Emma nodded. “I’m heading home. You sure you don’t need anything? What about for the festival? Is there anything you need me to help with? Last-minute changes?”
Morty placed his hands on his stomach. “It’s all organized and prepped like a well-oiled machine.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I don’t foresee any hiccups at this point. There’s bound to be something unexpected, but that’s what makes life interesting. However, I think I have everything under control.”
Emma narrowed her eyes. “Don’t overwork yourself then. The festival is always a success because of all the overtime and hard work you put into planning, so take it easy these last few days. I’m going to call you later and check to see how you’re feeling, and if you don’t answer, I’m going to come back here. Don’t make me drive across town for nothing. Answer your phone when I call. That’s an order.”
Morty tossed his thumb over his shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. Now, get out of here, go home, and relax. That’s an order.”
Emma shoved her copy of The Legend of James Grey and her notepad into her purse and then slung the bag onto her shoulder. She knocked her feet together and saluted Morty. He shook his head.
“You need to work on your salute, soldier.” He opened a drawer and showed her his cell phone. “Call me tonight. I promise to answer.”
My love for you swells
against the cage of my heart.
This time, stay with me.
Emma tucked her pen behind her ear and sighed, closing her eyes as she sunk back onto the worn couch cushions. Ugh, why are you writing love poems today? For one indulgent moment, she allowed herself to recall the memory of what it felt like to be held, to offer her heart in exchange for nothing. The familiar thrill of her hand entwined with another’s drew an extra sigh from her lips. But the ache of loss followed closely behind. She picked up her pen and wrote:
It’s not as though I remember every moment clearly. My memories of you often come unbidden, in the colors of the sunrise, in the lightning bugs weaving through the trees, in the black and white pages of a book. My first instinct is to push them away, but sometimes I linger for a moment, standing in the center of those memories with closed eyes and open arms, and I remember you when we were us, when we were in love.
The AC blew a steady breeze across her face, and she breathed in the artificially cold air that smelled faintly of rubber and heated metal. She reached over for her cell phone and called Morty. His voice mail picked up, so she left him a message.
She cooked a premade cup of macaroni and cheese in the microwave and ate it standing in the kitchen. After a dessert of two peanut butter cups, Morty still hadn’t returned her call. He’d promised to answer, so unease trickled into her mind. She called him again.
“Come on, Morty,” she said to his voice mail. “Pick up. Call me back.”
After another fifteen minutes passed, Emma glanced at her car keys sitting on the coffee table. Words tangled around the key ring. She tilted her head and squinted. Darkness. Panic. Pain. Emma jumped up from the couch, swiped her cell phone and keys, pulled on her tennis shoes, and ran out of her apartment.
Emma pulled into the parking lot, rushing into her usual spot—first row, fourth space, to the right of the library’s exit. As soon as she unlocked the library door and ran inside, the air felt electrified and anxious. Words, stretched thin and nearly transparent, scampered all across the dark, shiny floor. Emma had difficulty focusing on any of them long enough to read them.
The single light above the circulation desk spotlighted a tall man whose hands were buried in his dark hair. He wore an expression of complete frustration. Emma stopped moving, unsure of how to process the vision of a stranger standing in the deserted library. The back door clicked shut behind her.
The man’s attire was enough to cause her to pause and stare. His handsome features were half in shadow, but he was dressed like a gentleman from an era long gone. He wore a high-collared, white shirt covered by a white, regency vest, both tucked into black trousers. His long, black dress coat hung low, brushing against the backs of his thighs. He grabbed the receiver of the telephone in one hand, pressed it to his ear, and pulled it away again. His fist closed over something in his other hand. He sensed her presence finally and turned to look at her. His polished, black boots shined in the light.
He bowed his head slightly to her and then extended the receiver in her direction. “I do not understand this strange invention,” he said in a British accent. He opened his fist, revealing a cell phone. “Nor this. Are you…Emma? Your likeness and name have been flashing on this peculiar torch. Morty needs medical aid.”
Emma’s shock disappeared, and she rushed toward the man. “What do you mean, Morty needs medical aid? Where is he?” Emma recognized Morty’s cell phone in the man’s hand. “Did you steal that?”
The man looked offended and gazed at her with disdain. “I beg your pardon? I have no need to steal. My wealth is quite well known.”
Emma waved her hands in the air. “Never mind. Where’s Morty?” Her stomach felt slick and nauseous, like she’d eaten too many gummy bears.
The man pointed toward the open vault door. “He needs a doctor—”
Emma ran for the archives, shouting for Morty as she hurried down the stairs. She found him at the far end of the archives surrounded by three people who also wore costumes.
Morty was flat on his back with his face contorted in pain. Emma dropped down to her knees in between two people she’d never seen before—a man and a woman, both dressed strangely. Emma grabbed Morty’s hand, which was sweaty and trembling. The two people beside her stood and backed away, moving to stand near a study table.
Sweat soaked through Morty’s dress shirt, and his breaths came in short bursts that reminded Emma of someone hyperventilating.
“Morty, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” Emma begged.
Morty’s eyes opened, and he squeezed her hand. “Kiddo? Where did you come from?” His left arm jerked, and the man across from Emma grabbed it and pressed it back to the floor. Morty’s eyes rolled back in his head.
“We think he’s having a heart attack,” the young man said. “We sent Darcy up to call for help.”
“Darcy?” Emma looked up at the man in uniform, momentarily wondering why he was dressed as a soldier, and then returned her attention to Morty. Intense fear gripped her like talons.
“Morty, what is going on?” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her cell phone. “Morty look at me.”
He shuddered, but his eyes opened. “Kiddo,” he breathed out. Then his eyes closed, and his head lolled to the side.
“Morty!” Emma shouted. “Don’t you dare die on me!”
The soldier touched his fingers to Morty’s neck. “He’s still with us.” Then he reached across Morty’s body and grabbed Emma’s arm. “Call for medical assistance now.”
Emma’s entire body trembled while she dialed 911 and spoke to the operator. She held Morty’s hand and told him over and over again that he was going to be okay, that everything was going to be fine. Words drifted around Morty’s head—final, stop, let go—and Emma continuously waved them away because they terrified her.
When the paramedics arrived, Emma stood off to the side and chewed on her thumbnail. After they lifted Morty onto a stretcher, they gave him an Aspirin and put a small tablet beneath his tongue. One of the paramedics—whom Emma recognized as Adam Durant—strapped a blood pressure arm cuff onto Morty’s arm and listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope, while his partner started an IV line in Morty’s other arm. Adam put an oxygen mask over Morty’s nose and mouth, and Emma looked away long enough to get a good look at the four strangers gathered in the archives with her.
The tall, handsome, Englishman from upstairs stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Is he the one the soldier called Darcy? A tickle started in the back of Emma’s brain until it became a full-blown, irrational wave of thought. Fitzwilliam Darcy? As in Jane Austen’s Fi
tzwilliam Darcy? Had Morty been hosting some kind of costume party?
The woman was dressed in a simple blue dress covered by a white apron, and her brown hair was braided. She gripped a book in her arms and watched Morty with an anxious expression. She spoke French to the man beside her. The man, who looked like medieval royalty, nodded at her words and slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him.
The young man dressed as a soldier shifted his steady gaze toward Emma, and when their eyes met, an inhale forced its way into Emma’s lungs. Her lower back shifted forward as though trying to propel her feet forward. He walked toward her. The closer he got to her, the more persistent a thought in the back of her mind became. His face—the familiar angles of it, the fullness of his lips, the way the lamplight reflected in his pale eyes—she felt as though she knew him.
“Emma?” a man called.
Emma turned and saw Adam looking at her. She hurried toward the stretcher, pressing her hands against the starched, disposable sheet pulled tight across the thin cushion. Morty’s eyes focused on her, and he opened one of his hands. Emma slipped her hand into his.
“Morty,” she said, feeling the sting of tears.
“Take care of them,” he said.
Emma wrinkled her brow. “What?”
“My friends…they’re not from around here…keep them in here, okay? In the library. Take care of them. It’s temporary. James—I brought him here for you.”
Emma shook her head, not understanding Morty in the least. She looked up at Adam. “Is he drugged?”
Adam shook his head. “No, but it’s common for disorientation to occur. We need to go.”
Morty squeezed Emma’s fingers. “Remember what I said.”
Adam rested his hand on Emma’s shoulder, and she felt ripples of comfort radiating down her arm. “We’ll get him stabilized, and I’ll make sure you can get in to see him.”
Emma nodded her thanks and let go of Morty’s hand as they wheeled him away. She clenched her hands together in front of her lips, holding her breath. As they disappeared up the stairs, someone stepped up beside her.
“Are you okay?” the soldier asked.
Emma looked at him, felt her entire being drawn to him. He waited for her to answer as he kept his fixed gaze on her face. Emma couldn’t remember the last time anyone had really looked at her like this man was.
She shook her head. “No. He’s all I have.” The truth of that echoed through her like a cry in an empty cathedral. She swiped at the tears on her cheeks.
“I’m James,” the soldier said. “If there’s anything I can do…”
The sluggish cogs in Emma’s brain clicked into place, one by one, until goose bumps rose on her skin. Her lips parted, and her heart paused and then trembled like harp strings being blown by a strong wind.
The man standing beside her—she had stared at his face for years on the cover of her brother’s favorite book. He’d always been the young man she’d made the hero in all of her daydreams, the man whose eyes saw straight into her soul. She looked at him. “James Grey?”
He nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”
5
James Grey. No way. No freakin’ way. Emma shook her head and marched away, feeling her muscles tighten as she said, “I’ve had enough of this circus.”
“Hey,” James called.
Emma wanted to keep running away, but her tennis shoes stuck to the floor, pitching her forward. She clenched her jaw and glanced at James, the soldier from her dreams. She felt afraid to turn her body toward his because so far her body was acting like a traitor and responding strangely to his presence.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Anywhere but here. I’m not hanging out with James Grey and Mr. Darcy and whoever the French couple is,” Emma said. “I wasn’t invited to this costume party. In fact,” she said, finally turning around fully, “I have no idea what I’m thinking. You should all go home.” Morty’s voice drifted into her mind. Keep them in here, okay? In the library. Take care of them.
James shoved his hands into his pockets and pursed his lips while he rocked on his boot heels. “Emma, right?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere. This is our home for now.”
Emma closed her eyes and shook her head. “I am not going to play along with this,” she waved her hands through the air, “whatever this is. You are not James Grey. And that man in the black coat is not Fitzwilliam Darcy—”
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Darcy spoke up from behind James, leaning over so that Emma could see him, “but I most certainly am—”
“No, you’re not!” Emma yelled at him, cringing at the shrill tone of her voice. She pointed at Mr. Darcy. “You’re an impersonator. A good one, I’ll give you that. You’re exactly as I imagined you’d be, but this is ridiculous. Morty is sick, and he might have put this party together, but I’m ending it.” She clenched her hands at her sides.
James stepped toward her, and she temporary lost the grip on her anger.
“I can see you’re upset,” James said. “You and Morty are close, and you’re scared, but this is not a party for impersonators, and we are not going anywhere.” He pulled one hand out of his pocket and pressed it to his heart. “I am James Henry Grey. I have no reason to lie to you, Emma.”
His words resonated in her chest, flowed through her like hot chocolate, warming her all the way to her toes. He pulled his other hand out of his pocket, and three words drifted out as though caught on a breeze, floating straight toward her. You. Me. Please. Emma watched the words as they pressed against her fists.
“But you can’t really be here. You’re in a book.” And you’re buried in the same cemetery as Bobby. “I mean, there’s a biography about you. You were Bobby’s favorite,” Emma babbled. “Morty…what has he been doing? This makes no sense. Why are you here? Mr. Darcy? You can’t be serious. What girl hasn’t wanted to meet him?”
Mr. Darcy’s shoulders straightened, and he inclined his head. “I cannot argue with her logic.”
James pointed toward a study table. “Perhaps you should sit down. I understand that Morty has been keeping secrets from you.”
James pulled out a chair, and Emma dropped down onto it, feeling the cold, unforgiving wood press against her bones. She tried to get her brain to catch up with her surroundings, but the level of absurdity was too much. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. The back of her head throbbed, causing her to wish for an Aspirin, a Pepsi, and a do-over for the past few days—no, years.
When she opened her eyes and looked up, she noticed the French couple lingered near a bookshelf, watching her.
Emma looked at the lovely woman and thought about all the French lessons she and Morty had taken since she was twelve. She asked, “Parlez-vous français?”
The woman nodded, which loosened strands of dark hair from her braid, and she smoothed her hands down her crisp apron before wringing her hands together.
“Êtes-vous un personnage de fiction?” Emma asked.
The woman glanced at the nobleman beside her. His shoulders stiffened, but he nodded once, and the woman responded, “Oui.”
One of James’ eyebrows lifted when he looked at Emma. “You speak French.”
Emma nodded. “And a few other languages that I will use when my plan for world domination is initiated.”
Amusement flickered in James’ eyes.
She pressed her palms against the cold tabletop. “So, the French couple says they’re fictional. Perfect. I’m dreaming. Or I’m hallucinating. I fell down two days ago, and I must have suffered a serious brain malfunction. The list of make-believe characters roaming around the library is growing at an exceptional rate. Or my brain has given up on reality indefinitely.”
James sat on the edge of the table and looked at her. She glanced up at his face, studying the lines of his eyes and mouth, and her body leaned toward him. God, he’s handsome. She shifted, entwined her hands in her lap, and l
ooked away from his face.
“Why don’t you go check on Morty?” James said. “I’ll keep everyone down here. We can’t leave here tonight. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Emma blinked. “What? I can’t leave strangers in the library. That’s against the rules.” She thought of the cash box, which held very little money, and the priceless antiques and artifacts in the archives. An image of the costumed strangers pilfering Mystic Water’s precious history formed in her mind. She shook her head.
James touched her arm, and she stared at his fingers against her skin. She wanted to reach up her hand and place it on his, just to feel his skin and see if her fingertips would tingle at the touch, but that idea infuriated her. Don’t be stupid. A connection, an invisible thread—gossamer thin—seemed to stretch out between them, awakening an emotion deep within Emma. The emotion created images of her watching a flower bud open or a sunflower turning its head toward the sun.
“We’re not strangers, or I’m not, Emma,” James said. “Lock us in. We’ll be fine.”
She wanted to believe him, but what he was saying wasn’t logical. Morty trusted her to be responsible with the library and its holdings. She couldn’t leave strangers wandering around at night while she galloped off to the hospital, and why would they even want to stay locked inside the library overnight?
He squeezed her arm and then removed his hand. “We’ll take care of the library. Trust me.”
Trust? “Trust isn’t my gift. Not anymore,” Emma said as she pushed away from the table and stood.
James stood too, his shadow stretching across the floor and overlapping her own. “But you want to trust me. I can tell. Go with your instincts.”
Emma made a scoffing noise in her throat and turned her back on him. “Oh, yeah, my instincts have been so dead-on in the past.”
The Legend of James Grey Page 5
