by Rula Sinara
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING Emily blinked groggily and stretched her arms over her head. Something felt strange, and it took a moment to figure out what it was. The familiar squeak of Tadpole’s old wheel had been replaced by the barely audible whisper of the new one. That should make Jack happy.
Thinking about him brought a rush of memories of last night’s date, which were quickly swamped when she recalled the tender touch of his lips to hers. The kiss that almost wasn’t.
She blinked, realizing she had dreamt about him last night, too. It had been one of those weirdly vivid dreams that seemed real and completely unreal all at the same time.
She was fourteen and sitting in homeroom with her crimped hair and wearing the ridiculous baby-doll dress. Everyone, even Fred, was pointing at her and laughing. Then Jack walked in, though it wasn’t his homeroom. He completely ignored her and asked her homeroom teacher to dance, but old Mrs. Potter asked to see his hall pass and then gave him a detention when he couldn’t produce one. Unfazed, Jack grabbed the teacher and spun her across the front of the classroom in a series of pirouettes. Emily’s classmates leaped to their feet and broke into a chorus of “Girls Just Want To Have Fun.” Mrs. Potter was surprisingly graceful in spite of her serviceable lace-up oxfords and arthritic hip. And then, as only happens in dreams and schmaltzy TV shows, Mrs. Potter turned into Belinda Bellows wearing a tiara. Her Miss Riverboat Queen sash didn’t quite conceal her cleavage. Emily was left to watch from the sidelines.
She groaned and rubbed her eyes. Her dream had turned into an episode of Glee, and she was a total loser.
“I need coffee,” she said out loud to herself, flinging back the covers and swinging her feet onto the floor. She ran her hands over her belly. “But I can’t have coffee.” Someday, this little person had better appreciate her giving up her favorite thing in the whole world. Emily wandered into the kitchen, still wearing the T-shirt and pajama pants she’d pulled on last night, not bothering with a robe. The morning sunshine streaming through the windows was already warming her apartment.
In all fairness to Jack, he had not left her sitting on the sidelines yesterday. As first dates went, it had been pretty wonderful. She loved that quaint little restaurant, and the only person she knew there was a woman whose son was in CJ’s therapeutic riding program, but the woman didn’t know who Jack was and wasn’t at all surprised that Emily was having dinner with him.
She put on a pot of decaf, and while it brewed, she sliced a bagel in half and popped it into the toaster.
Last night, Jack had been, well, amazing. He had asked about her family, about how Annie and Isaac were managing since Eric’s funeral, about her work on the newspaper. He had even asked about Tadpole, although she sensed he wasn’t a fan of rodents. He hadn’t seemed to want to talk about the case he was currently working on, a case that had coincidentally brought him back to Riverton, yesterday of all days, to interview a witness. He had talked about police work in general, though. She could tell he was proud of his work. He should be, and she knew he loved living in a big city. To him, the obvious solution to their situation was to get married and for her to move to Chicago with him. After having feelings for him for all these years—and she could privately acknowledge she still had them—those feelings weren’t enough to make her leave Riverton. He wasn’t in love with her. She would be miserable in the city, and before long, he would miserable, too. That was the impasse, and she saw no way to bridge the gap between their two very different lives.
Then a knock at the door downstairs had her scurrying back to the bedroom and hastily pulling on her bathrobe.
* * *
EMILY ANSWERED THE door looking as though she had just rolled out of bed, a robe haphazardly cinched at the waist, hair adorably mussed, an empty coffee cup clutched in one hand.
“Good morning,” Jack said.
“Good morning. You’re early.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten after nine. Did I wake you?”
“No, I’ve been up for a while. Just waiting for my coffee to finish brewing.”
“I see.”
“It’s decaf,” she said, sounding a little defensive. “Pregnant women aren’t supposed to have caffeine.”
“Ah, well, then, that explains a lot.”
“What exactly?”
“Why you’re so grumpy. Why you still haven’t invited me in.” He smiled as he said it, hoping to lighten her mood, and she returned the smile.
“Sorry,” she said, stepping aside.
He joined her in the narrow vestibule. “No apology necessary.”
“I’m not a morning person, and I really like to start my day with a good, strong cup of coffee,” she said. “And then follow that up with at least four more throughout the day.”
He locked the door behind him and followed her up the stairs, noting the pink-pigs-with-wings print on her yellow pajama pants and her bright green fuzzy frog slippers. Unpretentious, quirky, cute as all get-out.
“Coffee’s ready,” she said when they reached her apartment. “Would you like some?”
“Sure.”
“It’s decaf.”
“So you said.”
“Sorry, I’m not—”
“A morning person. I think we’ve established that.” He set a bakery box on the tiny table for two in the small dining area next to the kitchen. “But here’s the more important question. Are you a doughnut person?”
She gave him a narrow-eyed smirk. “Doughnuts? Isn’t that kind of a cliché?”
“There’s a cliché about pregnant women and doughnuts?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“Very clever, Mr. Police Officer stopping at the doughnut shop.” She filled the mug she’d been clutching with eager anticipation, pulled another from a cupboard and filled it for him. Then she sat, lifted the lid of the box and sighed. “Mmm, jelly-filled. My favorite. How did you know?”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t like them?” He waited till she chose one, then picked up another.
They sat and bumped doughnuts across the table, fell silent as they both bit and chewed and savored. He must have been grinning when she made eye contact again.
“What?” she asked.
He plucked a paper napkin from the holder on the table and swiped at her powdered sugar–dusted nose, a task that could have been accomplished with a kiss under different circumstances.
She laughed. “Not my best look.”
“Distractingly cute, actually.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me cute. I’ve always been more of a plain Jane.” Her eyes widened, and she hurried on. “Sorry, that was a dumb thing to say. I’m not fishing for compliments.”
“No need to fish for them.” Could a woman who looked knock-your-socks-off gorgeous in a natty bathrobe and fuzzy slippers really be insecure about her looks? Apparently. He made a mental note to say something nice to her more often.
“Did you have a good visit with your parents?” she asked. She was blushing now.
“I did, mostly over breakfast this morning. My mother made pancakes, bacon and eggs, and some kind of fruit-and-yogurt parfait thing that was surprisingly good.”
Emily stared at him. “You had all that for breakfast, and now you’re eating doughnuts?”
He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “Every good meal deserves dessert.”
“I’d be as big as a house in no time,” Emily said, laughing and then blushing again. “I will be anyway. I’m already getting too big for my jeans.”
Knowing it was never wise to talk to a woman about her weight under any circumstances, he redirected the conversation back to his family. “My mother’s biggest worry these days is the suspicious disappearance of her garden trowel.” She had mentioned it again over breakfast that morning
, and for the second time he had changed the subject.
“It’s all very strange. I’m glad she told you.”
It was a misplaced garden trowel. What was strange about that? “You know about this?”
Emily nodded. “She sent me an email yesterday.”
Panic grabbed Jack by the throat. “I see.”
But he didn’t. Did Emily have regular email contact with his mother? And if so, why?
“It was for my blog,” she explained. “I’ve written a series of posts on all the mysterious disappearances around town.”
“So you don’t have regular email contact with my mother?”
“Not at all. Why would I?”
Good question. He relaxed a little, knowing that his mother and his...the mother of his child...weren’t in regular contact. “My mother didn’t mention you had a blog.” Or maybe he hadn’t been paying attention. “She mentioned something about garden gnomes, though. What else has gone missing?”
“Stuff from people’s yards, mostly. Garden ornaments, several gnomes, those sorts of things. And now your mom’s trowel. The police think it’s probably kids playing a prank, and Ken won’t let me print the stories in the Gazette. He says they’re not newsworthy enough, but the truth is, he doesn’t want ‘his town,’ as he calls it, to look like a haven for petty thieves. So I’ve been blogging about it instead.”
“Are you sure people haven’t just misplaced them?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been marking the locations on the town map on my bulletin board, and there’s definitely a pattern. All the thefts—” she must’ve seen his raised eyebrows because she amended that statement “—all the missing items are from the same part of town, and they always seem to disappear after dark.”
He decided to play along. “So, no gnome-nappings in broad daylight. Interesting.”
She frowned. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Guilty as charged. What’s the name of your blog? I’ll check it out, maybe put in a good word for you with Chief Fenwick.”
“Very funny.” She devoured the rest of the doughnut and chose another—a double-chocolate glazed this time. “My blog is called Small Town, Big Hearts. It should come up if you do a search for it.”
“And my mother reads your blog?”
“I guess so. I’ll be honest. I was completely shocked to get an email from her yesterday afternoon. Initially, I thought she was writing to me because you told her about...us. You have no idea how relieved I was to know she doesn’t know yet.”
And you have no idea how relieved I am that you and my mother aren’t email buddies. “When are you going to tell your family?” he asked.
“My sisters already know. They just don’t know about you.”
“And Fred?”
“He’s the best secret-keeper there is.”
Jack wished he could believe that.
“I always go for Annie’s Sunday dinner, so I’ll tell them tonight. I’m not ready to tell my dad, though, and my sisters will keep this under their hats.”
“So, your sisters know about the baby and they didn’t ask about the father?”
Emily turned six shades of red. “Oh, um, they did. I sort of...lied.”
“Sort of? What exactly does that mean?”
She hung her head. “I wasn’t going to tell you this... It’s so embarrassing... But I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought you thought it had been a one-night stand. Since we weren’t together, I thought you might not want anyone to know, so I lied. Sort of.”
“And that lie was...?”
He watched her close her eyes and take a deep breath, then let it out.
“I told them it was Fred’s.” She opened her eyes and looked at him.
Momentarily speechless and not liking the direction his thoughts were headed in, he stared back.
“It was stupid and irresponsible and I’m sorry, but I’ll fix it tonight.”
Right now, her sisters were the least of his worries. “Is there a chance that Fred could be—”
Her eyes turned into saucers. “No! Good grief, no way! Fred and I are friends, always have been just friends.” Her visceral response was a typical reaction for someone who was telling the truth and genuinely shocked by someone else’s misconception. “You have to believe me. Fred and I were never... Oh, I can’t even say it.”
“Does he know your sisters think it’s his?”
She nodded. “Trust me, he was as freaked out as you are. That’s why he texted me to come to the shop yesterday afternoon.”
And which further explained the man’s nervous behavior when Jack had walked in for a haircut.
“Do you believe me?”
He did believe her. He briefly considered leaving her on the hook for a few minutes, but she seemed to be having difficulty catching her breath.
“I believe you. Just promise me you’ll straighten this out today.”
“I will,” she said, still a little breathless. “If it’s any consolation, they didn’t believe me.”
No consolation whatsoever. Add to that the fact that three people already knew Emily was pregnant. One of those people knew Jack was the father, and by tonight, the other two would be in the know. Emily trusted them to keep her secret until she was ready to tell her father and then announce the big news to the world.
Jack didn’t trust anyone that much. He had woken up early, surprisingly refreshed and clearheaded from a sound sleep in his old maple captain’s bed—a bed he’d slept in for half his life. He hadn’t changed his mind about convincing Emily to marry him and move to Chicago. It was the only logical thing to do. Emily might think she could postpone the inevitable with a handful of get-to-know-you dates, but not for long. Once their families knew the truth, the pressure would be on. But what if Emily still refused to move to Chicago?
He planned to meet with Gord Fenwick later that morning. There would be more pressure to seriously consider if not outright accept the job offer. Jack had never contemplated a move back to Riverton, but one of them would have to compromise. He hoped that person didn’t have to be him, but it couldn’t hurt to listen to whatever Gordon had to say.
Jack watched Emily lick chocolate off her fingers. She had known he was going to drop by this morning, but she hadn’t tried to get all dolled up for him. Quite the opposite, in fact. And he loved that. She didn’t worry about putting away a huge plate of pasta for dinner or eating doughnuts for breakfast—she didn’t need to—and he loved that about her, too.
“Why are you looking at me weird?” Emily asked. “Do I have chocolate on my face?” She swiped her mouth with a napkin. “I do, don’t I?”
Back in the moment, Jack shook his head. “No chocolate. Like I said, you look kind of cute, that’s all.”
She rolled her eyes. “I doubt that.”
“You shouldn’t.” He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, assure her he would take care of her and the baby. She wasn’t ready to hear it, though, and he didn’t want her to feel pressured. Easier to wait until their families knew he was the baby’s father and let them apply the pressure. That way, he could be the buffer.
He swallowed the rest of his coffee and stood. “I’d like to stay, but there’s something I need to wrap up at the station before I head back to Chicago.”
She stood, too, and the tiny apartment seemed to shrink. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I’ll call you when I get back to the city tonight.”
“Sure.” She sounded as though she didn’t believe him, and he couldn’t blame her.
“I’ll call.” He would also send a text message when he stopped at Madison to grab some lunch. He pulled his business card out of his jacket pocket. “And I want you to call me if you need anything, okay?”
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She slipped the card into the pocket of her bathrobe and nodded.
At the top of the stairs, he put his arms around her, touched his lips to her forehead. He wanted to ask her to give more thought to coming to the city, but he already knew what her answer would be. Best not to give her any more opportunities to say no.
“I’ll be back next weekend. I promise.”
“What about the big case you’re working on?”
“It’s wrapping up.”
“Then won’t you have another one? According to the statistics, there’s more than one homicide a day in Chicago.”
Don’t remind me. “I don’t investigate all of them. Besides, they owe me some time off.” They owed him a life. “So I’ll be back next weekend. And you’re going to talk to your sisters, right?”
“I’ll talk to them while I’m there for dinner tonight. I promise.”
He took her face in his hands and brushed his mouth over hers, thinking that if he deepened the kiss, she’d taste like coffee and chocolate. Better to stick with his plan, he reminded himself. And so he backed away, for now.
* * *
FROM HER LIVING room window, Emily watched Jack drive away. Again. How was this going to work? She sighed. It wasn’t. Jack didn’t simply have a job in Chicago—he had a life there, too. A career he loved and was extremely good at, by all reports. He said he would be back next weekend, and she believed him. But every weekend? That would be impossible. Something would come up, and he would call to let her know he couldn’t make it. Eventually, he would be embroiled in another horrible case, and he would forget to call altogether. And if he did come to town several weekends in a row, people were going to get suspicious. She could go to Chicago instead. She hated the city, but she could handle the occasional weekend. Could she live there, though? Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart started to race. She struggled to inflate her lungs.
