Emma's Secret

by A. P. Jensen

  He ignored her. “I’ve been thinking I need to revise the plan I made when I was eighteen.”

  She blinked, dumbfounded. “Why? You have exactly what you want.”

  “Exactly. I need new goals.”

  She stared at him as if he grew two heads. “That’s great that you want to find yourself, but I want a relaxing vacation that doesn’t include you!” She could see her peaceful vacation being shot to hell.

  He held up a hand like a boy scout. “I swear I’ll be good.”

  “That’s great. Go somewhere else.”

  “Just do whatever you planned in Victoria. I’ll tag along.”

  There was no reasoning with him. Although she kept up a steady stream of objections and complaints on the three-hour ride to Victoria, he didn’t rise to the bait and remained freakishly even-tempered. When they reached Victoria, there was a man waiting with a SUV for Peter. When the man handed the keys over, Emma tried to escape. Peter grabbed the back of her jacket and hauled her back.

  “Emma, don’t. The car’s here. You don’t need to rent your own.”

  He talked to her as if she was a child and her cheeks went red with temper.

  “You aren’t staying with me at the cottage.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She puffed up like an angry owl. “This is my vacation. You have another thing coming if you think I’m going to let you intrude on my hideaway. I need time to rest, not cater to anyone, least of all you-”

  He didn’t react to her tirade. He leaned against the car and waited for her to run down. The men that passed stared at Peter as if he were insane to let a woman talk to him that way. The women gave Emma a thumbs up behind his back or covered their mouths to muffle their laughter.

  “I know you don’t want me here,” Peter interjected when she paused to catch her breath. “I know you think I don’t care about you, but I do. I won’t pressure you for anything. We have unfinished business and I think we need to spend time together.”

  She stomped her foot like a child. “Are you listening to me?! We’re over. You had your chance! We need to move on!”

  “Fine. You broke up with me, but we’re still going to see each other when I visit Tommy. I’ll be damned if you ice me the way you do Ben.”

  Emma took a step back as if he slapped her. Why did he keep bringing up Ben? He was such a sore subject that just the mention of him made her stomach churn.

  “You have no idea what happened between Ben and I!”

  “Maybe you should enlighten me. All I know is, you two have a past and he still loves you.”

  She felt cornered and harassed. “If you knew-”

  He waited expectantly, but she didn’t say anything more. As if he could tell he pushed her too far, he wrapped his arms around her. Peter wasn’t the touchy type people, especially in public. It startled her into looking up at him.

  “Give me time, Emma, for both of us.”

  She looked at Peter, really looked at him. Something was different. He wasn’t Peter Logan the successful businessman or Peter the sensational lover. He was himself, as she’d never seen him. He wore jeans, a shirt and tennis shoes. His mood was even and controlled. He seemed at ease, which was so unlike him. She eyed him suspiciously. She didn’t buy his offer of friendship, but it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere. She was bound to run into Peter in Bellingham. Their best friends were married. It was inevitable…On the flip side, being the workaholic Peter was, he would freak out within a few days and hurry back to Seattle to take care of his precious business.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she muttered.

  “We won’t know unless we try.”

  She threw up her hands. “We’ve been trying for a year!”

  “Maybe we didn’t make it as a couple, but we can be friends.”

  “I’m not planning on leaving the cabin at all. I’m going to do my nails, read and draw.”

  “I brought my laptop. That’s all I need.”

  “You’re coming no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  “What if this doesn’t work?” she asked, arms crossed.

  “At least we tried.”

  Wondering if she was losing her mind, she got into the SUV and slammed the door. Peter was smart enough not to smirk when he got into the driver’s seat. When she opened her mouth to give directions, Peter pulled out a GPS that already had the address of her parent’s cottage. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “You’re so damn sure of yourself,” she accused.

  “More like I needed the address in case you managed to ditch me somehow.”

  “How much time do you have off?” Emma asked archly.

  “As long as I want. Derek’s taking care of everything.”

  Peter drove through Victoria, which was beautiful in autumn. It was a beautiful day with sunlight bouncing off of the water. Emma secretly bet Peter wouldn’t last longer than three days in a cottage with no activities or stores within an hour’s drive. Despite Peter’s presence, she felt her spirits lift. She had good memories here. She hadn’t been back since her parent’s passed.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Peter said.

  “It’s my home away from home.”

  “I can see why.”

  As they approached the cabin, she leaned forward, desperate for that first glimpse of home. When she saw the cabin, nestled in a shelter of trees towering high above, she clapped her hands together. As soon as the SUV stopped, Emma jumped out. She rushed towards a wood chip path that led to the back of the house. The cottage perched on the edge of a cliff with the sea stretching out as far as the eye could see. A chill wind whipped through her hair and sent it streaming backwards like a banner. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “It’s beautiful,” Peter murmured behind her.

  “There’s a path that leads down to a pebble beach,” Emma said, pointing to a steep path.

  “You own the cabin?”

  She nodded. “We used to come here during the summer. This is a peaceful place. I want it to stay that way.”

  She glanced at him and saw him nod. He admired the view and soaked it in, just like her. She hoped he understood that this was a special place to her. The spirits of her parents rested here.

  They stood in silence for several minutes before they went to get the bags. The cabin had two bedrooms with an airy kitchen, fireplace and huge living room. It was well-maintained and happy memories of her childhood flooded back. Her throat locked and when she set her bags down in one of the rooms, she picked up a sketch her mom did of Emma and her dad. Emma set the sketch down and collapsed face down on the bed.

  She was in an isolated cabin with her ex. Why? Because no wasn’t in his vocabulary. She could hear him moving around in the next room and she groaned into the mattress. This was supposed to be a vacation where she could be alone, center herself and go back to a life without men. Why couldn’t Peter understand that she didn’t want to take a chance on someone who didn’t know if he loved her or not?

  “Emma?”

  She groaned and turned her head to the side. Peter leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed.

  “What?” If he said this place was a dump, she would kill him.

  “There’s no food in the house?”

  “I know. I haven’t been here for years.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  She got up and jabbed a finger at him. “This is a vacation. This isn’t the city where we have to do everything right at this moment.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  She snorted. “I can see why we need groceries. Okay, let’s go.”

  Emma followed Peter into the store. He was pushing a purple wagon as if he did this every day, which couldn’t be further from the truth. If any of his colleagues in Seattle could see him now, they’d keel over in shock. Peter spent a lot of time in the cereal aisle and seemed to know a great deal about the different type of meats, which surprised Emma.


  “I can cook. I just don’t need to,” he said when she stared at him.

  “You’ve never cooked for me,” Emma said with her hands on hips.

  “I’m rusty. But, since I’m inviting myself on your vacation, I’ll cook as long as we’re here.”

  Emma perked up. “Really? Like what?”

  “Well, I can make lasagna tonight, we can have meatloaf another night. What else?”

  Emma had a sudden mental image of him wearing nothing but a white chef apron in the cabin kitchen. She waved a hand to dismiss the image. “Whatever you want to make is fine.”

  “Where’s the wine aisle?”

  After a surprisingly delicious meal, Emma sat on the back porch swing, watching the sunset. She lifted the glass to her lips and let the wine warm her. Peter came out on the porch with his own glass and settled beside her. They touched from shoulder to knee. He didn’t comment as they watched color streak the sky.

  “It was really good,” Emma said for the fifth time.

  “I’m glad you liked it. It feels good doing normal stuff. I can’t remember the last time I went to a grocery store or cooked.”

  She tapped her fingernails on the wine glass. “Is this the way you pictured your life when you were eighteen?”

  Peter began to push the swing with the toe of his shoe. “Yes, but I didn’t think of the price I had to pay to be rich.”

  She glanced at him. “That’s the goal you set? To be rich?”

  “I wanted to be independent, to have my own money so I wouldn’t depend on anyone.”

  She nodded and inevitably, pictured Ben in her mind. She always leaned on him. When he deserted her at the sight of the accident, she floundered, but got the job done. She was wary of depending on anyone because of that, which resulted in Peter getting the boot out of her life.

  “There’s a lot of sketches everywhere,” Peter said, breaking into her thoughts.

  “My mom was an artist,” Emma said and realized this may be the first time she ever mentioned her family.

  “She was talented.”

  Emma nodded. “It was the one thing my mom and I had in common.”

  “You’re not like your mom?”

  Plied by wine and food, Emma relaxed despite Peter’s presence. “No. My mom was a free spirit. I was very organized like my dad. I was always working and I liked it that way. When we came here, my mom wouldn’t let me work at all. We drew, hiked and had fun.”

  Her voice trailed off and Peter glanced at her.

  “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m gonna turn in.”

  Emma rose and retreated to her room and closed the door. She reached for the phone to call Anna and demand to know what was going on, but stopped herself. She was an adult and she could handle Peter.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Emma tiptoed over the wooden floor when she actually felt like stomping. She hadn’t slept well. Peter’s voice carried from the living room to her bedroom and she heard snippets of conversation as she faded in and out of sleep as he took care of business. His voice entered her dreams and she woke wanting him. She pummeled her pillow to get rid of excess energy. Being around Peter and trying to maintain that emotional distance felt strange. She still loved him. How the hell could she get over someone she was living with for the foreseeable future?

  The sun wasn’t up, but she didn’t care. She needed air. She poured coffee into a travel mug and added a liberal amount of cream. She saw uncomfortable reminders of Peter scattered around. It made her feel strange. Even though they dated for a year, he never stayed with her for long, so his belongings were always in a neat pile. Now, his watch, laptop and papers lay on the table. It looked like he was settling in.

  She exited the cabin and lugged an old blanket, her mug and sketchpad. She flipped on the porch light and settled on the swing. She shivered and wrapped herself in the blanket and listened to the sound of the sea. She sipped coffee to warm her and let her mind settle. She forced all problems, worries and desires to the side and focused on her heart like her mom taught her. Drawing was about expressing yourself. There didn’t have to be a goal or a plan. It didn’t even have to make sense. Art just… was. She flipped to a blank page in the sketchpad and spun a pencil between her fingers for a moment before she began.

  Emma was rational and analytical by nature, a contrast to her mom who was a romantic artist. Her mom worried that Emma spent too much time on business and less on enjoying life. Emma and her mom were opposites in most things, but drawing was a passion they shared. They both drew from the heart. Drawing bared Emma’s soul and showed her vulnerabilities. Even before the death of her parents, she hated the feeling of being exposed when someone looked at her work because it came from a private part of her that dreamed and needed.

  Emma didn’t draw the scene around her, she drew snapshots of memory. She felt compelled to draw the images she dreamt about. Usually, the only time she drew nowadays was for cake designs, but right now there was no agenda. It was just her, the blank page and her memories. The scratch of the pencil and the sound of the sea muffled the world around her. She examined the scene taking place on the page, rocked the swing for a minute and continued.

  Before the sun rose, Emma stared down at a rough sketch of Peter in Seattle standing on the sidewalk with his umbrella flared out, rain pouring down around him. He looked every inch the tycoon with his business suit and well cut trench coat. His eyes bored into hers, intent and challenging. She didn’t examine the picture too closely. She flipped the page and her pencil began to move of its own accord and she lost herself in the strokes, the lines and shading as she tried to make each memory come to life.

  “Emma?”

  She raised the pencil and blinked. The sun was up and Peter stood beside the swing. He looked down at the sketch with an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Breakfast is ready,” he said.

  “Breakfast?” Emma rose from the swing, wincing as her body cramped.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “I have no idea.” Emma hobbled into the house and her mouth watered at the smell of bacon. “How long have you been up?”

  “About an hour. How’d you sleep?”

  She didn’t look at him as she answered, “Fine.”

  The table was set with eggs, bacon and fruit.

  “Wow.”

  “I told you I’d feed you while I’m here.”

  “So you did.”

  Emma felt no shame in taking more than her share of food. Drawing was therapy for her and already she felt better. She didn’t feel as tense and the sexual hunger that kept her up through the night was muted. She was halfway through the tasty breakfast when she realized Peter wasn’t eating. His eyes were fixed on the sketchpad, which was flipped open to a sketch of Ben in the graveyard. That devastated look on Ben’s face when she walked away from him that day ripped at her soul. Love, anger, understanding and loss filled his eyes. She knew every line of Ben’s face even after all this time and it made her ache for what had once been between them. Having Peter witness such a personal memory made her skin itch. The insecure part of her wanted to snap the book shut, but the woman in her refused. She had nothing to hide.

  “You loved him a lot, didn’t you?” Peter’s voice was very low.

  Inwardly, she flinched. This is why I don’t like showing my work to people, she thought. When Emma drew, she let go of the rational part of her mind and just felt. If she was honest with herself and let her heart lead her, the emotion she invested into each picture translated to anyone who gazed at the image.

  “I did.”

  “You don’t love him anymore?”

  The hand holding her coffee cup trembled and she set it down firmly. “I love him, but there’s other emotions mixed in that overpower love.”

  His hand hovered over the sketchpad. “May I?”

  Emma hesitated. Even when her silence became uncomfortable, Peter didn’t back down.
She finally gave her consent with a shrug. He opened the book and flipped through four sketches. He spent a long time on each page, even flipping back and forth between scenes, probably trying to figure out what the common thread was. There was a storyline to the images, but they were out of order.

  Peter’s face was unreadable, which made her fingers tighten around her fork. Seeing Peter handle her work was like handing over the most secret part of you and asking for approval and understanding. She chastised herself for being so sensitive, but this was Peter. She didn’t want him to understand her art because it would give him another facet of herself when she was trying to pull away. She jiggled her foot anxiously beneath the table where he couldn’t see.

  She finished off the last of her food, but Peter wasn’t finished examining her work. Nerves screaming, she took her plate to the sink and washed the dishes and wiped down the counter and stove. Still, he sat quietly. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she went over to him and held out a hand.

  “Can I have it back?” she asked.

  Peter’s finger brushed over a sketch of Emma’s parents. They sat on the floor in front of a fire. Her father had his arms wrapped around her mother who leaned back against him. They both stared into the flames. The love between the couple was unmistakable.

  Peter looked up at her and butterflies erupted in her stomach.

  “You’re very talented,” he said in a subdued tone.

  “Thanks.”

  She tried to snatch the sketchpad, but he moved it out of her reach.

  “You have a hard time trusting people, don’t you?”

  Emma froze. “What makes you say that?”

  “I was with you for a year and not once did you mention you’re an artist.”

  “I’m not an artist. I’m a businesswoman.” She was off balance and hating it.

  “You hide behind business and numbers, but you show what you really value when you draw.” He held up the picture of her parents and her heart tore. “I can feel how much you miss them.”