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At Last

Page 15

by Addison Fox


  “It’s your house.”

  “Well played.”

  Resigned that the last tray could soak until morning, Lou tossed her towel over the oven handle and took a seat opposite Emily. “She’s a sweet girl.”

  That jovial smile faded. “She’s a woman who’s been through a lot. The shadows hide behind her eyes, even when she’s smiling.”

  Louisa thought about the woman who’d stood in her kitchen and sat at her table, and had to agree with Emily’s assessment. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Emily’s weathered hand came down over hers, those aged fingers still in full possession of a strong grip. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

  Louisa had never told anyone the full story, but Emily knew the most about her disgrace in Manhattan. In one late-night conversation years before, she’d admitted the poor choice of falling in love with another woman’s husband. Emily had listened without judgment, and had never spoken of it again. But Louisa knew her situation and Emma’s were hardly alike. And she couldn’t let the comparison stand. “It’s not the same.”

  “Circumstances don’t have to be identical for the outcome to be the same. Some people are forged in fire, and some let the fire consume ’em.”

  Nick poured the whiskey, the move as easy as breathing as he finished off their Irish coffees. He’d briefly considered shots, but decided that so much liquor on top of her crying jag would leave Emma in bad shape the next morning. So he’d fired up her Keurig instead, and snagged the bottle of J&B off the sideboard she hated.

  The dining-room set was beautiful. Even cramped in the one-bedroom apartment, he could see she could get a pretty penny for it if she sold it.

  “Want to tell me why you still have the dining-room set?” He set their coffees down on the wooden tabletop, which gleamed in the muted light of the room.

  “Because I know what we paid for it, and no one will give me more than half that. It’s a point of pride.”

  “Got it.” Sensing the subject closed, he pushed her coffee toward her. “Take a sip.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. And that’s okay. This will get you on the road to right.”

  She eyed him over the rim, those dark-brown eyes still glistening from the crying jag. “Bartender wisdom?”

  “Human wisdom. Liquor doesn’t fix your problems, but a good nip every now and again gives the soul a bit of relief.”

  She winced at the first sip, but swallowed it and took another.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked you about your husband.”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “He was still your husband at one point. Someone you loved and trusted and believed in.”

  “What about you?” She took another sip before pressing him. “You ever been married?”

  “Never married. I guess I got close a few times, but something always held me back.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Those relationships—two of them in particular—were good ones. Women I was lucky to be with. But it never felt like the right time. Or I never felt like the right version of myself.”

  “What version is that?”

  “The one where I’m not Nick Kelley, NFL veteran. Or Nick Kelley, local business owner. Or Nick Kelley, son of memorable drunk Arch Kelley. I’d like to be just Nick, and no relationship ever quite fit the bill.”

  “The sports thing is hard?”

  Nick stared into his coffee, the mug cradled in his hands. That distinctive scent of whiskey rose up like an old memory. The smell normally caused a small twitch at the base of his spine, so Nick was surprised to realize that the thick, peaty scent was oddly comforting.

  Or could be comforting, with the right person.

  “It’s hard and it’s easy, all at the same time. People want to spend time with you. They want to buy you drinks and invite you to parties and be around you. And then one day you wake up and realize you have few skills, and the party invites have dried up along with the drinks.”

  “Overnight?”

  “Quick enough.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Terribly.” He took a sip of his drink, considering. “And it leaps up and strikes at odd moments. The first game of the season. An off mention from a sportscaster of someone you know. Hell, if it gets too hot in August, I even think of two-a-days with fondness.”

  She said nothing, just gave him the moment, and that was enough for him to press on. “Most of all, I miss how fast it ended. I’d always thought I’d play a lot longer. That by the time I left the game, I’d have gotten my fill. You go into it knowing you don’t have forever, but I expected my right now to last a bit longer.”

  Silence filled the room, quiet except for the clink of her mug where she set it on the table. He didn’t talk about football very often. His family knew what it meant to him, and he and Hec had had a few conversations over the past few years, but beyond that he never said much.

  “I know what you mean about right now lasting a bit longer. I had a miscarriage a few years ago. It’s not the reason my marriage ended, or not the only reason, but it was one of the emotional chasms Cole and I never managed to fix.”

  Her outburst on their walk home made more sense, especially the “no baby” reference, and Nick set his mug down. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. I can talk about it now, but for a long time, after the immediate shock faded, I resented what happened—that everyone around me was starting families and mine had come to a stop. I was happy for my friends, but it got harder and harder to watch, especially when I realized Cole wasn’t all that upset about losing the baby.”

  Asshole.

  The word had become like a litany whenever he thought about Emma’s ex-husband, and Nick didn’t particularly care to come up with a more inventive description. The man had been an asshole.

  Marriages ended, and he understood that. People weren’t always who you needed them to be, and he understood that even better. But . . . The thoughts dried up in his head, even as a lone one stood out.

  “Sometimes there isn’t a way to fix someone else, and walking away is the right thing to do,” he said.

  “You want to tell that to my father?”

  The joke came out on shaky notes as she picked up her mug, and Nick reached out to pick up her free hand. “Just because he can’t understand doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice.”

  She turned her hand beneath his so their palms touched. “Is that wisdom you learned from your own father?”

  Nick stared at their joined hands, a million memories colliding against each other with brute force. He hadn’t thought about his father—certainly not actively—in years. Yet here was Arch Kelley, back on his mind. “That one’s a conversation for another day.”

  “You sure?”

  The tears had dried up, but Nick could see the crying jag had left her worn out. With a small smile he didn’t feel, he squeezed her hand, then broke the connection and stood. “Absolutely sure. Just like I’m sure it’s time to give you some privacy.”

  “Thanks for walking me home. Again.”

  “You’re welcome.” Nick leaned over her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Again.”

  A few minutes later he was back on the sidewalk and headed for home. He was tempted to go straight back to his place, but figured that route would generate more questions. He wasn’t quite ready to head back to the brownstone, either. Without fully understanding why, he crossed in the opposite direction, and in a few blocks stood outside the fence that surrounded Park Heights Elementary.

  The building hadn’t changed in nearly a quarter century, but it had been kept up. The playground equipment shined brightly in the mix of moonlight and streetlamp that filtered over the lawn. Swings dangled in the evening breeze as Nick took in the expanse of grass that had well-worn dirt paths crisscrossing through the green.

  It had seemed so big at one time, and now he figur
ed it wasn’t more than about twenty-five yards from the sidewalk to the school door.

  But once, it had seemed huge.

  Nick gave himself another few minutes to take in the view, his memories full of a time long vanished. And as he walked away, he could have sworn he heard the faded shouts of children at play.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Emma!” The heavy whisper came just before a light knock on her door. “Emma! Do you have a minute?”

  Although she was worn out from crying, Emma was still restless, and the knock was welcome. She answered it, pleased to see Becky on the other side of the door, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Then by all means, come in.” The effects of the whiskey had long since worn off, and suddenly a glass of wine sounded like a very good idea. “Although I do have wine glasses.”

  “I know. But it’s not fair to make you do cleanup when it’s me who wants to talk.”

  At Becky’s words, Emma really looked at her friend. The sheen of tears that filled Becky’s blue eyes had Emma quickly gesturing her toward the couch. “Come on in and tell me.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “No, sitting at home without talking about it is stupid. Let me get the corkscrew.”

  In minutes, Emma had the Cabernet uncorked and poured, and the two of them were curled up at opposite ends of her couch. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Hector.”

  “Big arms Hector? From Nick’s bar?”

  “Yep.”

  She knew Becky thought Hector was attractive, but the interest she’d observed the other night at the bar was in direct opposition to the misery stamped across Becky’s face now. “Did something happen?”

  “I used to date Hector’s dead brother.”

  “What?” As comforting responses went it was a serious miss, and Emma reached out to take her friend’s hand. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “The summer before college, I had a relationship with Hector’s brother, Miguel. He was my first love.”

  “And you didn’t know Hector?”

  “He was Miguel’s big brother. Off in the military and rarely heard from. He was never home during the time I was with Miguel.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Long enough. And in retrospect, not long at all. My mother had been gone a few years at that point, and my family didn’t like him. Thought he was too rough and tumble, and that I saw him as some kind of rebellion.”

  “Was he?”

  “In some ways, and in others he was wonderful. And he wasn’t rebellion so much as he was like finding myself again. After my mom died, we were all adrift. My brothers hid it in just being young bucks around town. My father closed in on himself.”

  “And meeting Miguel was something your father and brothers didn’t understand?”

  “Oh God, no. But Miguel was always good to me. Always treated me like a gem. In the end, it just became obvious we wanted different things. And he couldn’t fully shake the crowd he ran with. A few of them ran the petty stuff.”

  “Was he involved?”

  “He always told me no, and I believed him. But it was something else my family pulled out as a proof point for why they didn’t like him. Between my overprotective brothers and a father who knows damn near everyone in the borough, it wasn’t hard for them to make his associates as trouble.”

  Becky took a hard breath. “And then it didn’t matter, because one night Miguel went to defend one of his friends in a fight and got the wrong end of a .22.”

  “Oh, Becky.”

  Becky took a long sip of her wine, her gaze unfocused and distant. Emma gave her the moment, but knew that whatever it was her friend saw—and it was likely in exquisite detail—it was a memory that was never far from her thoughts.

  The tears she’d believed all used up for the night sprang fresh to her eyes, and she took their glasses and set them aside, then pulled Becky close. “I’m sorry. So very sorry.”

  Becky clung to her, the quiet shake of her body the only evidence of her tears.

  They didn’t know each other well, but Emma had appreciated her old friend’s genuine warmth and kindness from the first. Although Emma had shared a bit about her marriage, it was humbling to receive such a confidence. And somewhere deep inside, it felt good to be a friend.

  Becky pulled back and wiped her tears. “For a long time it was all I could think about. And then one day I woke up and realized I didn’t have to be sorry or sad anymore. I could move on.”

  Their shared conversations over the past few weeks had indicated Becky was looking for a relationship. And if she really had moved on, then there was no reason not to explore something with Hector.

  “Am I to take it you think this means you can’t date Hector?”

  “Of course I can’t. He’s Miguel’s brother.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Becky stopped, midreach for her wine. “And he’s not suitable.”

  “For what?”

  “A date. Or my interest. Or—”

  When she broke off, Emma tapped her ear. “You hear it, too?”

  “Hear what?”

  “How empty those arguments are.”

  “I wish they were, but they’re not. I had a relationship with his brother. We had sex. A lot of sex. And it was good. Wouldn’t it be weird to start dating Hector, after having been with Miguel? It’s like betraying both of them.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “I’m still not fully seeing why any of this means you can’t go on a date with the man—you know, if you want to.”

  “I do.” Becky shook her head. “No, I don’t. I really don’t. He’s big and has scary resting face.”

  “He’s an attractive man.” In a scary mercenary sort of way. But he was loyal to Nick, and that went far in Emma’s mind. He’d also defended her when she’d received that misplaced punch, which also went a long way. “It seems a shame to shut this down before you can even see where it might go. Especially if he’s interested, too.”

  “We had a good time last night. He walked me home after we all hung out at the End Zone. It was only when he mentioned his last name as I took down his phone number that I placed him.”

  “What did he say when you told him?”

  “I didn’t tell him everything. But he looked sort of shell-shocked with all I did say.”

  “Then you have the perfect reason to follow up. Offer to tell him the whole story.”

  Becky grimaced as she stared into her now-empty wine glass. “He’s got the high points. I’m pretty sure he can piece the story together.”

  “It’s not the same as hearing it all from you.” Emma hesitated, but then pushed forward. She had no business telling Becky how to handle things, but she also knew what it was to live without taking chances, avoiding risks.

  “He can also tell you what he thinks in return.”

  “I’m sure there’s some weird brother code that he has to honor and live up to.”

  Emma reached for Becky’s hand once more. “Maybe you can let him decide that. You know, instead of doing it for him.”

  Becky moved close and rested her head against Emma’s shoulder. “I haven’t been this lit up about a guy in, oh, forever. I mean, I loved Miguel, but even then I didn’t feel this electric shock every time I looked at him. But with Hector . . . Oh.”

  The “oh” was so wistful Emma couldn’t quite hold back a smile. “I think it’s pretty clear you need to do something about it. You at least owe yourself a conversation with the man.”

  As the ages-old wisdom dripped from her lips, Emma knew she spoke the truth. What she didn’t know was why she found it so hard to find the same simple reason and equanimity for herself.

  Emma breathed in the scent of the wort and made a few notes on her clipboard. The pungent, sour mix comforted her with its familiarity, and she was glad she’d decided to come in early. Between the stress of dinner at Louisa’
s, her tear-filled outburst with Nick afterwards, and Becky’s surprising revelation, she’d expected to sleep like the dead. Instead she’d finally tossed in any hope of sleep around five, got up, showered, and headed into the office.

  The overnight crew was finishing up, their tired smiles greeting her as she worked through her mental checklist. She wanted to check the wort, review a new shipment of hops, and take a look at the invoicing before spending her morning in the role of teacher. To Nick.

  What had she really gotten herself into?

  What had seemed like a bargaining chip for more time on Monday morning had changed in her mind over the last forty-eight hours. Somewhere between negotiating the Unity deal, kissing Nick, spending time with his family, and baring her soul over Irish coffee, she couldn’t help but feel she’d lost her way.

  The decision to come home was steeped in coming back to work in the family business. Yes, it was also about leaving Chicago and starting over, but she’d believed her future was enmeshed with the golden liquid coming off the bottling line. Instead, all she’d really managed to do in the past month was fight with her father, bargain away her future, and—if she were truly honest with herself—kiss the enemy and allow in creeping feelings she had no business feeling for Nick Kelley.

  He kissed you first.

  Tantalizing and seductive, that thought whispered through her mind before she shut it down. She’d already lost ten years of her life to a man who wasn’t committed. Were her hormones so out of control she’d assume one of Park Heights’s most eligible bachelors was interested in something permanent?

  Unbidden, the feel of those strong hands cupping her breasts, his fingers playing lightly over her nipples filled her thoughts, imprinting once again on her body, and flushing her skin with heat. The kisses she’d diligently tried to forget filled in the rest of the memory, the firm thrust of his tongue against hers. Powerful. Masterful. In those moments in his arms she’d felt feminine. Wanted. Desired.

  Where she’d been and where she was going hardly mattered in the moment. All that had mattered was Nick.

  The whine of the brewery intercom echoed above her head, and Emma slowly came back to herself. Shake it off, Bradley. Don’t let the hormones win.

 

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