Any day now,
I will hear you say goodbye my love...
and you’ll be on your way…
Amy was content to look out the window and try to clear her jumbled thoughts. She should have been glad to be out of Cobblers Cove, but somehow she was not.
Two hours later, the skyline of Houston finally loomed on the horizon. Brad took the Airport exit from the freeway, where he jockeyed the truck in behind a long line of cabs headed for the drop off area.
“Would you rather I find parking and walk you inside?” Brad asked.
“No...no .There’s no need. You can drop me at the curb. I just need to go and check in. You can leave me here.”
Milsap reran one more time:
My wild beautiful bird...you will have flown…
“I don't know about that. You have more stuff than you can handle, and I don't see a sky cap anywhere. Let me get out and I’ll help you . That’s the least I can do.”
“But there’s a line of cars waiting to pull up.”
“So...let’ em wait."
And the song continued:
I wouldn’t try to keep you...if you don’t want to stay...
“You’re not going to try to persuade me not to go...are you?” She moved closer to him, and he looked down at her with eyes that spoke of confusion…or was it resignation?
“No I don't think I will. You do as you please...like always. I should know. Remember me...the kid who hung on for dear life while you blasted your way through childhood...the kid who went behind you picking up the broken pieces. Hello, it’s me.”
“Those are the things I never forget,” she said. She would not have fought him if he had kissed her the way he had in front of Ruby's Diner. But he chose not to, and she secretly chided herself for thinking he would, since she had not responded. She hadn’t been especially warm toward him since she had come home, and she knew he still felt the earlier chill.
Vehicles were piling up around the drop off at the curb and had begun to honk their horns. “Move it or lose it, cowboy!” a cabbie shouted.
“Welcome to the big city,” Brad mumbled. “Guess we need to get you inside and on your way. Ben will be waiting for you at Logan?”
“Yes...he will be.”
“Guess you better get moving. He’ll be in a frenzy if you miss your flight. Seems like he gets worked up when things don't go as planned. The man thinks he’s got it wired...and maybe he does.”
He saw her into the terminal and stood looking at her for one unfathomable moment. Remembering Lucas’ words, Emma expressed her thoughts.: “Dad missed it by a mile, ” she murmured.
“How’s that?’
“He said you would beg me to stay.”
Brad captured her eyes with his. “Guess Lucas got it all wrong...maybe for the first time. Didn’t ol' George tell you?”
“George who?”
“George Strait. Didn't he tell you? 'This is where the cowboy rides away'.”
16: Emma's Debut
“I am so glad to have you back in Boston where you belong.” cooed Grace. “ You must be so relieved to be back in civilization.” Emma’s patrician mother floated out to her veranda balancing a silver tea service and delicate porcelain cups; the heels of her sandals click-clacked on the flagstone, with that familiar sound Emma always remembered. Grace would not be caught dead without high heels.
The weather had turned in New England, and Grace and Emma had spent a leisurely afternoon in the crisp air, as dusk softened the scarlet and yellow of the maples surrounding Grace’s townhouse. Emma had always loved New England in October.
“How you must have missed our tea time together while you were stuck in those God-forsaken Texas thickets.” Grace shuddered for dramatic effect. “I don’t know how your father stands living there. If the man weren’t well-to-do, you would think he was a peasant...talking to all those dumb cows...and stomping about in the mud. Life is so much more gracious here. You do still take lemon do you not?”
“Yes... lemon. Thank you. You know, Mother...I happen to like Texas.”
Emma felt as if a steel band was tightening around her head. If there was anyone who thought leaving the drama of Cobblers Cove would be peaceful for her, they had never met Grace Donovan St. Claire.
“Mother, Dad’s a lot savvier than you give credit. All my life you told me I’m more like the Donovans, but I do relate to Dad’s side. Do you remember how close I was to Grandma St. Claire? She was a lot like Dad. Neither one of them gave two hoots about appearances. They took life on and stared it down. Isn’t that what you found appealing about Dad in the beginning?"
Grace smiled—not the practiced society matron simper, but a natural, honest-to-goodness smile. “There was a time when I found Lucas charming, yes. As a matter of fact, I was quite taken with your father. Opposites attract when you’re young, but we all resort to kind when we get to a certain age, I suppose.”
“Why should anything change? Do you think maybe it’s possible to have both chemistry and common interests all in one? What a relationship that would be. Just think of it. Don’t you think that kind of love might be possible?”
Grace peered at Emma, as if trying to read her thoughts. “What’s this all about?” she asked softly. “Are you questioning your feelings for Benjamin? I had so hoped that somehow you’d come to love him...maybe not in the way that you loved Ethan but something more practical...befitting your age and your station in life?”
“Practical? Befitting my age and station in life? What's that about?”
“Lets not quibble over this. You know how I hate unpleasantness. Benjamin has worked hard to get you the art show at the gallery. The least you can do is be nice to him.”
Emma measured her words as she measured the sugar for her tea:
“I know nothing would make you happier than to see me marry Ben. I'm just not sure of my feelings toward him...but while I am here, maybe that will change. Maybe something will click. I appreciate everything he’s done for me professionally. I don't know what I would have done without him. I’m grateful, and I respect him…emotions I once felt were strong enough for marriage . It was all I was capable of after Ethan died. I told myself that being in love like that was too painful. Now I’m not so sure what I think.”
“Tell me, are you trying to tell me you have feelings toward someone else…Brad Caldwell perhaps?”
“I never mentioned his name?”
“You didn’t have to. I saw how things were between you two when he danced with you that night at your party...that weekend Ben and I flew in...the weekend you almost drowned in the lake. The electricity between the two of you fairly sizzled. I probably knew how it was, before you even entertained the idea...but remember this...Brad is unsuited for you. Seems he's developed a dark side over the years.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve heard the talk. You may remember I stay in touch with Amy's family. Her mother told me all about Brad and Tommy's fight at Ruby’s. ”
“I’m sure Amy twisted the story to favor Tommy. If you weren’t there, you don't know why it happened. Tommy’s accusing Brad of having something to do with Ethan’s death. He’s accusing him of murder, essentially.”
“You just never know about those people back in the sticks, Emma. If I were you, I’d be on guard. I would forget that mission of yours to recall everything. Amy says Brad had it in for Ethan...that he was always jealous and he was also upset over what Ethan did behind your back. Something like two motives maybe?”
It was too much. Emma felt the blood pounding in her temples. “I think I know more about the situation than you do. Brad is nothing like that, Mother. All he ever wanted was whatever was best for me.”
“Well...you’ve certainly changed your tune. You wouldn’t speak to him for seventeen years.”
Grace's words stung, because they were true. Yet Emma had made peace with Brad before she left Texas, and she was glad of it.
“I’ve had enough for one day
,” Emma sighed. I could use some rest. Think I’ll turn in early”
“Good idea, Emma. Tomorrow we need to go shopping...to get you ready for next week’s debut into Boston’s art world! I just know you’ll be a smash. After all, you are your mother's daughter.”
An exuberant crowd gathered at the art gallery in Boston’s South End, where a private showing of Emma’s watercolor scenes and oil still–lifes were on display. In the soft glow of strategically placed light, dealers and private collectors stood with flutes of champagne and sparkling water and murmured in hallowed tones about the craftsmanship of Emma's work.
Emma had switched from her usual jeans into a simple black sweater and skirt with zip up dress boots—unlike the Justins she wore back home. Back home. After only a short return to Texas, Emma knew in her heart: Cobblers Cove, her place of birth and childhood refuge was home once more. Yet she pushed thoughts of it away, smiled bravely, and made her entrance on Ben’s arm. The minute she entered the gallery, her heart began to pound. She was excited and feeling intimidated all at the same time.
You have what you wanted . Be careful what you wish for.
Just for that split second, she longed for the isolation of her old room in Cobblers Cove, or perhaps the bench out by Moon Lake. But she carried on with the show, made small talk and accepted praise humbly, graciously. On the other side of the room, Grace was in her element, waving her arms and smiling, as she chatted animatedly with a group of friends.
This is really my mother’s show...not mine.
She forced herself to disregard her feelings, for she knew that by the end of the night she would be rewarded monetarily for years of work. The truth was that she needed and deserved to be paid. As she circulated around the showroom on Ben’s arm, she overheard arrangements being made for the purchase of her paintings and was proud . And then she was lost in a sudden wave of sadness, if only for a moment. It occurred to her that her work was no longer hers, and those smiles and nods in her direction had everything to do with the way she held a brush: that innate, inexplicable ability, whether from the brain or from the dexterity of her hands. It was that mysterious, God-given thing that they all wanted from her. It had nothing to do with her as a person, and she knew it.
“Fabulous...just as I had hoped,” gushed Ben. “They love your work. How does it feel to have arrived?”
“A bit overwhelming, Ben. I don't know whether I’m too excited for reality to sink in... or I’m just not used to this much attention. “
Ben placed an arm around her waist and pulled her close to whisper in her ear: “Well, get used to it, Emma. This is how our life will be from now on.”
Our Life...Our life, echoed a little voice in Emma’s head. He said our life.
A chill ran down Emma’s spine. She knew the terms of the arrangement. She knew that this type of life would come with a string attached, and at the end of that string, holding on for all he was worth, was Benjamin Winfield. He was not only a part of the circus. He was the Ringmaster. She should have run then, but she was stuck in a trap built from fragments of old dreams half remembered.
Make the best of it Emma. Don't make waves. Just smile and pretend ...just like Grace. Like she said... you are your mother's daughter.
Then came Grace, stilettos clicking across the floor, flushed with both the effects of champagne and her daughter’s success. Emma had to admit it. Her mother, swirling about in her element, looked years younger. Emma could see what her father had seen in her those many years ago. All the same, Grace was an exotic, delicate butterfly that flitted here and there, serving little more purpose than to be admired—yet too delicate to be held. But then a butterfly could be nothing more than what it was meant to be.
“Here are my darlings, Emma and Benjamin, I am so proud! Aren’t you excited? This is the beginning of a new life for you two.”
“Ben said almost the same thing, Mother. You both are cut from the same cloth, aren't you?” The words hung in the smoky air unanswered, and Emma took a large gulp of champagne.
The art show had ended with cameras flashing and a stream of well wishers rushing out into a steady autumn rain, gathering beneath the yellow glow of streetlights, waiting for cars to be brought around. Emma longed to be back to Grace’s place to curl up with a book or an old movie, but the night was far from over. Ben had plans. Reservations had been made at a trendy cafe on Beacon Hill, and a select group had been invited for the after−party. It was to be a mix of artsy types and ad guys—those who emulated real art but were nothing more than commercial hacks. But Emma figured there was a difference of opinion as to what real art was any way. Like them, she too had just been paid a ridiculous amount for her work.
Emma looked out at the rain on the drive through the streets of the city and wondered if it was raining in Cobblers Cove. Was Lucas snug in the lake cabin with Ruby or home by the fireplace thinking of her, thousands of miles away? She wondered if he had brought Mutt Junior in for the night and then knew with a certainty that he had. At last, Brad entered her thoughts—he with eyes like sunshine and dark hair curling from under a straw hat, sitting on his tractor, riding his horse through the pasture. He would not leave her mind, even with Ben sitting beside her.
“What are you thinking?” Ben asked. “You’re very quiet. Aren't you pleased with the showing?”
“What? Oh….yes. It was wonderful. I’m just a little tired I guess.”
Ben’s eyes grew even darker than usual. “ Is that all there is to it Emma? Is there something more you need to say?”
“No, nothing at all,” she lied. Her chances had come and gone, because she couldn't find the words.
The restaurant was plush with white tablecloths, candles and flowers and a wait staff dressed in formal attire. It was a far cry from Ruby’s Diner, yet Emma was accustomed to both. She was used to living in two worlds: her father’s and her mother’s. The question was, in which world could she stay for the rest of her life—and with whom?
The dinner was as festive as any Emma could remember, and just for a moment, she could forget Cobblers Cove and the turmoil that swirled around it. This is how life with Ben would be. She felt renewed and relaxed, and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses rang out like music to her ears.
“Slip the the piano player a few bills,” someone shouted. “Give him a request!”
The entertainer took a drag from his cigar and ran his fingers over the keys as if by second nature. He began to sing the old standard classics from the forties and fifties, as the requests rolled in. His mellow baritone and accomplished piano playing was soothing, and Emma was lulled into a cocoon of peace and security that would soon come to an end.
Could it be all that bad...people directing your life? No struggle. No insecurity. One big party.
Any way, what, she wondered, was wrong with having such a sheltered and privileged existence?
The piano player caught Emma’s eye and looked at her with an intensity she did not understand. There was something in his eyes: a message she could not read. It was as if he were playing to her alone. It was as if he too was trying to read her thoughts in return. Emma squirmed in her chair.
Who is this man?
The entertainer began a Frank Sinatra medley, and the guests went wild, clapping and throwing money into the tip jar. At last, Ben motioned for the performance to stop and tapped his knife against his glass to capture everyone’s attention :
“I want to propose a toast to the star of this evening’s event...which was a huge success I might add. Here’s to you Emma. Welcome back where you belong.”
Guests raised their glasses, and their beaming faces spun before Emma’s eyes, while the Piano Man began anew, softly:
See you in September…
No...not again. She felt faint and hardly heard Ben as he called the room to attention once more; all heads turned expectantly, and all eyes came to rest on Emma. Grace began to dab her eyes with her napkin and squeezed Emma’s hand, which lay as cold as stone
in hers. Emma felt the smile still frozen on her face, but her eyes could barely focus, no matter how she tried.
Ben reached into his coat pocket and brought out a black velvet box, which when opened, displayed a ring with exquisitely cut diamonds that sparkled like fire. Emma looked into their brilliance as if hypnotized. An expectant hush fell over the guests, as Ben pulled Emma up on her now unsteady feet.
It was too much to take in, and the piano man would not stop. Why doesn't someone stop him, she wondered. The barely audible background singing, going almost unnoticed by others, rang deafeningly loud inside Emma’s brain to echo over and over again:
Will I see you in September... or lose you to a summer love?
She could see Ben’s lips moving, and she made a concerted effort to hear his words over the pounding from the inside of her skull.
“Emma,” he said with voice booming for all to hear. “...will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Benjamin Winfield?”
17: New Sheriff in Town
“You’re trying to tell me your dog dug this up?” Sheriff Clayton looked at the broken necklace, then at Lucas, and chuckled heartily. “That must be some sort of supernatural detective dog. My stupid old hound digs up bones...those he's buried himself. You, on the other hand, have a fur covered metal detector. Say, why don't you bring him to my house and see if he can find some buried treasure.”
“I'm glad to see you find this so amusing.”
“Lucas, this was the last sheriff's case. Old man McMillan, remember? I’m the new sheriff in town. I may have skimmed over the file briefly, and nothing in there points to homicide. Sheriff McMillan and his deputy found no real evidence back then. If they had, they would have investigated further. I know you think you're onto a murder case, but no one can say why the boy died. There doesn’t seem to be way you can tie the broken necklace to Ethan's struggle with anyone...although I admit it looks suspicious. ”
“If you glanced at the file, did you then see if any evidence had been bagged? “
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