‘Shut up. It’ll probably be something to do with work. I’m overreacting.’ Emily’s heart went into overdrive but she couldn’t help laughing. ‘Oh, my God, my limbs are like jelly, I don’t know if I can walk there.’
Frankie waved as the elevator doors started to swish closed. ‘Just levitate, sweetheart. Oh, wait… it looks as if you’re doing that already.’
***
Viktor’s was one of those restaurants decorated in tasteful, soft, beige tones with crisp, white tablecloths, chandeliers the size of caves, and exuding calm and sophistication. Neither of which Emily felt as she made her way to the maître d’. ‘I have a table booked under the name of – oh, there he is.’
He was standing by a table at the window, his hand raised in a wave. He was smiling.
He’s smiling.
‘Hey. Busy day, huh?’ He gave her cheek a kiss and pulled the chair out for her before the waiter had a chance. ‘Sit down. I have champagne on ice.’
She glanced at the French fizz. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
‘Among other things, your genius. Here, have a glass.’
As she turned to give her coat to the waiter Brett poured. There was a little clink and then the lovely sound of bubbles popping. A lot like how her stomach felt. ‘Twice in one day – I could get too used to this. Thanks.’
‘You’re going to have to get used to it if you’re the top performer.’ Brett winked. ‘So, how was the rest of your day?’
‘Good, I think. Terry from Kids First seemed open to our ideas. He liked that we’d done charity work before. You know, we really could push that angle to other not-for-profits – our pro bono work really resonates. Anyway, we’re going through to the next round.’
‘Excellent. And not a bad idea. We could discuss it in our next strategy meeting.’
‘I really like that we have the opportunity to help those kinds of organisations.’ She took a sip, realising she was babbling on a little. Nerves. Which was strange, because there was nothing about Brett that made her nervous.
Why are we here? She tried to telepathically question him because she didn’t want to second-guess the whole situation and look stupid if she’d got it so completely wrong, but he was just smiling at her and nodding as she carried on rambling, ‘And how was your day, Brett?’
‘Just great. We had an epic shoot out at the High Line; it had just the right urban-grungy feel we were lookin’ – hey, you know what? Let’s not talk work.’ His eyes were glittering a dark navy and he had an anxious smile – the way she’d seen him when his mother had phoned about his father’s heart scare. That was so unlike Brett, the normally uber-confident ad VP. He held her glass back out to her. ‘You want to drink up a little? Ahem…’
She glanced at her glass and noticed there was something in the bottom. ‘Oh. What’s this?’
Not wanting to put her fingers down into the champagne she drained the glass, then tipped out a… ring. Her heart squeezed tight. ‘Oh, my God, that is so beautiful.’
‘Tiffany. If you don’t like it, we can take it back.’
‘No, no. I love it. It’s beautiful.’ A single solitaire in what she guessed was a platinum band. It caught the soft light and twinkled. And a lump formed in her throat. She didn’t want to presume… and couldn’t work out what the flutter in her chest was… because the excitement was still there, but the panic was too. ‘But…? What’s it –?’
The next thing she knew he was at her side, lowering himself down onto one knee, and she was quite sure there was about to be an explosion in her chest as all the excitement and panic intensified until she could barely breathe.
‘Emily, you know how I feel about you. You’re the other half of me. I just can’t imagine a life without you in it. And I don’t want to spend another moment away from you. Will you… will you, please, do me the honour of being my wife?’
This is real.
A proposal. Not a break-up. Not a disaster.
Why did she always imagine herself on the brink of a disaster?
Because bad things happened and she just wanted to be prepared.
But she looked at the ring in her palm, and at his earnest eyes and nervous smile, and felt the sharp sting of tears. This was probably the furthest thing from disaster, ever. Brett Fallon was everything a woman could possibly want; a damn fine man with a heart of gold and exquisite taste in diamonds. He made a dull day brighter. He made waking up very appealing, and going to bed even more so. He came from a lovely home with darling parents – married for thirty-seven years in December – who treated her as one of their own. He was stable, supportive and kind. And despite the little thrum of panic that she put down to nerves, she smiled. What other answer could she possibly give?
‘Yes. Of course, Brett. Of course. Wow. Yes!’
Laughing, he stood up and whipped her into his arms, hugging her close. His mouth on her throat. ‘Thank you. Oh, God! I am so relieved you said yes.’
She inhaled his comforting scent and kissed him, although kissing and trying to force air past the lump in her throat were particularly difficult. She burst out laughing. ‘Well, wow. Yes. We’re getting married!’
‘Hell, yes.’
‘What do we do now?’
He was grinning insanely and it felt pretty damned good to know she’d put that smile on his face. ‘I don’t know; I’ve never been engaged before.’
‘That makes two of us. More champagne?’
‘Whatever you want, fiancée.’ He topped up her glass and for a few moments they just sat there grinning at each other. Literally speechless. Then he took out his phone. ‘We could call some people? My folks?’ There was a tentative pause. ‘Yours?’
‘Yours, definitely. Yes.’ A knot formed in the pit of her stomach and some of the excitement died away. It was at times like this that she missed her mum so badly, the grief sometimes swamping her, catching her breath, taking her by surprise. She would have been so proud that her daughter was marrying someone like Brett. But Emily doubted, sadly, that the rest of her family would be interested. ‘I’m not sure the timing is right to call England.’
‘It’s only, what…?’ He looked at his watch and did the maths. ‘Eleven p.m.? Midnight? Someone will be up? Surely they wouldn’t mind a call for such exciting news?’
‘I imagine that in sleepy Little Duxbury everyone’s been safely tucked up for hours. I think we should leave it. Really.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. Another time.’ She filled her glass again and took a drink, not wanting to get into this right now.
His smile slipped. ‘Hey, babe, what’s really going on here? Don’t you want them to know?’
‘Oh, yes, of course I do. Please don’t read anything into it. It’s just… well, you know how it is…’ She didn’t want him to think she wasn’t proud to be engaged to him. But she couldn’t expect a guy from a perfectly formed two-point-four to grasp the realities of communicating with a stepfamily who’d prefer you not to be around.
She imagined the uninterested response from her stepfather. The polite and stilted congratulations from Tamara and Tilda and the collective sigh of relief that, finally, she wasn’t their responsibility any more. Although, when she’d left in the middle of the night all those years ago, she’d wanted to show them that she didn’t need them anyway. ‘You know things are rocky between us. I’ve got to pick my moment to call them.’
His head tilted a little to the side as he looked at her. ‘Actually, now you mention it, in all the years we’ve been together I’ve never seen you speak to them.’
Not speaking to her family was the best way to keep things on a stable footing. ‘Emails work. It takes the emotion out.’
‘You’ve never mentioned any emails, either.’
‘No? Well there haven’t been many… just change of contact numbers, Christmas newsletters, that kind of thing. It’s just the way things are.’ Thousands of miles and many years had left a chasm that a quick phone call – or even a
succession of calls – couldn’t fill. They just weren’t like his family; they didn’t do the happy, thick-as-thieves, shared jokes thing. At least, she wasn’t part of it if they did. And now her ugly past was spoiling her lovely present. She dug deep and infused her voice with the excitement of earlier. ‘Hey, but we could phone your folks now? Shall we?’
He, too, found another smile and, God love him, took the hint and moved on from the tricky subject of her difficult family ties. ‘I think Dad might be out of town tonight; he said something about a conference in Philadelphia. I’d like to call when they’re together. I know… we could drive up and see them this weekend?’
‘Okay. Yes. Why not? A weekend in Boston sounds lovely.’
‘In the meantime…’ His fingers tiptoed up her arm and tickled the back of her neck. ‘I have ideas about how we could celebrate. Lots and lots…’ His breath fanned over her cheek and she leaned into his broad frame. Then he jolted back. ‘Shoot. Wait… That’s my phone beeping… I’ll leave it.’
‘No, take it. It’s fine, really.’
He grabbed his cell, then frowned. ‘Steve Lyons. Better Beer.’
‘Take it. Don’t worry, seriously.’
‘No. We said no work.’ But his eyes lingered over the phone and she knew he wouldn’t settle until he’d talked to his client; he was already starting to look twitchy.
‘Since when would we ever really consider that? Work’s in our DNA.’
‘Which is why we’re perfect together.’
‘Absolutely.’ She nodded towards the phone. ‘So… take it before he hangs up.’
‘Thanks, babe. You’re the best. It’ll only take a minute.’ He turned away slightly and she took a few deep breaths to try and calm herself. She was getting married.
Married!
Living together. Sharing her space, her life. Forever.
‘Ah, sorry, man. I got held up… Can you hold a sec?’ Brett covered the handset. ‘I was supposed to meet him at six-thirty to go over the campaign. It completely skipped my mind. He’s at the office.’
‘Go. Go. It’s fine.’
‘No. I’ll postpone.’ He looked genuinely deflated.
Em laughed, because it was so unusual to see Brett flustered. ‘Aren’t you rolling out the campaign next week, in time for the international beer festival?’
‘I can meet him tomorrow, if I shuffle some appointments around.’
‘Won’t that look unprofessional? Go. It’s fine.’
‘Sure?’ He spoke to his client then put his phone back into his pocket. ‘Not exactly the way I’d been planning to celebrate our engagement. I’m sorry, babe. It’ll be a late one; you know what he’s like. Branding, bonding and, of course, lots of beer. I could come round after… no. No, second thoughts I probably shouldn’t. I don’t know what state I’ll be in.’
‘Look, it’s not a problem. But you’re right, it’s probably best if you stay at yours. I have an early start tomorrow.’ There was a brief flutter of relief in her chest coupled with a strange feeling in the pit of Emily’s stomach. The sand of her life was shifting. Space to think things through was probably a good call.
He had a sheepish grin as he squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted tonight to be special.’
‘It is. This…’ she looked down at the glittering ring. ‘This is very special. Go! Go out and drink beer.’ She blew him a kiss then finished the rest of her wine. ‘See you tomorrow. Hope your head won’t be too sore.’
‘Love you,’ he called as he strode towards the door. The words were a balm to her heart.
How did love feel?
Did it feel like a nice warm glow, a comfortable pair of slippers, that post-bubbles bliss?
Was it lazy, Sunday-morning sex? Because they were very good at that. Very good indeed.
Was it the ease with which she let him go, knowing he’d be back tomorrow?
She finished the rest of her glass, picked up her bag and promised herself not to analyse anything too deeply.
Of course she loved him; how could she not?
***
Feeling a bit tipsy and ever-so-slightly anti-climactic, Emily made her way to the subway, texting Frankie before she went down the steps and out of cell phone range: Apricot it is. Frou-frou obligatory. Sorry, not sorry!!!
Then she ran down into the dry thick air and jumped on a train almost immediately, finding a seat. Miracle! And finally let out a long, slow breath.
What a day.
What a very strange week indeed; it was as if a zillion stars were all colliding to make things happen for her. After such a bumpy start to her life things were finally settling. She was settling down.
Well, wow. That was not what she’d been expecting when she woke up this morning.
The ride home took no time and she emerged from the subway blinking into the last throes of daylight. Some sort of rap music came from one of the basements giving a sultry buzz to her commute, then the mellow pitch of a saxophone running up and down scales came from across the street, mingling with laughter from children in the play park. In the weak spring sunshine people were starting to shed layers and with them the heavy weight of a long winter.
Fifty yards from her apartment her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her bag, grinning. Frankie no doubt, with a clever come back.
Withheld number. Oh. Not Frankie. ‘Hello?’
‘Emily? Is that you? Is that Emily Forrester?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
Clipped English vowels worried their way into Emily’s tummy. ‘It’s Tamara.’
Well, today was just full of surprises. The giddy, champagne-fuelled, bride-to-be buzz fizzled out. Because, like the dreaded phone call in the middle of the night, any rare call from her stepsister usually meant bad news. Emily’s poor heart, which had already taken quite a battering today, bumped a little. ‘Oh, hi, Tam, what’s up? Is everything all right?’
‘Not really, I’m afraid, Emily.’
‘Oh. Why? What’s happened?’ Watching the last dying rays of sunshine dip behind trees, she tried and failed to control the tightening sensation in her stomach. She’d reached her apartment now, nodded to Freddie, the doorman, and started the climb to her first-floor apartment. Her words echoed off the plaster walls as she tried to walk and talk and breathe. ‘What’s happened?’
‘This call is expensive, so I’m going to just cut to the chase here. You need to come home.’
‘What? Why?’ Home? She hadn’t called it that for a very long time, and even when she’d lived there it hadn’t felt much like a home should.
There was that long-distance static delay and echo that made it sound as if Tam was considering everything very deeply and then speaking down a hollow pipe. ‘It’s Daddy.’
‘The Judge? What’s wrong?’ Em’s heart jittered. She couldn’t walk and talk and now fret, too, so she sat down on the concrete step outside her front door and leaned back against the cool grey wall, her body refamiliarising itself with all the strange emotions she had whenever she spoke to one of her extended family; frustration, anger, sadness…
‘He’s sick, Emily. We need you. Here.’
‘Umm…’ Go back to England? After all these years? After what happened?
As always, when thinking about The Judge she felt ripped in two. How many times had she tried to please him? How hard had she worked for a glimmer of a smile her way? When she’d needed a dad he’d been so busy being one to his other girls that he’d had nothing left when he looked at her. And yet, even now, after all these years, she felt the same hopeless need to please him. Yet she knew it was pointless, because when he’d married her mother he’d just wanted a wife, not another daughter, too.
She didn’t want to say the words, is he dying? ‘How bad?’
There was that weird pause where she could hear her own words echoed back to her. A crackle. ‘Bad enough that we’ve sat down and discussed it and decided to call you.’ More pause. Static that screeched like the white noise in her hea
d at the thought of going back, at the thought of a zillion stars all converging right now, today, for this. ‘Can you hear me, Emily? Are you still there? Emily…? You have to come back to Little Duxbury.’
Chapter Two
Tam’s voice started to rise a little hysterically. ‘Daddy’s… well… how to put it? He’s gone downhill over the last few months.’
Emily had never called him Daddy. Mainly because he wasn’t hers, no matter how many times her mum had told her to ‘call him Dad, Emily Jane. He’d like that.’ She’d had a perfectly good father, who just happened to have died – and she certainly hadn’t been in the market to replace him any time soon. Or at all, really. She’d just wanted his car accident to have been a huge mistake and for him to come back to her. She’d missed him so much. Still did.
And, sad fact of the matter was, The Judge hadn’t seemed to care about anything Emily thought or needed anyway. And yet, even so, there was a clutch in her chest. He was the only parent, no matter how spurious the connection, that she had left. She hadn’t seen him for years, but the thought of him being gone filled her with surprising dread. ‘So, how bad?’
‘Up and down, to be honest. He has good days and… not so good days.’
Her heart was thumping now. ‘Is he dying? Oh, Tam… is he dying?’
Her stepsister tutted. ‘You always were overly dramatic, Emily Jane. No, he’s not dying. He’s chronically ill.’
‘Oh, good, thank goodness…’ Then she realised that must sound pretty shallow. ‘Not for the chronic illness, obviously, but for the fact he’s not at death’s door.’ And great, now she was babbling again – funny, her stepsisters had always had that kind of effect on her, made her nervous, on edge, as if by filling the silences she was filling the void where normal sisterly love should have been.
To say things had never been easy between Emily, Tamara and Matilda was an understatement. She’d entered their lives kicking and screaming and grieving for her father. Then later, sullenly and silently grieving for her mother.
The Secret Art of Forgiveness Page 2
