by Lori Wilde
“What in the world happened to you two?” Maddie asked the minute they walked through the back door and into the mudroom.
“Long story,” Sam said chivalrously, not getting into the details of her stupidity.
“I decided to go wading on the sandbar where the old Twilight Bridge used to be and fell in. Sam jumped in to save me from drowning without any concern for his own safety.”
“That’s our Sam,” Maddie said. “Hero through and through.”
Sam’s cheeks reddened. “You weren’t drowning.”
“You didn’t know that.”
Maddie made a clucking noise. “Well, you were gone so long I was about to call Hondo to go look for you.”
Emma felt her own cheeks heat as she thought about what the sheriff might have come upon if the housekeeper had called him out to search for them.
“You went in with your boots on?” Maddie stared at Sam’s wet cowboy boots.
“When you’re jumping into the river to save someone’s life, it’s customary not to take time to strip off your boots,” Sam drawled.
“Don’t move.” Maddie pointed a finger. “Either one of you, until I can put some paper bags down for you to walk on. I just mopped the kitchen floor.”
Emma jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m going to go on back to the B&B, Maddie, and get out of your hair.”
“Hold it right there, little missy.” Maddie shook her index finger.
“What is it?”
“You promised that napping child upstairs you’d take him for ice cream when you got back.” She shifted her gaze to Sam. “And while I don’t approve of ice cream before dinner, you did promise him. He’s been waiting two hours for you to return, and he’s going to get his ice cream come hell or high water.”
“Sam can take him,” Emma said. The last thing she wanted was to spend more time with Sam and Charlie in a cute ice cream shop in their cozy little town.
“He’s expecting you to go too.”
“How do you know?” Emma asked.
“He drew this.” Maddie stepped from the mudroom into the kitchen, and removed a crayon drawing attached to the refrigerator with a magnet. She came back and handed it to Emma.
The drawing consisted of three stick figures. A dad, a mom, and a little boy eating ice cream. The mom had a mass of curly red hair.
Emma’s chest tightened, and tears pushed at the backs of her eyes. Charlie missed his mother so damn much he couldn’t bring himself to speak, but the picture said it all. “That’s not a picture of me.”
“Yes it is,” Maddie said, and Emma could see tears misting the other woman’s eyes as well. “Look what she’s wearing.”
The mother in Charlie’s drawing was wearing an outfit identical to the one Emma had on—red skirt, red and white striped blouse, red shoes.
Her heart cracked wide open, then. This was all the more reason not to go eat ice cream with them. Charlie was getting attached to her. She shot a desperate look at Sam and saw the same concerns on his face.
“Maybe it would be best if Emma did go on back to—” Sam started but didn’t get to finish because Charlie came charging into the mudroom, a huge grin on his face. He stopped when he saw they were wet and canted his head.
“We fell into the river,” Sam explained.
Charlie spied the drawing Maddie held and pointed to it.
“Yes, we’re still going for ice cream. We just have to put on some dry clothes first.”
Charlie nodded.
Emma resigned herself to ice cream. “I’ll pop over to the B&B and change.”
“You don’t want to go traipsing through the B&B soaking wet,” Maddie pointed out. “Sunday afternoon is when all the tourists are checking out. I’ll find something here for you to wear.”
She wanted to argue but Maddie had already disappeared. She came back with dry clothes for both Sam and Emma and paper bags to put down on the floor. Sam peeled off his boots in the mudroom while Emma followed the brown paper bag trail that Maddie made leading to the downstairs bathroom.
Once she was alone in the bathroom with the door shut, she shucked off her wet things, took a quick rinse-off shower, and dressed in the bright purple dress with a fitted bodice and flouncy hemline that skimmed just above her knees. It molded to her body as if it had been made for her. She loved it—the color, the fit, the soft cottony material.
She knew at once the dress must have belonged to Valerie. It would never fit someone as tall and big-boned as Maddie.
Immediately, she wanted to take it off. Not because it had belonged to a dead woman, but because she was already sinking too deeply into Valerie’s old life. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to shake off this town, that little boy, and the man she now realized she’d never stopped loving.
The line at Rinky-Tink’s old-fashioned ice cream parlor extended out the door; most of the patrons were tourists on this Sunday afternoon. It was easy to distinguish the locals from the tourists. The tourists had on fanny packs and walked with slow, loping gaits as they browsed store windows. They wore sunshades, festive straw hats, or visors, and they smelled of coconut-scented sunscreen after a day spent boating on the lake.
Charlie was impatient with the wait, wiggling like a worm and hanging on the metal bars set up to keep people in an orderly queue. Several times, Sam had to rest a restraining hand on his shoulder to hold him in check.
“Waiting gets boring, huh?” Emma said to him.
Charlie nodded so vigorously his glasses slipped to the end of his nose and he used his thumb to push them back up.
“I’m gonna get coffee ice cream,” Emma said. “Do you want some?”
Sam should have known her favorite would be something cosmopolitan and different. No plain vanilla for Trixie Lynn.
Charlie made a “yuck” face.
“What kind do you like?” she asked the boy.
He pointed at the large wooden sandwich sign posted just inside the door with all the flavors listed on it and numbered.
Emma looked over. “There’s a lot of flavors there. How am I supposed to know which one you want?”
He held up eight fingers.
“Ah,” she said. “Rocky road. I should have known that was your favorite. All little boys like rocky road.”
Charlie nodded again.
To distract him from the long wait, Emma started telling him a story about a little boy who was made out of rocky road ice cream. As she spoke, Sam found himself mesmerized. Her voice was so compelling, honed, he was sure, by years of acting lessons and stage plays. Her story spun out into the ice cream parlor, and soon several other kids had gathered around to listen.
“Your wife is a really good storyteller,” one of the lady tourists waiting behind them said. “She could make a living doing it.”
“Thank you,” Sam said, not bothering to explain she wasn’t his wife. There was no reason to go into that.
But his gaze ensnared Emma’s, and for a split second he saw a look on her face that he couldn’t describe—part sadness, part delight, part raw vulnerability—and it made him catch his breath. Was she imagining what it would be like to be his wife? He sure was wondering what it would be like to be her husband.
Well, stop it. You have no business imagining that.
Emma gave him a shy smile and then ducked her head, continuing her story to Charlie and the other children hanging on her every word.
Thirty minutes later their turn at the ice cream counter came. “One scoop of coffee ice cream in a…” Sam looked over at Emma.
“Cup,” she supplied.
“A scoop of strawberry on a waffle cone, and a scoop of rocky road…” Sam paused again as Charlie tugged on his pants leg. “What is it, champ?”
Charlie held up two fingers.
“You want two scoops?”
He nodded.
“Maddie will have my hide if I give you two scoops. You won’t eat your dinner.”
Charlie pressed his palms toge
ther in a gesture of entreaty. The look in his eyes said, Please, please.
When he’d stopped talking, Charlie had gotten really expressive with his eyes. “You promise to eat your dinner if I get you two scoops?” Sam asked, knowing that more than likely he’d have to finish it.
Charlie nodded again.
“Okay,” he told the girl behind the counter. “Make that rocky road cone a double.”
The girl scooped up the ice cream, handed the orders out to Emma and Charlie while Sam reached in his wallet and pulled out a ten. “Keep the change.”
They headed for a table near the front window that a family of four had just vacated. Charlie stumbled over his shoelace that had come untied. Top heavy with two scoops of rocky road, his cone flipped over the side of his little hand and fell top down on the floor. Sam saw it all unfolding but couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
“Aww,” a couple of patrons said in unison.
A shocked expression crossed Charlie’s face, and it was quickly replaced by a look of utter heartbreak. He’d waited all afternoon for this cone, and in an instant, it was lost. His son hovered on the verge of bursting into tears, his bottom lip trembling.
“I’ll get you another one,” Sam said.
Simultaneously, he and Emma swung their gazes to stare at the line that was even longer now than it had been when they’d first arrived.
“No need,” Emma said brightly, and crouched beside Charlie. “Only that first scoop touched the floor. The second scoop and the cone are fine. Hand me a couple of napkins, Sam.”
And as quick as that, she saved the day, separated the two scoops of ice cream, handing Charlie the one that was still clean, scooping the other off the floor with the napkins and tossing it in the trash. Charlie grinned and went to licking.
“Whew,” Sam said. “Smooth move. You saved the day.”
Sam couldn’t help thinking that Valerie would probably have scolded Charlie for not watching where he was going, and she certainly wouldn’t have let Sam get him two scoops of ice cream, especially before dinner. And germ-obsessed as she was, Valerie would have had a heart attack over Emma’s maneuver. But Emma had a valid point. The ice cream that hadn’t touched the floor was perfectly good. Disaster averted.
“Do you need a wipe for your hands?” asked the lady tourist who’d assumed Emma was his wife, and produced a moistened towelette from her purse.
Emma smiled and rose to her feet, rubbing her sticky fingers with the wipe.
“You’re a natural-born mother,” the woman enthused. “You’re so at ease with your son.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking embarrassed.
The woman went on her way, and Emma sat down to join Sam and Charlie at the table. The woman was right, Emma was a natural with kids. Probably because she was so bubbly and adventuresome herself, just like a kid.
“You ever think about having one of your own?” he asked.
“What? Me have a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Nooo,” she said it like he’d suggested she climb Mount Everest.
“Why not?” he asked, not knowing why he was grilling her, but doing it all the same.
“It’s really difficult to be a good mother and have an acting career, and I’m a firm believer that kids should come first. Why do you think so many actresses wait until they’re in their late thirties or forties to start a family?”
“Do you think you’ll want one when you’re forty?”
“Honestly, I don’t think that far into the future. I’m just trying to make it day by day.”
He could look at her and see it was true. She was spontaneous, impulsive, free-spirited, the kind of person who lived in the moment. And while he supposed it was a gift to be able to exist solely in the here and now, he didn’t understand it. He was a planner, a plotter. He had to know how things were going to line up. Without a plan, Sam didn’t make a move. If he went on vacation, he had all the stops mapped out, right down to the gas stations. He didn’t go anywhere without reservations and a backup contingency plan.
Charlie, who was sitting beside Emma and across from Sam, reached out and lightly patted her hand. His little face was smeared with chocolate. She turned to look at his son, and in that moment, he saw a flash of tenderness in her eyes so strong and true, he had to agree with the tourist lady. Emma was a natural-born mother whether she knew it or not.
“What is it, Charlie?” she murmured.
Charlie wiggled himself around on his knees and leaned over to kiss her softly on the cheek.
A tear-jerking mix of surprised delight and wistful longing crossed her face. “Why Charlie,” she said. “What a sweet kiss. Thank you.”
And then she kissed his cheek in return.
Charlie beamed as if the sun had come out after weeks of being trapped inside by rainy weather.
Sam’s gut contracted; a cold sweat broke out on his forehead as his heart ripped right in two. This was bad. This was really bad. His six-year-old son was falling in love with a woman who could never be his surrogate mother.
“I’ll bring this dress back over to you tomorrow,” Emma said when Sam let her out of the Jeep in front of the Merry Cherub.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’d already boxed it up for Goodwill and Maddie dug it out. It looks good on you. Keep it.”
“It was Valerie’s.”
“Yes.”
They didn’t say anything, just looked at each other. Sam was finally boxing up his dead wife’s things and giving them away? It was a good sign. He was moving on at last. She felt happy for him.
“Well then.” Emma held up a palm. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he said in return, mildly, blandly, with no inflection, no emotion behind the words.
“Are we on for next Sunday for more driving lessons?”
He looked like he wanted to say no, but then imperceptibly nodded. “Same time?”
“Sure.”
“Okay then.”
“And the line readings?”
He hesitated.
“I understand if you don’t have time…” she rushed to say before he could turn her down. “I’ve imposed on you too much as it is. You’re a busy guy—”
“I’ll be working in the garden on Tuesday evening if that’s convenient for you. Just holler at me over the back fence.”
“Yes, great, sure, thanks.” She raised a hand, then turned and hurried into the B&B, her pulse thumping crazily and she had no idea why.
Luckily, Jenny was occupied with checking in guests when Emma went inside and she didn’t have to stop and chat. She just raised her hand in greeting and headed for the stairs.
Once she was in her room, she closed the door and sank against it, willing her erratic heart to calm down. Why was she signing up for more driving lessons with Sam and begging him to read lines with her? She knew she was sliding in deep, and the more she was around him, the more it was going to hurt when she left.
Emma stepped into the bathroom. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, saw the imprint of tiny chocolate lips on her cheek where Charlie had kissed her. Her heart, already reeling, lurched, stumbled.
“It’s too late,” she whispered to her reflection and reached up to touch her cheek. “You’ve stepped off the sandbar into a deep, deep undertow.”
Unnerved, she turned on the water, splashed her face, washed off Charlie’s sticky, rocky road kiss. She wasn’t the only one in trouble. The little boy was getting as attached to her as she was to him.
“It’s just because you remind him of his mother,” she told herself. “The hair color, the short stature, and you were wearing his mother’s dress. That’s all it is. Transference.”
But no matter how she tried to rationalize it, guilt continued to nibble at her. She wished there was something she could do for the boy. Some way to connect him to his mother. She unzipped the dress and slipped out of it, the bright purple cotton material pooling to the floor at her feet.
The True
Love Quilting Club sometimes used scraps of clothing in the quilts they made to pay tribute to loved ones. Emma picked up Valerie’s dress. Sam didn’t want it back and she certainly wasn’t going to wear it again. What if she used it to make a quilt?
A special quilt for Charlie, in honor of his beautiful mother who’d given up her life for her country.
Almost a week had gone by and nothing changed, at least not on the outside. Every night after Charlie was in bed, Sam would go outside, sink into the lawn chair, the script to the Founder’s Day play in his lap, a glass of iced tea resting on the picnic table, and wait for Emma to come outside so they could read lines together. But on the inside, something was happening to Sam. Something that stirred him up, inflamed his soul.
Since that day on the banks of the Brazos River where he’d lost his self-control, Sam had been troubled, both by his lack of restraint and by his stark need for Emma. He feared that if he didn’t stop hanging around with her, he was going to do something that could never be undone.
And yet he’d been unable to stop himself from coming out here every night, losing sleep to stay up until the wee hours running lines with her. It was only through the words of the characters they were reenacting that Sam could tell Emma how he really felt about her.
Dammit, but acting was a sorry substitute for the real thing, and yet he didn’t dare let her know what was going on inside his heart.
It wouldn’t change anything if you told her.
He knew that as surely as he knew his own name, so he held his tongue, kept his feelings to himself, and read those romantic lines of love.
But on this Friday night, as he heard the back door to the Merry Cherub open and close and the soft padding of Emma’s footsteps on the soft grass, dissatisfaction swelled against his chest. He didn’t want to read lines. He didn’t want to sit here passively while the woman he wanted, needed, waited just beyond that fence.
He threw down the script, got up, began to pace. Tonight they were supposed to read the last skit in the play. The one Nina had written in honor of Valerie.
