At Last

by Addison Fox

  Would that really be so bad if he did still want to sell?

  That sly little voice reared up. She’d quieted it the other day, but once again she had to question the outcome they were both driving toward. Her skills didn’t require ownership of the brewery. Far from it. She was a trained brewmaster, able to work anywhere.

  She’d had offers. Several places had recruited her as she came out of Siebel, and she’d considered all of them, ultimately discarding one after the other in favor of going after her legacy. Of going home. But in truth, that was emotion talking. Her skills were highly transferrable.

  So would it be so bad if Nick won the negotiation? He’d praised her skills more than once, while at the same time he’d been eager to hear her ideas. He wouldn’t be a bad boss.

  But could she give up her rightful inheritance?

  And as she lay there in the quiet circle of his arms, Emma had to admit the truth: Whether she liked it or not, the Unity once again lay between them in bed.

  The hospital was as quiet and solemn as when they’d left, and Emma took solace in the warm hand wrapped around hers.

  Two weeks.

  She and Nick had a deal. They’d take two weeks to enjoy what was between them and ignore the implications. She hadn’t expected that time together would extend to her father’s surgery, but he’d woken early with her and accompanied her to the hospital.

  “It’s going to be a while. You don’t have to sit here the whole time.”

  “I’m staying. Get used to it.” He pressed a hard kiss to her forehead before gesturing her to the door of her father’s room. “Go ahead and spend time with him. I’ll be in the waiting room when you’re done.”

  She watched him walk away, helpless to ignore the easy swagger, or the cut of his jeans, or the broad shoulders that looked able to take on the world. As she watched, she saw the slightest hitch in his gait—the lingering evidence of his knee injury—but even that couldn’t mar the impressive picture he made.

  A beep from one of the machines hooked up to her father pulled her attention, and she walked into the room. He looked much as he had the night before, his pallor a disturbing gray the nurses had explained was from the overall lack of oxygen to his system.

  “This is nonsense.”

  “Well, good morning to you, too.” Emma leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek, the light scrape of his whiskers oddly reassuring. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I need to go home.”

  “You need to focus on getting better.”

  “Like cracking open my chest is going to make me feel better.” She heard the fear beneath the grumbling and took his hand tight in hers.

  “In one of those miracles of the modern age, cracking open your chest is, in fact, going to do just that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” She pulled a chair over and sat next to him, giving him a few minutes to rightfully bitch and moan about what was to come.

  “Marcy kept at me, told me donuts were a bad idea. Told me lots of things. I didn’t listen. And then—” He broke off, tears forming in his eyes. “And then there wasn’t anyone to bitch at me about donuts or cookies or candy.”

  “I know.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know it.”

  The move seemed to calm him slightly, and he closed his eyes, the strength of his outburst clearly tiring him out. She watched him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and left him to his rest. And in those quiet moments, she finally—fully—understood the impact he’d made on her life.

  Peter Vandenburg was a difficult man. She’d spent her life with that knowledge. Where her friends’ fathers had treated them like princesses and played tough around the boys they brought home, her father had been a gruff presence who had never encouraged her to spread her wings. He was just as happy having her home on a Saturday night, claiming she needed to study; or berating her and keeping her from going out when her efforts bore anything less than As.

  Her mother had tried to reason with him—had tried to create some sense of freedom as Emma grew up—but Marcy lost the battle as often as she won. Add on a personality that wasn’t one to make waves—or lots of friends easily—and Emma had gone along with her father’s wishes.

  In the end, that had been the grand appeal of Cole Bradley.

  Cole had paid her attention and pulled her from her shell. When she naturally shied away from social situations or groups of people, he’d encouraged her, his natural charisma carrying the day. At the time she’d wondered what he saw in her, but she was so happy he’d seen something—anything—that she went along with it, captured in his thrall.

  That was the real shame of her marriage, Emma admitted to herself. Vows that should have been steeped in love and affection were mired in hero worship from her side, and love of a high pedestal from his. The moment real life had intruded, both recognized their marriage for the mirage it was.

  They’d worked at it several more years, but nothing ever quite matched those halcyon days when they’d first met, and neither of them understood how to get that feeling back. Or that the relationship had been built on quicksand to begin with.

  “Miss Vandenburg?”

  The quiet voice interrupted her, and Emma turned to see one of the doctors she’d spoken to the night before. “We’re going to take your father down now and prep him for surgery. I’d like to introduce you to my team.”

  The doctor made introductions and told her how often one of those team members would come out to update her. She listened to it all, nodding as the doctor spoke of the procedure, what bypass meant, and how long it would all take, barring complications.

  They asked her if she had a church or a faith leader they should call. Then they confirmed her father’s wishes around end-of-life care because they were required to, and because she was the only one there to make decisions or accept the choices already made.

  She listened to it all.

  Ten minutes later, she walked shell-shocked to the waiting room, the reality of what her father faced looming. The surgery was necessary—life-giving, in fact—but the healing process was significant.

  She’d understood that, but it was only upon walking away from him that she fully appreciated what lay ahead.

  The waiting room stood sentinel at the end of the hall, a quiet cave for all the families awaiting news of loved ones. One of the nurses had kindly offered to show her the way, but Emma had waved her off, promising she could find it.

  Nick was there, waiting for her. He’d promised he would be, and that gave her the extra energy to push forward, step by step. To walk away from her father and wait for the promised updates.

  She pushed open the glass door and walked through, shocked to see so many seats full. Louisa. Fender. Landon. Mrs. Weston. Tommy and Olivia. Becky. And Hector? They were all there.

  They’d all come to wait with her.

  It was only when she saw those faces, each one looking back at her with compassion and comfort and infinite patience, that Emma finally, truly understood she wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Please distract me from thinking about quadruple-bypass surgery and tell me you have naughty details about Hector and his scary resting face.”

  Becky’s smile lit up her face, the glow of new love practically sparking off of her every time she moved. Emma was grateful everyone had shown up, and after an initial update from the surgical team an hour into the surgery, had begun to relax a bit. Her friend had stepped in to hold her hand when Nick went down to get coffee, and Emma was grateful for the chance to focus on someone else.

  “So says the woman who looks like she’s got naughty details about Nick.”

  “I asked you first.” Emma glanced toward the door. “Besides, his mother may come back any minute. She’s been wonderful to me, but I can’t believe she wants to be anywhere in earshot for that.”

  “Then let me say I’m definitely interested in hearing more.” Becky squeezed h
er hand. “And while I don’t have news quite as interesting as yours, I can tell you we’ve been out a few times. I had a family wedding this weekend that kept me away on Saturday and Sunday, but he came to work on Friday with flowers and we went out. Then I saw him again last night.”

  Becky filled her in on the romantic details, and Emma smiled, amused and surprised her friend didn’t float out of her chair.

  “I never expected it, you know? I mean, I dreamed about it, but I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s easy to be with him. Natural, really. Even with the weird history and background between us, which isn’t easy, the whole thing just works.”

  Easy.

  Had she ever had that in her life?

  She wasn’t looking for a free ride, and she knew the things that mattered were the things you worked for, but something in the way Becky spoke about Hector meant something. She’d never had it easy with Cole. She’d loved him—even when their marriage had disintegrated, she’d never wavered on her feelings—but their relationship wasn’t easy. From the move to Chicago, to the life they’d built, to the life that crumbled around them, easy had never been a part of their relationship.

  Such an odd juxtaposition to Nick.

  While it was unfair to compare them, the differences were telling. She and Cole had had a life ahead of them with very few roadblocks, other than the ones they chose to make. She and Nick had nothing but road bumps, yet the time she spent with him was as easy as breathing.

  Or it was when they weren’t doing battle over something.

  “What’s that smile for?” Becky asked.

  “I’m happy for you.”

  Nick and his family came back into the waiting room, their hands full of cups of coffee, sodas, and waters. Becky eyed the casual grouping of Nick and his brothers and lowered her voice. “Is it possible you’re happy for yourself, too?”

  Nick followed Emma down the hall, the doctor’s warning still ringing in his ears. The man had been kind, prepping Emma for what to expect when they entered her father’s room and saw him post-op. She’d clutched at Nick’s hand through the telling, and suddenly the prospect of Peter’s healing seemed larger than either of them could have imagined.

  Unbidden, thoughts of their arrangement sprang to his mind. Was Peter still up for selling the Unity? Would he even be recovered in three months to start the dialogue again? And then Emma’d reached for his hand, and he felt like the world’s biggest tool for even thinking that far.

  Or that selfishly.

  Nick walked with her down the hall. The beeping machines and quiet conversations were nothing new to him. He’d experienced surgery throughout his adulthood, medical treatments an accepted way of life for an athlete. From his own—his knee the worst of things—to that of his teammates’, the management of injuries was simply a part of playing sports. Of course, those treatments typically weren’t as invasive as heart surgery.

  A fact that hit home as they rounded the corner to Peter’s room. The man seemed to be hidden in a sea of blankets, wires, and machines. Two nurses stood on opposite sides of his bed, and one of the doctors Nick recognized from the waiting room stood at the foot, tapping notes into a tablet.

  Nick hovered by the door as Emma moved to her father’s side. The position unexpectedly gave him an opportunity to observe her, and he was intrigued by how her demeanor changed. She had moved into the role of parent, asking questions of the doctor and soothing Peter as he asked a series of groggy questions.

  Would he and his brothers ultimately take on that role with his mother?

  He knew some of it was the reality of life, but he couldn’t deny what Peter had given up since his wife had died. From his health, to his relationship with his daughter, to his life’s work—on so many levels, he’d abandoned them all.

  It was one of the reasons Nick supported his mother for her chance at the borough presidency. She had a life and she needed to live it. It was also the reason he wasn’t particularly upset about her past.

  Landon, though, hadn’t come around to that way of thinking. He’d spent a few hours with them, his support of Emma clear, but he’d ducked out at the first chance, claiming a few projects he wanted to get ahead of before the long weekend was over.

  Nick wanted to be angry—if for no other reason than the tight, tense set of his mother’s lips as Landon diligently avoided her—but he knew they needed to work through this on their own. He also knew his brother. Landon wasn’t a man to ruffle easily, so if he needed to work through things, they all needed to give him space. For all his simple ease at life, Landon’s thoughts ran deep.

  Family, Nick thought with no small measure of pride and wry good humor, was never easy. But they were still family.

  A constant presence in his life, forged in commitment, affection, and love. He and his brothers had made a family first, not even aware they were doing it. Louisa had cemented those ties, weaving in her own. And then there were the others.

  His mother’s weekend misfits who were as tightly woven into the fabric of their lives as if they were blood. Mrs. W. and her extended family. Father Thad. Neighbors up and down the street. Even Dave, who’d been a part of their lives for a relatively short time, had become essential.

  His mother may have had a life before, but he knew with certainty she didn’t have a family. In so many ways, wasn’t Emma the same?

  Yes, she had parents, and despite Peter’s belligerence, Nick had no question the man loved his daughter. But she’d been so sheltered.

  So absent from living.

  First in her upbringing, then in her marriage.

  He knew what it meant to have a family. Understood at the deepest levels how the love of another could—quite literally—save you. From circumstances. From danger. And perhaps most important of all, from yourself.

  Life hadn’t held all that many prospects for three small boys, bruised and battered by the very people who should have protected them. And he lived with the knowledge every day that he’d have been hard-pressed to build the same life he now had without the guidance and love of Louisa Mills.

  So why push so hard for what her family left to her?

  The thought caught him so by surprise, his knees nearly buckled him against the wall where he stood.

  What would he really take from her in his pursuit of the Unity? All along he’d seen it as a business deal—one that meant more to him than a simple transaction, but a deal all the same. Was it possible Emma saw it as a proxy for her family?

  When he started down this path, pursuing the initial whisperings that Peter Vandenburg was open to a sale, Nick had believed the man’s family disinterested. Like Chili and the bar, he’d assumed the ownership had simply run its course. The past week had shown him a vastly different view.

  Peter had grown disinterested. Not his daughter.

  He could pretend ignorance, but his time with Emma now made that impossible.

  And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

  Two weeks tomorrow.

  That thought whispered over and over, like an unceasing countdown, as Emma worked through a stack of paperwork. Her father’s office faced in the direction of the ocean, and while she couldn’t see beach from here, she could see the wispy clouds that moved across a vivid blue sky.

  How had two weeks passed so quickly?

  Her days had been a blur, Emma acknowledged to herself. In addition to her responsibilities on the floor, she’d taken over her father’s work as well. Whatever time was left was spent at her father’s side or with Nick.

  He’d continued his mini-apprenticeship in the business, following her around the brewery; joining the sales team on additional calls; and collaborating with marketing on an initiative targeting small, independent neighborhood bars throughout the borough. All Nick’s contributions had been significant, but when the independent initiative returned a double-digit increase in those accounts, he’d done a victory dance arou
nd his apartment.

  “The numbers came in where?” Nick paced the room, his cell phone held up and the speaker function engaged.

  Emma listened to the report from the other side, intrigued when Nick’s gaze narrowed, his focus shifting to the floor. The shoulders that had been relaxed only a few moments before had gone tense with anticipation as he paced the room.

  “Fifteen percent?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  Nick leaned toward the phone, and she smiled to herself at the bright flush that rode his cheeks. “Fifteen percent year over year? In the same accounts?”

  Once he got confirmation from the other end of the phone, Nick let out a war cry, his whoop echoing off the walls of his apartment. He’d barely disconnected the call when Nick had her off the couch, moving around his apartment in a half twirl, half square dance. The powerful lines of his body flexed beneath her fingers, joy simply falling off of him in waves.

  “They’re excited about the promotion.” He pulled away, doing a weird boogie step that took him backward and then forward again before her. “Several of those independents signed increased commitments through the end of the year.”

  The boogie turned into an odd prance that looked like a chicken in heat. Or what she’d assumed was a chicken in heat; she’d never spent any time on a farm.

  That stupid dance, mixed with the sheer happiness radiating off of him, had laughter erupting in her chest. He glanced up, mid–head bob, and caught her. “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” Another surge of giggles had her doubling over. “You look like a sex-starved chicken.”

  “I think that’s an insult to chickens.”

  Even now, sitting at her father’s desk, recalling the moment could bring a smile to her face, and it was one in a long line of many such moments they’d shared.

  Why did it have to be so easy?

  Ever since Becky planted the term in her mind, it had taken root, twisting through her thoughts and settling in. Her time with Nick was easy. Even if nothing else about her life was.