pocket for his cell phone. He read off her contact information. “Go for it. Frankly, I don’t care what her emergency was. She should have known a whole lot better. She’s supposed to be a good and responsible rider. Now I wonder if I was wrong.”
“Me, too.” Christian hadn’t liked her that much when they met—and he should have trusted his instincts. He drifted a short distance away, leaned against the wall and punched in Hailey’s number.
“Hello,” she finally said in a wary tone. She must have read his name on her display.
“It’s Christian,” he said. “I’m at the barn. Why did you run out this morning and leave the General on his own?”
“I had to. My mother called. My dad’s in the hospital. That’s where I am now. They think he may have suffered a stroke.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But why didn’t you tell Rafe’s helper you were leaving—and ask him to cool down the horse for you?”
“I didn’t stop to think, I guess.”
“Apparently not. When you signed the lease for the General, Hailey, you agreed to care for him as well I would do. I left him in your hands. You don’t just run off—no matter what the emergency is.” He added, “It would have taken no more than a minute to find Rafe’s stable boy. Instead, you caused the horse to colic.”
For a long moment he heard only silence.
“Will he be okay?”
“That’s what the doc and Rafe tell me. But I have to tell you, I’m more than angry about this.”
The General and Rafe walked by, then turned around at the other end of the barn. The horse didn’t even glance toward the next farm’s pasture where his girlfriend lived.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Hailey finally said. “But I have to go. I need to be with my parents.”
Christian blew out a breath. “I hope your dad does okay.”
When he hung up, Rafe looked over his shoulder.
“You get anywhere with her?”
“Not far,” he said. “I don’t think she cares about the General much.”
* * *
EMMA’S LATE-AFTERNOON trip to look at office space in Ringgold, just over the border into Georgia, had proved to be just another frustration.
“I don’t know what else I can show you,” Nicole said. “If anything new comes on the market, I’ll let you know.”
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, a command performance at Frankie’s—and today, when Emma had left the house, Frankie had already been cooking. In high gear, she would tie elab
orate bows on the dining room’s Parsons chairs and fuss over this season’s spectacular centerpiece.
This would be the family’s first Thanksgiving without Owen. Last year Emma had taught him where to put the spoons and forks. This year, instead of coming from her own house carrying bowls of steaming whipped sweet potatoes, green beans with butter and almonds, and homemade cranberry sauce, she’d just walk downstairs.
With Christian gone today, and her mood turning grim, she couldn’t wait any longer. Emma left her shop, stopped at the hardware store, then the pharmacy, and drove up to the house again, her car crammed with more file boxes, office supplies and a ton of catalogs. Some were outdated so those could be tossed—after she made sure they weren’t the only ones she had from certain suppliers. Others were new and Emma hadn’t had a chance to look at them yet. She’d certainly need them. Wherever her new location might be.
Assuming she could find one.
In her driveway she made a quick call to Frankie to let her know she wouldn’t be there for dinner tonight. Then she started lugging things inside.
All the while the bag from the pharmacy stayed uppermost in her mind. Finally, she went into the bathroom, took out the test kit she’d bought and steeled herself for the answer.
Positive!
Emma stared at the result on the test stick. She couldn’t believe it. But the display didn’t change, and what else had the queasy episodes, the occasional dizziness, meant? She should have known right away. Days, even weeks, ago.
It couldn’t be.
Yet it was.
All the signs were there. She’d even had trouble sleeping—until the fire. Then she couldn’t seem to sleep enough and, always drowsy, had been tempted more than once to put her head down on her desk at work. She’d blamed all that on stress, on having to live in Frankie’s home rather than her own. She’d blamed it on the strain of not finding new office space. And on her troubled marriage. Then, a day or so ago, she’d wondered why her body felt tender in certain places. Now she knew.
Her hands shook. And still, she took the test once more, as if hoping for a different outcome. It didn’t change.
She was pregnant again.
Oh, Owen. She’d been so happy to share that news with everyone. Now she wondered how to even tell her husband.
Emma left the test stick in the bathroom and, giving herself time, tried to focus on her other task.
After stacking boxes in the center of the playroom—and getting overheated—she opened samples and began to paint.
Less than an hour later, she was still looking at color chips, searching for the perfect shade. The samples in the small open containers hadn’t been helpful after all.
She heard footsteps—Christian coming up the stairs. Emma froze, a paintbrush still in her hand. She hadn’t expected him to get back this soon. She wasn’t ready.
In the doorway, he stood and gaped at her.
“Now what?” he asked, his mouth already hard. “Mom told me you’d be here. Emma, I thought we had agreed—”
She followed his gaze to the boxes piled between them. “I told you. I can’t push everything to the end of the year. Tomorrow we’ll be caught up in Thanksgiving, then Christmas. I haven’t even started to shop.” Not that Emma looked forward to that, either. “And believe me, my landlord won’t be generous about an extension, even for a few days. I got the official letter about the lease cancellation this afternoon.” She blew stray hair off her forehead. “I have to move what I can now.”
“But not here,” he murmured.
She waved the brush, spattering paint on herself. “Christian, he was at the store today. He hand-delivered that letter with a potential client, who seemed to like my space.”
She put the lid back on another paint sample. Emma had already brushed a swathe of the grayed taupe over one wall. Next to it a lighter beige didn’t look good enough. And beside those was a broad stripe of true gray, which seemed too dark. “I can have my office here at least. If Grace and I need extra room, I’ll have to expand into Owen’s room.”
He shook his head. “Not going to happen, Em.”
She pushed the paint can aside and set the small brush on top. And put her hands on her hips.
“Then maybe I should move everything to Mallory Trucking—into your office. You’re not there now. You’re on the road almost every day—”
“Trying to earn enough money to keep us afloat!”
She sighed. He was working hard, and she had to admit that his leasing the General had helped, but...
“Nothing Nicole showed me has worked out. I know I won’t have space here for display purposes...”
“Unless you take over the garage, too,” he said.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked just before she realized she shouldn’t have said that. “Oh, I know. I’ll say it for you. I should put No More Clutter up for sale.”
For a few more moments, Christian paced the room, skirting file boxes and then stopping at the far wall to study the swathes of fresh paint.
“At least I asked you about the foundation first. You just went ahead and did this. How did you expect me to react?”
“I’m sorry. That was wrong—but maybe I knew exactly what you’d say.”
“This isn’t your decision to make alone, Emma. This is my home, too. And to use this playroom, his bedroom, to keep the business going that caused that accident in the first place—” He looked at the floor between them.
“I see. So that’s how you really feel—”
“Okay. Forget all that right now. Let me remind you of something before you start painting this whole room. We have a homeowners’ association in this neighborhood. You can’t run a commercial operation from our house. There are probably local zoning restrictions.” He raised his eyebrows. “How do you think our neighbors would like having this driveway filled with your clients’ cars every day, maybe even spilling out onto the street? People rushing in and out through our garage or coming in the front door?” He added, “I know how I feel.”
“I can check the zoning laws,” she said.
“Go ahead. It won’t do you any good.” He turned, then walked past her. “Fair warning. If you keep on with this, Emma—you’ll be living here by yourself. I won’t have No More Clutter right here in my house. In my face.”
Emma gave a choked cry. It was as if a dam had broken; in a single second the long months of holding everything inside shattered into pieces. It didn’t matter now if she was ready.
Christian turned. “What is it? You’re as white as paper.”
Emma took a deep breath, covered her uneasy stomach with one hand, then marched into the en suite bathroom. Clutching the plastic stick in her hand, she came back to Christian. “Brace yourself,” she said.
When Christian’s eyes met hers, she knew how wild her eyes must look, as they had in the bathroom mirror.
For another few seconds, Emma didn’t know what to say. Then she simply blurted it out. “I’m pregnant.”
She was still holding the stick, and he snatched it from her to read for himself. He studied the display, then frowned. “We’re pregnant?” he said in a low voice as if someone else might hear. “How did that happen...?”
“The usual way,” she murmured. “I know, it’s the worst thing.” Except for last December.
Looking stunned, Christian shook his head. She couldn’t blame him.
“I bought the kit on my way home,” she said. During lunch her stomach had lurched again. Worse, this time. She’d run for the bathroom, already guessing, fearing the reason even when her monthly schedule had been off. “I’ve been nauseated now and then—the way I was with Owen.”
“You never mentioned that.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.” She glanced up. “I can’t have another baby,
” she said in a thickened tone. It still didn’t seem real. “I can’t.”
His face went pale. “You’re not actually thinking we should—”
“I would never do that, but, Christian, I’m not...ready. Maybe I never will be. I shouldn’t be.”
His voice hardened. “Well, apparently this baby is.”
She looked away. “But how wrong is that? Grace and Rafe should be having a child, not us.” Not me, she added silently.
His scathing tone startled her. “Well, here’s the reality. We are pregnant.” He set the test stick on a file box. “What’s so awful about this? Yes, it was a shock at first but I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. I’m disappointed in you, Emma. Sad,” he added.
“But how can I feel happy when not even a year ago—”
She couldn’t go on. What would it be like, months from now, when the baby arrived? When she and Christian were in their house again, the nursery that had become Owen’s room would be transformed once more by a crib and changing table? When she had to pretend every day that everything was normal when it wasn’t—and she and Christian would try to raise another child together when he couldn’t possibly still love her? He’d only be doing that for an innocent baby’s sake.
Nevertheless, he slipped his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest and felt the strong, steady beat of his heart under her cheek. “We have to work this out,” he said. For a long moment he held her, then eased back to study her face. He tipped her chin up. “We will,” he said.
And then, he only made things worse.
“Let’s tell my parents. Right now.”
Emma tore from his embrace.
“No!” she said, knowing she was only putting off the inevitable. Her shoulders slumped with the guilt she lived with every day, and that, unlike her pregnancy, didn’t include Christian.
“All right, maybe that’s too soon. Let’s wait until tomorrow. We can tell everyone on Thanksgiving. That’ll give us time to get used to the idea.”
“How can we tell them?” she said, her voice hoarse from unshed tears. “They lost their grandchild—Grace lost her little brother—and it was my fault!”
