“Let me guess,” Emma said playfully. “He’ll have red hair and some beautiful shade of green eyes, and he’ll be working an odd job at some business owned or run by another McKay?”
“If you added, ‘or on the cricket pitch claiming to coach the children as an excuse for getting a go at their game,’ you’d have about summed him up.”
Emma smiled. “Then I think I’ll like Charlie quite a bit.”
Brogan’s chest warmed at what she took as a sort of reflected compliment, seeing as how Emma’s assumptions about Charlie fit her as well as they did him.
“I love how your family helps each other so much, and I love how much a part of the village they are. It would be nice to stay in one place long enough to leave the mark of multiple generations on it.”
“You moved around a lot as a kid?”
“Not in the exciting sense,” Emma said, “mostly from suburb to suburb. We were always within commuting distance to New York City, and we always vacationed in the Catskills or the Adirondacks, but the places themselves were all blandly interchangeable.”
“I don’t know,” Brogan said, sitting back and nudging the remaining cucumber sandwiches inconspicuously toward Emma. “New York City sounds pretty exciting to me.”
“It is,” Emma agreed. “I didn’t go in much as a child, though. My parents both worked a lot and didn’t want to make the commute again with their time off, but I went to college at Columbia, and I got my fill of the Big Apple then.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t dislike it. The arts scene was fantastic, with endless amounts of creative outlets, but with so many to choose from, I found it hard to focus my attention on any one of them. I always wrote best at all the little retreats in the mountains.”
“Did you get to them a lot?”
Emma nodded, her eyes lowered, and Brogan watched, spellbound, as her chest rose and fell noticeably. There it was again, the subtle war for control. What had she said to spark it? What could she possibly say to sway the battle?
In the end, though, she didn’t have to say a thing, as Emma forced a joyless smile and carried on. “My wi— ex-wife, she ran them. She was an accomplished writer in her own right, Amalie Max.”
Brogan shook her head at the name. “I’ve never heard of her.”
Emma winced, then, placing both hands on the edge of the table as if to steady herself, continued. “Few people have, except for avant-garde literary critics. Since she didn’t have the commercial appeal to make a living, she went around the northeast running retreat-style workshops for budding writers.”
“You were one of her students?” Brogan asked, then tightened up as she realized she’d once again asked a dangerous question.
“Just for a weekend, but we took off from there. I traveled with her a lot, and when she’d teach, I’d write. The balance was always unfair. She deserved the freedom I had. She’s a much better writer. It’s terrible for the market to reward me instead of her.”
Brogan shook her head. “I don’t know that it’s an either/or equation. It’s not as though you held up her book in one hand and yours in another and told all the world they could only read one. You simply managed to write books more people wanted to read.”
Emma smiled sadly. “And I suppose if that’s not unfair, it’s at least ironic. I would’ve been content to spend my life in mountain retreats. Instead, I ended up with the fame and money and power and everything that goes with them.”
“Like what?”
“Responsibility. A platform. Obligations to agents and publishers and readers. Bicoastal book launches followed by endless interviews. And then, even when I’d escape with Amalie to her retreats, I’d get mobbed by aspiring authors who no longer saw me as one of them.”
“They saw you as what they wanted to become,” Brogan finished, “and they wanted you to lead them there.”
Emma nodded slowly. “Amalie, who actually knew how to get them there, who had the skills and talent and ambition, she couldn’t . . .”
Brogan silently filled in the words Emma still cared too much to say, about a woman who clearly didn’t deserve her protection, someone who’d let jealousy and pride overtake her. She couldn’t have taken well to the role reversal.
“Eventually I bought a small house in the Catskills, not far from one of my writer friends, Talia, but even that got complicated because she’d signed a big movie deal, and soon there were actresses and musicians and designers around all the time. Reporters linked my place with hers and started acting like we had this powerhouse artists’ collective, when all we really wanted to be was two introverts in separate cabins.”
Brogan laughed in spite of the sadness underlying the comment. “Best-laid plans of mice and men.”
“When the producers saw the success of adapting Talia’s book into a movie, all they had to do was glance down the road to find their next target.”
“They offered you a film deal? Like, Hollywood and big budget movie stars?” Brogan asked, unable to keep the awe out of her voice. If she hadn’t known she was out of her league already, the topic certainly drove home the point.
“A full treatment.”
Brogan didn’t know what that meant, so she shook her head. She wished she could ask some sort of enlightened question or make an interesting point, anything to add to the conversation in a meaningful way. She only managed to blurt out, “What happened?”
“My life fell apart,” Emma said bluntly, “and I ran away.”
Brogan stared at her, unblinking. Here they were again, right on the cliff, and she feared if she breathed the wrong way, the shelf would give out beneath them again. Still, she had to say something, didn’t she? She couldn’t leave Emma hanging there alone, but the last time she’d waded into these topics, she’d hurt more than she’d helped. In the end, she merely offered a vague, “Wow.”
“Yup,” Emma said, then pressed her lips in a thin line for a second before meeting her eyes once more. “That’s my pathetic story. Now please have mercy on me and tell me something about you, so I don’t feel like I’ve ruined such a lovely afternoon by depressing us both again.”
“No,” Brogan said. “I’m not, I mean, not that I won’t tell you, but you didn’t ruin anything.”
“I monopolized every topic,” Emma said. “You’ve hardly told me anything about you, other than odd jobs and siblings.”
She sighed. “That’s really all there is to tell.”
“You’re holding out on me.”
“No. Honestly, I’m an open book, just a boring one.”
“You’ve lived in Amberwick your whole life?”
“Yes.”
“What about school?”
“All local. I did A levels, but I didn’t see the point in going away to uni. I had steady work in the village without it, and no real desire to do anything outside of the village.”
“What about hobbies?”
Brogan shrugged. “I like to sail, but you’ve seen that. I enjoy spending time with my nieces and nephews. I help my family whenever possible, and I work.”
“A lot,” Emma added. “You work a lot.”
Brogan frowned at the truth. She liked most of her jobs, or at least, she didn’t dislike them. She felt productive and useful and social, but none of that compared to what Emma had done with her life. She felt aimless by comparison.
“And what about, well . . .” Emma’s cheeks flushed, and she hid behind her cup of tea.
“What?”
“I didn’t mean to pry, but I was going to ask about relationships.”
Brogan’s heart gave a dull thud. “None to speak of.”
“At the moment?”
“Ever.” She shrugged. “I mean, I started dating in secondary school, but things never got serious before my first girlfriend left for uni. Then there was another local woman for half a year, but she couldn’t get work up here and moved to London. Same story a couple times over, but there’s not much of a stable pool to
choose from around here.”
“A stable pool?” Emma asked, emphasizing the word Brogan hadn’t wanted to focus on.
She shifted slightly in her seat. “There are tourists from time to time.”
Emma smiled politely, but didn’t respond, leaving Brogan to wonder why she felt so uncomfortable in the silence. She was an adult. She’d never made any secret of the fact that she enjoyed the company of other lesbians when she could get it. The whole town had a rather high opinion of her imagined skill set, and she’d never done anything to try to persuade them otherwise. Why now, sitting across from Emma, did those occurrences feel as bland and aimless as the rest of her story?
Brogan shook her head slightly. She didn’t like those internal questions, and she suspected she’d like the answers even less. Glancing out the window, she noticed night had fallen, and the darkness confirmed she’d stayed longer than she’d intended. “I didn’t realize it had got so late.”
Emma followed her line of sight, but didn’t seem nearly as shaken by the glow of a lone street lamp. “Did I keep you too long?”
The comment hit her in the chest with the full force of all its possible meanings. Brogan’s first impulse was to say, “Not nearly long enough,” but thankfully her voice caught in her throat, and she had to take a swig of her now tepid tea, which gave her time to remember they were not on a date. They were friends, maybe, and she couldn’t let a flash of silliness risk that, so she pushed back from the table and said, “Not at all, but you’ve had a big day. I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
Emma folded her napkin neatly and placed it on the table. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Brogan forced a smile, but she couldn’t force her heart to believe those words. Emma was too strong, too talented, too beautiful, and had too many opportunities at her feet. She would rebound and go back to doing great things. Brogan, on the other hand, was the one who wasn’t likely to go anywhere from here.
Chapter Nine
Emma swung open the door to the post office with so much enthusiasm it nearly took off with her. She barely pulled it back before it slammed into the shelves of bread lining the wall, and in doing so nearly got jerked off her feet.
“Whew,” she said, aware she’d bumbled a rather mundane action into a fit of awkwardness. She glanced up, expecting to see Brogan smiling at her from behind the counter and was already anticipating another joke about lack of grace around each other, but instead she met the blue eyes of Margaret McKay.
“Are you all right, dear?”
Her face flushed. Somehow, tripping in front of Brogan would’ve been funny, but coming across as a doofus who didn’t know how to work a door in front of the McKay matriarch sparked a lot more embarrassment. “Yes, I just stumbled, and I was sort of expecting someone else.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Margaret said, her smile growing slightly.
“No, not at all.” She kicked herself for being rude, especially to the woman who looked remarkably like her grandmother. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“It’s all right,” Margaret said kindly. “I’m used to my children’s friends stopping by asking for them.”
Emma frowned. Is that what she’d done? She hadn’t thought so. She’d had an excuse for stopping by. She even had an envelope in her jacket pocket to mail to her agent, but somehow Margaret’s simple statement of fact made it impossible to deny that part of her had come in with the hopes of seeing Brogan.
“She’s been tremendously kind to me,” Emma said softly.
Margaret’s smile rose again, this time with pride. “I like to think I raised eight good kids, but Brogan was always more of a helper than the others. Like her father in that way. Liam can’t sit still when there’s something to be fixed or explored or improved.”
Emma nodded. The description fit. Every time she’d had a problem, Brogan had been there to help, either by offering a solution, or not. Sometimes she sat still and calm while Emma composed herself. Everyone always rushed to fill the silence with empty platitudes or some blatant redirect. Brogan never did. Still, Emma didn’t feel comfortable expressing something so personal to Brogan’s mother. Instead, she said, “She taught me how to drive. And she took me sailing. And she actually helped Reggie plan my garden remodel, too.”
“All things she’s good at,” Margaret said, but the flush of pink in her cheeks suggested she took the comments as a sort of compliment.
“Actually, saying all that out loud makes me feel like I haven’t done nearly enough to thank her.” She’d paid for their tea last week, but Brogan wouldn’t let her pay for her cab services, saying she’d had to run to the store anyway. But still, paying for a ride wouldn’t have been nearly enough. It might have actually been reductive, because Brogan had done much more than chauffeur her around. “I wish I knew more about her interests or tastes, so I could do something nice for her, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what to get her for the boat, or camping, or her own garden, if she even has one.”
Margaret nodded. “She does, but she’s more likely to put the effort into someone else’s.”
Emma glanced around the store, racking her brain for anything else she could offer, as the need to offer something grew stronger. Finally, her eyes fell on the biscuit display, and a memory worked to the forefront of her mind. “I know she likes the cookies in the brown wrapper the best.”
Margaret’s smile actually faded at the comment, and Emma worried she’d gotten the wrong answer and questioned the assertion. “Or did I remember wrong?”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “Those have always been her favorites. I used to find them stashed in her dresser drawer, so her siblings wouldn’t find them and eat them before she had the chance. They were the only things she ever hoarded.”
Emma smiled and picked up a package. Maybe she’d give Brogan the cookies along with a little thank you note. She looked up to see Margaret watching her with some new emotion in her eyes, so blue, so reminiscent of her own grandmother’s, and her breath caught. What did she see there? Affection? Sympathy? Did she find the gesture sad? An inadequate overreach? “It doesn’t seem like much, does it?”
Margaret shook her head. “Not at all. It’s probably too much. Brogan’s not much for people fussing over her. Never thinks she deserves it. Most women love getting flowers at work or shiny jewelry to show off.”
“I know the type,” Emma said, even as she fought to hold back images of Amalie from her mind.
“Brogan’s not one of them.”
Emma nodded. She’d known that, but now the question remained: what would she appreciate? What would make her feel as seen and appreciated as she’d made Emma feel? Once again, she didn’t feel comfortable asking such questions of Brogan’s mother, so she merely paid for the biscuits and mailed her letter, but she was still wondering as she walked back along Northland street and into her little cottage.
Her musings, however, were interrupted by an unfamiliar ring. Confused, she followed the sound until she found its source in her cell phone, buzzing in the seat of an armchair she didn’t use. How strange. No one ever called her. Few people even had the number. Her agent knew she preferred email, one or two friends from New York only texted, and her mother wouldn’t call unless there was an emergency. Oh Lord, was there an emergency? She snatched up the phone and practically shouted, “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. This is Lady Victoria Penchant calling for Ms. Emma Volant.”
Emma held the phone away from her ear and stared at it as if the device itself had spoken those strange words.
“We met at the school, Book Report Day,” the voice on the phone continued, sounding slightly less certain now.
Emma couldn’t process how a member of British nobility could be casually dialing up her private number.
“I invited you to visit my . . .” She laughed nervously. “My castle.”
Silence. Awkwardness. She had to say something, but honestly what did one even say when a
literal lady mentions her castle? Finally, she blurted the only thing she could focus on. “How did you get my number?”
“Oh, well, that.” Lady Victoria sounded almost embarrassed. “I’m guessing by my assistant’s frustration it wasn’t an easy task. I didn’t ask too many questions, but I don’t think she had to pull in MI5 or Scotland Yard. She’s very resourceful, though. I probably don’t pay her enough. Still, it never occurred to me you might not want me to call you, which actually when you think about it was quite presumptuous, and perhaps a bit pretentious, which is not the impression I wanted to give despite the whole castle thing. I wanted to come across as normal, because I am, which is why I’m rambling now, instead of being the graceful model of upper-class manners and poise.”
Emma laughed in spite of her lingering confusion. “We’ve got that in common, as I have no idea how one’s supposed to accept a call from a member of the ruling class, but I assume ‘how did you get this number’ isn’t the traditional response.”
“Here are two tips for you. One, stop thinking of me as a member of the ruling class, because I have virtually no power to command anyone to do anything. And two, treat me like anyone else who called you up out of the blue.” Victoria paused, then with a bit more humor added, “Unless of course you would hang up on random, but friendly, callers, in which case, remember you are but a peasant, and I am descended from Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
Emma laughed again. “In that case, how can I help you, Lady Victoria?”
“I’m calling to follow up on my offer to have you up to my family’s home.”
“And by ‘home,’ you mean ‘castle’?” she asked as sweat pricked her palms.
“In the strictest sense . . . yes.”
“That’s very nice of you, and honestly, I’m honored,” Emma started, then stalled. How did one politely tell a lady she didn’t want to see her ancient and undoubtedly impressive estate? Nothing in her suburban upbringing had prepared her for this conversation, which she took as further evidence she had even fewer tools at her disposal for accepting such an invitation.
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