The Most Wonderful Time

by Fern Michaels

  She moved past the freshly dug grave and the casket that would soon be lowered into it. Someone had dropped a handful of white daisies on top of it. Not Emma. She’d bought one of those edible arrangements and donated it to the local assisted living facility. The people there would appreciate it a lot more than her father ever could have.

  He hadn’t appreciated anything.

  Not all the money he’d made in software development.

  Not the wife who’d stuck by him until the day she’d died.

  Not his ten kids.

  He wouldn’t even have appreciated the fifty people who’d stood in the freezing rain listening to the pastor of Apple Valley Community Church talk about life, legacies, and love. Daniel had despised them all. Small-town hicks was what he’d called them, and there wasn’t one man or woman at the funeral who hadn’t known that. They hadn’t been there to pay their respects to Daniel. They’d been there for Emma.

  Funny how that was.

  She’d made friends in the past four years, made a decent life for herself with a decent job and people who cared. That was way more than Daniel had had when he’d died, and he’d lived in Apple Valley his entire life.

  “You’re fault, Dad,” she muttered just in case Daniel’s spirit happened to be hanging around listening. “You could have had a good life.”

  She kicked a pinecone, watched as it skittered across the graveyard, not quite sure what to do with herself now that her father was gone. No more growled demands, mumbled complaints, harsh criticisms. She was free. Finally.

  Frozen grass crackled under her feet as she crossed the cemetery, walked through an old wrought-iron gate, and found her mother’s grave. Unlike her husband, Sandra had been well liked by the community and well loved by her children. She’d been diagnosed with cancer when Emma was ten and had died six months later. Her will had only stipulated one thing—that she be buried in her family plot rather than the Bailys’.

  Emma crouched near her mother’s grave marker, swiping ice off the carved marble and placing the single rose she’d brought on top of it. Red. Not for romantic love. For Christmas. Sandra’s favorite holiday.

  Emma’s least favorite.

  Every memory she had of it was filled with disappointment, but that wasn’t the reason she didn’t like it. The way she saw things, Christmas should be about magic and miracles and love. Instead, it always seemed to be about glitter and glitz and excess.

  “Merry Christmas, Mom,” she said, because she didn’t plan to be anywhere close to Apple Valley when December twenty-fifth rolled around. She’d put the house on the market, and then she’d go somewhere and spend Christmas alone planning what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  “You’ve got to give this up, Em. You’ve got to start your life again. You’re young, smart, driven. You could be living your dream. Instead, you’re taking care of that old bastard, and it’s wearing you out. I hate to see it.”

  Her brother, Adam, had told her that two days before he’d left on his third deployment with the Army. That had been six weeks ago. She’d sent him an e-mail the day their father died. She had no idea if he’d gotten it.

  He’d been right, of course.

  She needed to start her life again.

  Too bad she wasn’t sure what that meant.

  The wind howled, spraying ice pellets into her face and down the collar of her wool coat. They melted, sliding into the V of the black dress she’d borrowed from a friend. She’d given up on dresses right around the time she’d realized Sunday morning church wasn’t going to happen. Not while she was caring for her father. He’d hated church. Just like he’d hated everything else that was good and sweet and comfortable.

  She stood, cold air biting through the thick stockings she’d purchased the previous night, wobbled on the heels she’d borrowed from another friend. Stilettos and they were sinking into the not-quite-frozen earth.

  “Careful,” someone said, and she turned, her ankle twisting as she whirled to face the speaker. Pain shot up her leg, and she stumbled, barely managing to stay on her feet.

  “Darn-it!” she muttered, reaching down to rub the aching joint.

  “You okay?” A man crouched beside her, probing at the ankle as if he had some business touching her.

  “Fine. So, you can go ahead and back off,” she responded, meeting his eyes.

  Her heart stopped.

  Literally. For about three beats, it froze, and then it started up again, beating frantically as she looked into a face she knew as well as she knew her own.

  Jack McAllister. Adam’s Army buddy.

  And, Emma’s ex-boyfriend.

  They’d broken up so many years ago, she should have forgotten him by now.

  Should have. Hadn’t.

  She frowned.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked and heard a hint of her father in her voice, an edge of arrogance and disdain and discontent that made her stomach churn.

  “Adam asked me to come. He got your e-mail yesterday and contacted me. It looks like I missed the funeral. I’m sorry. The roads from the airport were a mess.” He straightened, his body as lean and hard and beautiful as it had been when they were dating.

  “You flew in from New Hampshire?”

  “That is where I live.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, watched her dispassionately.

  “You traveled a long way for someone you haven’t seen in years,” she said and regretted it immediately.

  He wasn’t there for her.

  She knew that.

  “I saw Adam two months ago. Right before he deployed,” he said, correcting her assumption without any meanness or spite. That was Jack. Always.

  “And,” he continued. “I told you when we broke up that I’d always be around if you needed me.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long.” He took her arm, helped her off the grass and onto a paved path that wound through the cemetery. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine. He was my father, but we weren’t close.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s easy to say good-bye.”

  “Sometimes it means it’s harder.” More words that she regretted.

  She pressed her lips together, staring out over the old marble headstones. Hundreds of lives that had begun and ended. Hopefully, most of them had been happier than Daniel’s.

  She shivered, wiping icy rain from her cheeks.

  “You’re cold. How about we go inside and warm up?”

  “I need to get home.” Not really. There was nothing there but memories. Most of them bad.

  “Is there a reception at your place? A celebration of life?”

  “No.” Just that. She wasn’t going to explain that she hadn’t had the energy to plan one. Or the confidence to believe that people would attend.

  “I’m sorry, Em,” he said quietly, turning her toward the church, his hand still on her arm.

  * * *

  Emma didn’t respond.

  Jack hadn’t really expected her to.

  I’m sorry was the kind of platitude he tried to avoid. It didn’t make a person feel any better. It sure as heck didn’t solve any problems. He’d said it anyway, because he was sorry. Sorry that he’d found Emma alone in a cemetery that should have had at least a few people in it.

  Obviously, they’d come and gone.

  Either that, or they hadn’t come at all.

  From what Jack had heard, Daniel Baily was a mean-spirited, hate-filled bastard who hadn’t had a friend in the world. Since Adam wasn’t prone to exaggeration, and he was the one who’d offered the description, Jack believed it.

  He also believed there was no excuse for not attending a parent’s funeral. Daniel had ten kids. One of them was serving his country. One was walking silently beside Jack. The rest were MIA.

  “What happened to the rest of your clan?” he asked, as they skirted the newly dug grave, the mahogany casket.

  “What clan? We’ve been s
cattered since my mother died. You know that.” She tucked a thick strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers white with cold. No hat. No gloves. Just a black coat and a black dress and shoes that were about three inches too high for this kind of weather.

  “I thought maybe you’d all come together for this.”

  “I thought maybe we would, too, but I guess not.” She shrugged, her shoulders narrower than he’d remembered. She looked skinny, her cheeks gaunt. He opted out of mentioning it.

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “I’m tired. That’s about all I feel, right now.”

  “It’s been a long few weeks, huh?”

  “A long four years,” she corrected. She didn’t glance at the mahogany casket as they passed it. Didn’t spare her father’s final resting place even that quick of a look.

  “And, now it’s over. What’s next?”

  She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I have no idea.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  She stopped short, looked him straight in the eye. He could see the old Emma now, the one he’d fallen for the very first day they’d met—pretty and sweet-looking and full of all kinds of energy and fire. “Another platitude, Jack? I’m surprised. You’re usually a lot more creative than that.”

  “Not a platitude. Just a statement.”

  She cocked her head to the side, studying him with dark gray eyes that always seen too much.

  Maybe, she could see how much he didn’t want to be there.

  And, how much he absolutely did. Not just for Adam. For her.

  “Fine,” she finally said. “Not a platitude. So, how about we say good-bye, and I get on my way. You were right when you said it was cold. Thanks for coming, Jack. I really do appreciate it.”

  She walked away, moving across the parking lot in the too-high heels, her back straight, her head high. An old Ford was parked next to the SUV he’d rented, and she climbed into it, her dress shimmying up, revealing slim, muscular thighs.

  He looked. Of course.

  And, she noticed.

  She tugged the dress back into place, offered a quick wave and closed the door. Seconds later, the engine sputtered to life, the windshield wipers came on, and she was driving away.

  He didn’t rush to follow.

  Adam had provided the address, and he’d asked Jack to stay until Emma didn’t need him any longer.

  Jack wasn’t sure she needed him at all, but he’d promised, and he was going to follow through on it. Whether she liked it or not.

  Chapter Two

  She was shaking.

  Literally.

  Hands. Feet. Arms. Even Emma’s hair seemed to be trembling.

  From the cold.

  That’s what she was telling herself, but she thought it might also be from seeing Jack after all these years.

  Jack.

  She still couldn’t quite believe that he was in Apple Valley, Washington. The next time she spoke with Adam, she was going to ask what the heck he’d been thinking sending her ex to the funeral. Adam knew how she’d felt when she and Jack had parted ways—devastated. He also knew that she’d never forgotten her first serious boyfriend.

  Only serious boyfriend.

  God! She’d been so young and naïve when she’d met Jack. A sophomore in college and filled with all kinds of wonderful dreams. Three years older with four years of military service under his belt, Jack had already seen more of the world than she probably ever would.

  She still wasn’t sure what he’d seen in her.

  She knew exactly what she’d seen in him—kindness, strength, intelligence. The fact that he was handsome as sin hadn’t hurt.

  She frowned, flicking the heat on high and hoping that hot air would pour out of the vent. She’d been meaning to bring the Ford in for a tune-up, but time had gotten away from her.

  Four years of time.

  She’d catch up on things now. Tune-up on the Ford. Haircut that was two years overdue. New clothes. And . . .

  “What’s next?”

  Jack had asked a good question, and she’d had no answer.

  She only knew that she had to move on. Just like her siblings had years ago. It wasn’t a surprise that none of them had shown up for the funeral. They hadn’t visited once in the four years since Daniel’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. They’d called, of course. They’d sent cards. They’d asked if she needed anything, and she’d known that if she had, they’d have provided it. As long as it wasn’t help with Daniel’s care.

  That was okay.

  She was the one who’d made the promise to their mother, and she was the one who’d had to follow through.

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her body stiff with cold and nerves. No heat pumping out of the vents. That was for sure. At least she didn’t have to worry about Jack anymore. He was probably on his way back to the airport, relieved to be freed of his obligation. Adam really shouldn’t have asked him to come. The two were as close as brothers, and they’d do anything for each other, but flying all night to attend the funeral of a man he’d never met went above and beyond the call of duty.

  At least, in Emma’s opinion it did.

  Not that she was one to talk. She’d devoted four years of her life to someone who despised her.

  She turned onto the rutted country road that led to her father’s house. His house. Not his family’s. He’d made that clear to everyone who crossed the threshold and to everyone who’d lived inside the walls.

  “This is my house, and if you don’t like the way I run it, you can leave.”

  How many times had she heard him say that? To her? To her brothers and sisters? One sibling after another had done just exactly that. Left. The big-family-sized house had emptied, the door of one bedroom after another closing for good.

  Finally, it had been Emma’s turn. She’d packed her bags and walked away and her father had barely even said good-bye. He hadn’t kissed her on the cheek, hadn’t wished her good luck at college, hadn’t offered her money, a place to return, a simple “I’m proud of you.”

  Maybe he’d known that she’d be back.

  Or—and this was more likely the case—he just hadn’t cared. He’d been happy to have the big old house to himself, all the rooms empty. No one to bounce up the stairs or bound down them while he was hunched over his computer doing whatever it was he did. No one to interrupt his solitude. No one to worry about. No one to make him think of anything other than himself.

  “You were a winner, Dad,” she whispered as the old house came into view. Bright white against the steel-colored sky, the old farmhouse had the stately grace of bygone eras. For all his faults, Daniel had been good at maintaining his heritage. The place was nearly as perfect as it had been the day it was built. No faded paint or crumbling wood trim. No cracked windows or listing foundation. No expense had been spared when it came to maintaining the property, and it showed.

  It wasn’t that Daniel had loved it. It was simply that he’d taken pride in owning one of the most prestigious homes in the county. Just like he’d taken pride in having children who were always at the top of their classes. No grade lower than an A was tolerated. Anything less than that would bring on a full-out Daniel rage.

  Emma shoved the thought away.

  It was over.

  The end of an era. An ugly era, but an era.

  Up ahead, the road sloped up toward the circular drive, a thick layer of ice shimmering in the gray light. This was not going to be fun. The Ford’s tires were nearly bald—another thing she’d been meaning to get to but hadn’t—and the hill was steep. If she wasn’t careful, she’d roll backward into one of the shallow ditches that edged both sides of the road.

  “Come on, baby. You can do it,” she cajoled, coaxing the old truck up the incline.

  For a moment, she thought she was going to make it.

  The truck chugged along smoothly, barely slipping on the icy pavement. Then, it happened. One split second of too much pressure on the accel
erator, and she was spinning.

  No hope for it.

  She was going in the ditch.

  A thud. A bump. And, she was there, nose down, bushes pressed against the windshield.

  “For God’s sake! Really?!” she growled, shoving the door open and stepping out of the truck. There didn’t seem to be much damage. Maybe a scratch on the bumper, but it just added to the old beast’s character. The axle looked good. There were no fluids leaking out.

  Aside from the fact that it was stuck in the ditch, the truck seemed just fine.

  She’d have to call for a tow. No way could she get it out herself.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough for that.

  For today, she was done.

  Finished.

  Over.

  She yanked the keys from the ignition, told herself that a quarter-mile walk in the icy rain would be fun. A quarter-mile walk in the icy rain wearing heels.

  Yeah. Real fun.

  The collar of her coat was damp from melted ice, her hair lying in cold, limp strands on her cheeks. Her tights were soggy, the knit dress itchy. Her toes were frozen, her fingers blue with cold.

  Yeah. Sure. This would be a blast.

  There was nothing for it, though. She had to get to the house. Walking was the only way to do it. She started up the hill, slipping and sliding in her stupid borrowed shoes. She finally gave up on the pavement and stepped off the road, holding onto bushes and trees as she trudged along.

  She made it to the front door in record time.

  It was that or freeze to death.

  The good news about being half-dead from cold?

  She couldn’t feel the throbbing pain in her twisted ankle.

  She fished keys from her purse, cursing softly as they slipped from her frozen fingers and skittered across the porch. She dove for them, landing on her knees and skidding across the frozen whitewashed boards. Her fingers grazed the key, and it jumped away, slipping through a small knothole near the edge of the porch.

  “I do not need this right now!”

  She clamored off the porch, her stockings ripped at both knees, blood seeping out from torn flesh. She was so cold she couldn’t feel it and so pissed she didn’t care.

  She just wanted the keys, so that she could go inside the house and get out of the dress, the coat, the shoes. Get back into her normal jeans and T-shirt. Sit for a few minutes and figure out what it meant to be in the house without her father in it.