by Nora Roberts
“I love you, Johnno.”
He held her against him. “I love you, Emma. God knows why, since you’re such an ugly bitch.” When she laughed, he drew her back for a kiss. “Come on then, not only is Luke good to look at, but he’s a hell of a cook.”
Emma awoke early and followed the scent of coffee and the muted sounds of the television to the kitchen. It wasn’t jet lag she felt now, but the restless disorientation of waking up in a strange bed after only snatches of sleep. There was an awkward moment as she stood in the kitchen doorway watching Luke butter toast across from the television set where David Hartman interviewed Harrison Ford.
She’d almost been able to relax around Luke the night before as they’d all eaten soup and hot sandwiches in the kitchen.
He was well mannered, witty, intelligent, and mouthwateringly attractive. And gay. So was Johnno, Emma reminded herself and tried a smile.
“Good morning.”
Luke turned. He looked different this morning with his hair styled, his face shaven. He wore gray pleated slacks and a trim blue shirt set off with a thin tie of a darker shade. He looked alert and hiply professional. The upwardly mobile young executive, she thought, and such a complete contrast to Johnno.
“Hi. Didn’t think you’d surface till this afternoon. Coffee?”
“Thanks. I couldn’t sleep. Marianne and I are going apartment hunting this afternoon. And I guess I’m worried about how my father reacted when Johnno called him.”
“Johnno’s very persuasive.” He slid the coffee in front of her. “Why don’t I put you out of your misery? Toast?”
“No.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Do you know what happened?”
“They argued, a lot.” Luke checked his watch, then sat beside her. “Johnno called him a few names I’m not sure he’d like me to repeat to you.”
She dropped her head into her cupped hands. “Terrific.”
“He also vowed, and I think a blood oath was mentioned, to keep an eye on you.”
“Bless him.”
“In the end, and it was a long time coming, Brian agreed to your attending college here, but—” he added before Emma could leap up and dance. “You have to keep the guards.”
“Dammit, I will not have those two hulking bastards dogging my every move. I might as well be back in Saint Catherine’s. When is he going to realize that there isn’t a kidnapper behind every bush? People don’t even know who I am, and they don’t care.”
“He cares.” He put a hand over hers. “Emma, sometimes we have to take what we can get. I know.”
“I only want to live a normal life,” she began.
“Most of us want that.” He smiled again when she looked up and flushed. “Look, we both care about Johnno, so I figure that makes us friends. Right?”
“All right.”
“Then this is my first friendly advice. Think of it this way. You want to be in New York, right?”
“Yes.”
“You want to go to NYCC.”
“Yes.”
“You want your own place.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Yes.”
“Well, you’ve got it.”
“You’re right,” she said after a moment. “You’re absolutely right. And I can ditch the guards when I want to.”
“I didn’t hear that.” He checked his watch again. “Listen, I’ve got to run. Tell Johnno I’ll pick up Chinese.” He grabbed a briefcase, then stopped. “I forgot. Are these yours?” He pointed to the portfolio open on the kitchen counter.
“Yes.”
“Good work. Mind if I take them with me, show them around?”
“You don’t have to do that. Just because I’m friends with Johnno doesn’t mean—”
“Hold on. Look, I happened to see them sitting out in the other room. I took a closer look and liked what I saw. Johnno didn’t ask me to pump up your ego. He wouldn’t.”
She rubbed her palms on her thighs. “Do you really like them?”
“Yes. I know some people. I could get you some input if you want.”
“I would, very much. I know I have a lot to learn—that’s why I’m here. I’ve entered some competitions and shows, but …” She trailed off, knowing she was babbling. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. See you later.” He tucked the portfolio under his arm and headed out.
She sat alone, taking very careful breaths. She was on her way, Emma thought. Finally, she was on her way.
Chapter Nineteen
“It’s ours.”
Emma and Marianne stood, their arms tossed around each others shoulders, looking out the windows of their newly purchased loft in SoHo. Emma’s voice was both dazed and exhilarated as she made the statement.
“I still can’t believe it,” Marianne murmured.
“Believe it. It’s ours—twenty-foot ceilings, bad plumbing, and interest rates from hell.” On a quick laugh, Emma did three spins. “We’re property owners, Marianne. You, me, and Chase Manhattan.”
“We bought it.” Marianne sat down on the scarred wide-planked floor. The rattle and hum of downtown traffic echoed up from three stories below. Something crashed outside, and even through the closed windows they heard the shouts and swearing. It was like music.
The loft was a huge square of space, banked by a band of windows in the front and a towering panel of glass on the right.
A sound investment, Marianne’s father had grudgingly called it.
Complete insanity, had been Johnno’s verdict.
Investment or insanity, it was theirs. Still dressed in the tidy suits they’d worn to the settlement, they each studied their new home, the fruit of weeks of search, endless calls to realtors, and numerous bank interviews. It might have been a huge, empty space with spotted ceilings and grimy glass, but for them, it was the dream they had shared throughout childhood.
Then they studied each other, their faces mirrors of giddy terror. It was the laughter that broke the last strain. It bubbled up from Emma first, then echoed off the high plaster walls. Grabbing each other, they did an impromptu polka up and down the length of their new home.
“Ours,” Emma panted out when they teetered to a stop.
“Ours.” They shook hands formally, then laughed again.
“Okay, co-owner,” Marianne began. “Let’s make some decisions.”
They sat on the floor with Marianne’s sketches, warming Pepsis, and an overflowing tin ashtray between them. They needed a wall here, the staircase there. Studio space above, darkroom space below.
They arranged, rearranged, constructed, destructed. At length Marianne waved her cigarette. “This is it. Perfect.”
“It’s inspired.” Emma took the cigarette out of self-defense and rewarded herself with a puff. “You’re a genius.”
“Yes, I am.” She shook her spiky hair as she leaned back on her elbows. “You helped.”
“Right. We’re both geniuses. A space for everything and everything in its space. I can’t wait until we—oh, shit.”
“Shit? What do you mean, shit?”
“There’s no bathroom. We forgot the bathroom.”
After a brief study, Marianne shrugged. “Screw the bathroom. We’ll use the Y.”
Emma simply put a hand on Marianne’s face and shoved.
Perched on a stepladder, Marianne painted full-length portraits of herself and Emma between two windows. Emma had taken on the more pedestrian chore of marketing and was storing food inside their reconditioned Frigidaire.
“That’s our buzzer,” Marianne called out over the boom of the radio.
“I know.” Emma balanced two grapefruits, a six-pack of Pepsi, and a jar of strawberry preserves. When the buzzer sounded again, she dumped all of them on a shelf. Beside the elevator, which opened up into their living area, she pushed the intercom. “Yes?”
“McAvoy and Carter?”
“That’s right.”
“Delivery from Beds, Beds, Beds.”
Emma r
eleased the entrance door, let out a war whoop.
“What?” Marianne demanded, sitting back far enough to frown at her work.
“Beds!” Emma shouted. “We’ve got beds.”
“Don’t joke about something like that, Emma. Not while I’m painting, or I’ll give you a wart.”
“I’m not joking. They’re on their way up.”
Marianne paused, dripping brush in hand. “Real beds?”
“Mattresses, Marianne.” Emma leaned a hand on the ladder. “Box springs.”
“Jesus.” Marianne shut her eyes, then gave a dramatic shudder. “I think I had an orgasm.”
At the elevator’s ding, Emma was across the room like a shot. When the doors opened, all she could see was a queen-sized mattress covered in plastic. “Where do you want it?” was the muffled question.
“Oh. You can take that one right up those stairs in the far corner.” The man with “Buddy” stitched across his cap rolled his eyes, hefted the mattress over his head, and started for the stairs. “We could only fit one at a time in the elevator. My partner’s waiting downstairs.”
“Oh, right.” She pushed the release button again. “Real beds,” she said as Marianne joined her.
“Please, not while we have company. Damn, there’s the phone. I’ll get it.”
The elevator dinged. Emma directed the second man—Riko according to his cap—then smiled at Buddy as he went out to get box springs. When the elevator opened, she grinned at the box springs that filled the car. “One goes up, one goes down. Want a cold drink?”
Brian eased his way from behind the springs. “Yeah.”
“Da!”
“Mr. McAvoy,” Marianne shouted over the radio. She stopped in midstream, wiped her painty hands on her overalls. “Hi.”
“You want to move?” Buddy complained, then maneuvered the box springs toward the stairs.
“Da,” Emma managed again. “We didn’t know you were here.”
“Obviously. Christ, Emma, anyone could ride up in that elevator. Do you always leave the entrance unlatched?”
“They’re delivering. Beds.” She gestured as Riko struggled in with his load. She drummed up a smile and kissed her father. “I thought you were in London.”
“I was. I decided it was time I got a look at where my daughter was living.” He stepped farther into the room to take a long, frowning study. Drop cloths covered most of the floor. The packing crate from the stove served as both a table and a stool and was now covered with old newspapers, a lamp, a half-filled glass, and a paint can. The radio sat on a windowsill, blasting away as Casey Kasem ran down the top forty. The stepladder, the card table, and a single folding chair composed the rest of the furniture.
“Jesus,” was all Brian could think of to say.
“We’re a construction zone,” Emma told him with forced cheerfulness. “It doesn’t look like it, but we’re nearly done. The carpenters just have a bit of finish work here and there and mister—I mean the tile man is coming Monday to finish the bath.”
“It looks like a warehouse.”
“Actually, it was a factory,” Marianne chimed in. “We’ve sectioned it off here and there with glass brick. That was Emma’s idea. It’s great, isn’t it?” She pointed to the waist-high wall that separated the living area from the kitchen. “We got some terrific old appliances,” she continued, and taking his arm, gave him the tour.
“Emma’s bedroom’s going to be here. The glass makes it private, but still lets in the light. I’m upstairs—a sort of combination studio and bedroom. Emma’s darkroom’s already set up through there, and come Monday the bath should be not only functional but attractive.”
He hated the fact that he could see the potential. Hated it because it made Emma seem less like his little girl than a woman, and a stranger.
“Have you decided to do without furniture?”
“We wanted to wait until it was finished.” Emma knew her voice was stiff, but couldn’t prevent it. “We aren’t in any hurry.”
“Wanna sign here?” Buddy pushed a clipboard under her nose. “You’re all set.” He blew his nose into a red bandana, then eyed Brian. “Hey. Hey, aren’t you—well, sure you are. I’ll be damned. McAvoy. You’re Brian McAvoy. Hey, Riko, this here’s Brian McAvoy. Devastation.”
“No shit?”
Automatically Brian’s lips curved into a charming smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“This is great, just great,” Buddy went on. “My wife’s never going to believe it. We had our first date at your concert here in ’75. Can I get your autograph?”
Sure.
“Jesus, she’s never going to believe this.” While he searched in his pockets for a snatch of paper, Emma picked up a notepad and handed it to her father.
“What’s your wife’s name?” Brian asked Buddy.
“It’s Doreen. Man, she’s going to drop dead.”
“I hope not.” Still smiling, Brian handed over the autograph.
It took another ten minutes, and an autograph for Riko, before they were alone again. Taking her cue, Marianne disappeared up the curving wrought-iron stairs.
“Got a beer?” Brian asked.
“No. Just some soft drinks.”
With a restless move of his shoulders, Brian wandered to the front windows. She was so exposed here. Couldn’t she see it? The big windows, the city itself. The fact that he’d bought the first-floor unit and installed Sweeny and another man inside didn’t seem to matter now that he was here to gauge the situation himself. She was vulnerable. Every time she walked out on the street.
“I was hoping you’d choose something uptown, with security.
“Like the Dakota?” she said, then cursed herself. “I’m sorry, Da. I know Lennon was a friend.”
“Yes, he was.” He turned back. “What happened to him should make you understand how I feel. He was shot down on the street—not for robbery, not for passion. Just because of who and what he was. You’re mine, Emma. That makes you every bit as vulnerable.”
“What about you?” she countered. “Every time you step out onstage, you’re exposed. It only takes one sick person among the thousands with the price of a ticket. Do you think that never goes through my mind?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t think it went through your mind. You never said.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
He was silent as he sat on the windowsill and took out a cigarette. “No. You can’t stop being what you are, Emma, even if you’d like to. But I’ve lost one child.” He struck a match, watched it flare. “I couldn’t survive losing another.”
“I don’t want to talk about Darren.” The old grief welled up, thickening her voice.
“We’re talking about you.”
“All right then. I can’t live for you anymore, or I’ll hate you. I gave you Saint Catherine’s, Da, and a year at a college I detested. I have to start living for myself. That’s what I’m doing here.”
He drew in smoke and wished for a drink. “I almost think I’d rather you hated me. You’ve all I’ve got.”
“That’s not true.” She went to him then. Resentments and disillusionments were crowded aside by love. “I’ve never been all, and I never will be.” She took his hand as she sat beside him. He was beautiful to look at. Even without a daughter’s prejudiced eye. The years, the strains, the life, hadn’t scarred him. Not on the outside. Perhaps he was a bit too thin, but time hadn’t lined his poetic face or grayed his pale blond hair. What magic was it, she wondered, that had caused her to grow up while he hadn’t grown older? She kept her hand over his and chose her words carefully.
“But the trouble is, for most of my life, you’re all I’ve had.” Her fingers tightened on his. “And just about all I’ve needed. I need more now, Da. All I want is a chance to find it.”
He glanced around the room. “Here?”
“To start.”
It was impossible to argue with something he understood so perfectly. “Let me
put in a security system.”
“Da—”
“Emma,” he interrupted, squeezing her hand. “I need my sleep.”
She laughed a little and relaxed. “All right. I’ll look at it as a housewarming present.” She kissed him. “Want to stay for dinner?
He took another look around. It reminded him of his first place, though that had only been a fraction of this space. Still it brought back the memories, lugging in old furniture, slopping paint on stained walls. Making love with Bev on the floor.
“No.” Suddenly he didn’t want to be there, to feel the youth and the hope and the innocence. “Why don’t I take you and Marianne out?”
Marianne leaned dangerously over the stair rail. “Where?”
Brian grinned up at her. “Your choice.”
Once he was forced to accept Emma’s decision, Brian played the indulgent father. He bought her a Warhol lithograph, an exquisite Tiffany lamp with signs of the Zodiac, and an Aubusson rug in shades of powder blue and pink. For the week he stayed in town, he dropped in daily with a new present. She couldn’t stop him, and after seeing the pleasure it gave him, stopped trying.
They gave their first party on the night before he left for London. Packing crates stood on the priceless rug. The Tiffany graced the card table. There was food both in plastic bowls and in the fragile Limoges Marianne’s mother had shipped to them. The radio had been replaced, thanks to Johnno, by a wall-trembling stereo unit.
A handful of college students mingled with musicians and Broadway stars. Dress ranged from denim to silks and sequins. There were arguments and laughter, all drowned out by the music blasting against the windows.
It made Emma nostalgic for the parties she remembered from her youth, the people sprawled on the floor, on pillows, the bright and beautiful discussing their an. She sipped mineral water and, as she had always done, watched.
“An interesting soirée,” Johnno stated, swinging an arm around her shoulders. “Got any beer left?”
