The Technicolor buildings of butter-yellow, salmon-pink, lavender, and mustard were a hodgepodge of small-town life, including a hardware store, the grocery mart, First Shellwater Key Bank, the library which had once been a train depot, City Hall, and the sheriff’s office. There was the drug store that still sold real root beer floats, with homemade vanilla ice cream, a beauty shop, and Tropical Flare, which sold kitschy tourist fare for the rare folks who managed to stumble upon this hidden enclave of Florida.
Opposite The Strip ran a boardwalk that began at Gulfview Park and stretched for about three miles along the water. Emma remembered hanging out at the beach all summer, and joining in the nightly ritual of watching the sunset while eating an ice cream cone.
How idyllic that time seemed—like something you’d read about in a child’s storybook. Life had been all rainbows and sunshine, until everything had been snuffed out like a candle. Now, she’d returned for her father’s funeral.
Swallowing back a whimper of distress, Emma rolled the window down, welcoming the warm breeze against her face.
“We’re running late,” Mary Bertram said as they neared the end of “The Strip”. “We won’t be able to go to the house before the service.”
It was the first words they’d spoken in over an hour. Emma had been too exhausted and too heartsick to think about what would happen once they reached their destination.
Emma turned from the window to glance at the console. She sat up when she saw the time. The service was scheduled to start in twenty minutes. Reaching above her head, she flipped open the little mirror in the sun visor. She gasped at the image reflected back. In the hours since she’d first climbed into a helicopter, her hair had lost the battle to stay in a neat bun. Corkscrew curls fanned out in every direction like she was trying out as a replacement for Medusa. There was a smudge of what might be chocolate pudding on her cheek, which complemented the purple circles under her eyes. Emma let out an oath that would have made a dockhand blush and twisted around in her seat.
“Emma…” her mother scolded. “Really.”
“Sorry, but I can’t show up at dad’s funeral like this,” Emma said, as she rummaged through her bag in search of a black dress. “Everyone will think I did it deliberately. They won’t care that I’ve been flying over twenty-four hours to get here.”
Her mother watched with a horrified stare. “You’re not planning to get dressed in the car?”
“My cabin on Isabella’s yacht wasn’t much bigger,” Emma said. Her hand finally located the dress, and she pulled it out. Thankfully, it wasn’t too wrinkled. Emma dove back into her bag for shoes.
“Emma Gail Bertram, you are not taking your clothes off in my car,” her mother said, in a tone that Emma recognized from childhood, and even though she was thirty, she knew better than to argue.
“What choice do I have?” she asked, unable to keep the edge of whiny brat out of her voice.
Emma didn’t know why she cared what anyone thought about her. She didn’t care. She’d been here only a handful of times in the last decade. No one here missed her anymore. Her childhood best friend, Layla McCarthy, no longer lived in Shellwater Key. Everyone else had probably forgotten Thomas Bertram even had another daughter.
And whose fault is that? It wasn’t like you made an effort to come home.
Emma told her inner voice to shut up. She needed to concentrate on not showing up at her father’s funeral looking like a bedraggled freak.
“Honey, I understand you want to get cleaned up,” her mother said, her tone gentler this time. “I booked a room at the Inn on The Strip. We’ll run in, and you can change.”
“You booked a room?” Emma swung around to stare at her mother. “Why?”
“I didn’t know how long we’d be here, and I couldn’t see staying at—”
“Their house.” A shudder worked its way up her spine. Emma had stayed at her father’s house before, but never under these circumstances. Certainly, she wouldn’t expect her mother to sleep in the home her ex-husband had shared with his second wife.
“A room is a good idea,” Emma said. “I didn’t even think about it. I’m sure I’ll be too exhausted to go anywhere tonight. Not that I have anywhere else to go. Staying at the house when dad isn’t there…” She swallowed and bit back another whimper.
No tears though. In the hours since Emma had received her mother’s call, she hadn’t shed a single drop.
Her mother reached across the seat and took her hand. “Honey, we’ll get through this together. Just take it one step at a time.”
“Right. One step at a time.”
Once they reached the inn, her mother parked, and they raced inside to check in. Ten minutes later, Emma emerged from the bathroom in the conservative black dress she wore mostly for parties and with her hair and face repaired.
Emma’s mother smiled in approval. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks,” she said, flinging her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s go or we’ll be running in as they’re finishing the first hymn.”
The parking lot was full; and they ended up finding a spot half a block away. Emma tried not to care that no one had bothered to save her a space near the church. Perhaps they hadn’t thought she would come at all.
The calendar said it was September, but Florida held on to its summers with stubborn resolve, not bowing down to fall until…well…the middle of winter sometimes. By the time Emma and her mother raced up the stairs of the church, she was hot and sticky, with rivulets of sweat running down her back.
They stepped inside where Emma was immediately enveloped by a blast of cool air. She blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the more subdued light after the bright sunshine.
The first thing she noticed was the near absence of sound, apart from the mournful wail of the organ. Next, she noticed the two caskets at the front of the church. From her vantage point, Emma had a clear view through the open doors of the sanctuary right down the center aisle.
The breath lodged in her throat as the horrific reason for the frenzied flight across several oceans and continents returned to smack her in the face. For a moment she didn’t know if she could move forward. Then she felt her mother’s hand at her back.
“One step at a time,” Mary Bertram repeated, her voice low and soothing.
Somehow, Emma found the strength to put one foot in front of the other, even as her eyes remained locked on the caskets. Her father lay in one of them and Mona next to him. Emma had a multitude of mixed feelings regarding her stepmother, but she’d never wished for her death. Well, not since she’d been a bratty teenager.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed movement. Emma looked around to find a dark-haired man walking toward them. He might have been Michelangelo’s famous statue of David come to life. He was tall, well over six feet, and his tailored suit showed off the wide shoulders of an athlete. His features, from the square jaw and aquiline nose to the high cheekbones were chiseled to perfection, and his eyes were the color of her favorite dark chocolate. Everything about him was apparently her favorite, because despite supreme exhaustion and a heavy ache in her heart, Emma’s senses awakened in a rush so intense she almost fell over.
Scratch that. She did fall over and was saved from doing a header onto the hard marble floor when “David” reached out and caught her. Suddenly, his mouth was inches away from hers. For a moment, awareness flared to life behind his dark eyes, and his hands tightened around her arms. Emma had the hysterical notion that all it would take to capture his full lips would be to rise up on her toes. Then she could lose herself in nothing but sensation.
Sweet Lord…Emma Bertram, you have lost your mind!
He must have heard the silent scream in her head because the flame banked in his eyes and his features closed off, except for a slight edge of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Umm…”
Quick, get it together…
“Miss Bertram?” He shook her a little.
“
Emma, honey, are you sick?” her mother asked, moving closer as if to remove her from his arms.
“What?” Emma blinked and somehow that worked to break the spell. She pushed away from the man, wondering when she’d lost her grip on reality. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. All the travel must be catching up with me.”
He stepped back as well and the expression of concern disappeared completely. “Well, I’m just glad you decided to grace us with your presence, Miss Bertram,” he said in a tone so cold she almost shivered from the draft. “I’d about given up hope that you’d show up at all.”
The comment helped dispel the last of her crazy hormonal reaction to the gorgeous stranger. “I’m sorry,” Emma said, drawing up to her full height, which only brought her up to his collarbone. “Do I know you?”
“You would if you’d bothered to visit your family in the last two years,” he said. “I’m Reece Casings, your father’s law partner.”
“Oh, right,” Emma said. “I remember dad mentioned he’d taken on a partner.”
She didn’t remember her father saying anything about the new lawyer being young and hot, however, although perhaps her dad wouldn’t have noticed something like that.
“Miss Bertram, do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to reach you since the accident?” Reece asked. “Aside from letting you know about the tragedy, there are important legal matters we need to discuss concerning your sisters.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been traveling as a chef on a yacht,” Emma said, her ire rising. “It’s not always easy to—”
The organ suddenly swept into a hymn, cutting off her explanation. Not that she needed to provide one to this arrogant stranger. She didn’t owe him anything.
“The service is starting,” her mother said, somehow placing her body between Emma and Mr. Casings. “Why don’t we wait until after the funeral and then have a discussion? Right now, we need to focus on the reason we’re all here.”
Reece Casings swallowed, and a faint rush of color rose against his tanned skin. “You’re right.” He glanced at Emma. “Once the service is over here, we will need to talk.”
Emma nodded. “Fine.”
He turned on his heel and headed into the sanctuary.
“What just happened with you?” her mother asked in bemusement.
What just happened was that she’d experienced a bolt of high-octane lust for a complete stranger. Her father’s law partner, no less. Emma had never gone for the traditional, suit-and-tie type. She’d always gravitated toward men with an edge. Men who lived outside of the box and would never be happy with a desk job.
Of course, they had mostly been losers and heartbreakers in her experience. None of them had been a walking, talking Adonis in the flesh, either.
Thankfully, she’d been saved from making an utter fool of herself when Reece Casings had turned out to be a jerk who clearly didn’t like her.
Well, good, the feeling is mutual.
“Nothing,” Emma said, vowing to forget the strange encounter, and her even stranger reaction. “Let’s go in.”
Arm in arm, they walked into the sanctuary. Immediately, the buzz of voices rose in surprise. Emma didn’t know if the reaction was on account of her sudden appearance…or her mother’s. Necks craned to get a better view of Thomas Bertram’s prodigal daughter and scorned first wife. Emma might have turned and fled, except her mother kept a tight hold on her arm. Since escape wasn’t an option, she braced her shoulders and continued forward.
Two more familiar faces were among the gawkers, and Emma realized they were her sisters. The last time she’d seen them they’d been little girls, but now fourteen-year-old Imogene was a young woman. Ten-year-old Paige had left the child stage behind as well, although she still retained a certain pre-adolescent innocence. Emma had missed a lot of growing up.
Paige’s mouth curved in a semblance of a smile, stifled by the obvious grief and shock on her face, but Imogene’s expression remained stony. Cold. Her dark eyes filled with near-contempt. Then she deliberately turned away to face the front.
Ouch.
Well, no question as to what Imogene thought about her big sister’s return, Emma thought with a pang. She glanced at Paige again. The younger girl lifted her shoulders, and then she too looked away, only her gaze went to Reece Casings, who happened to be sitting next to her in the row reserved for family. His brow arched in a sardonic way, as if daring her to take a place among the Bertrams. Averting her eyes from his distracting presence, Emma took in the rest of the row and realized she didn’t see Mona’s mother. Perhaps the woman had been too distraught by the loss of her daughter and son-in-law to take part in the service, but surely her granddaughters needed her now more than ever.
“Honey, come on,” her mother said in her ear.
She tugged Emma into a pew across from her sisters and Reece Casings. Thankfully, the resounding chorus of the hymn proved a good distraction, and the gawkers turned their attention back to the service.
It is well…
It is well…
With my soul.
Was her soul well? Emma imagined right now it was torn to shreds, battered by grief and overwhelming guilt. She didn’t even try to sing, though her mother’s rich, alto voice rose clear and strong above the congregants.
After the hymn, the minister walked out. At least Emma imagined he was the minister. She’d never seen him before. The fatherly man she remembered from childhood must have retired. This new version was young and handsome, not exactly what Emma would have pictured in a man of the cloth. Even the new minister couldn’t distract Emma for long, and her gaze went once more to the two caskets at the front.
There’d been a time when Emma had worshipped her father. Thomas Bertram had possessed the best laugh she’d ever heard. A deep, rumbling sound of amusement that made everyone want to join in. Her mother had ruled the house with gentle, although unquestioned authority, but dad had been prince of the kingdom. Then he’d found a new princess and left Emma behind. It had felt a lot like losing a limb, and she’d experienced the phantom pain for years afterward.
Still, she’d always known he was there in the background.
Now, he was gone. Forever.
She swallowed and wondered how she would ever make it through the day. How long before she could escape the bitter memories.
Speaking of memories…someone had put together a video montage of pictures. Her father’s handsome face flashed in front of her eyes, and a jolt of air escaped, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her lungs. Then a wedding picture with her dad and Mona twisted Emma’s gut. More pictures of her dad and Mona together. Arriving home with baby Imogene and then another of Mona in the hospital with Paige. More images of her sisters growing up, from chubby babies to the present day. One shot looked like it had been taken only a few weeks ago.
The perfect family, Emma thought, the resentment she’d carried around for half her life churning in her gut. Everyone seemed to forget that Thomas Bertram had torn another family apart in order to get the new one.
Then Emma’s own face appeared, and she gasped a little. These images were clearly from the pre-divorce-era. There were pictures of her as a little girl, a riot of curls springing in all directions. Emma at a father-daughter dance when she’d been about eight. Her high school graduation. There were even a couple of family shots that included Mary Bertram. Tellingly, there were only a few images of Emma with her father, Mona, and the girls, and in all of them she sat outside the family circle.
The parade of images became overwhelming, each one slamming into her like waves battering the shore. She must have made a sound of distress because her mother reached over and took her hand. Emma squeezed back, praying the video would stop soon.
It didn’t end, but the next shot eased the anguish. It was a series of images of Emma with her two best childhood friends, Layla McCarthy and Callie Williams. The young girls in the images were smiling, carefree, and happy. Emma suddenly missed them with a surprisin
g fierceness. It had been half a lifetime since then, but she wished they were here right now. Somehow, she knew their presence would have made this day more bearable. Layla, who had always been so fierce and brave, and sweet Callie, who had just wanted everyone to be happy.
Emma didn’t know who had put together the montage, or why they’d known to include her with two random girls, but she was glad they’d been included.
The video concluded, and the rest of the service passed in a blur. The minister gave a compassionate sermon, and a couple of people spoke, but Emma couldn’t have repeated one word.
Mercifully, the service came to an end, and at the final note of the closing hymn, Emma slipped out of the pew. She glanced across the aisle and saw that Reece Casings was watching her intently, but she didn’t have the strength to deal with him now. She might scratch his eyes out…or worse…throw herself at him again.
So she took the coward’s way out and raced out of the church. Yes, Reece had matters to discuss, and reprimands to give, but that could wait until later.
A heavy weight settled on her chest, threatening to choke the life out of her.
Air. She needed air.
Emma rushed through the lobby, bursting out into the sunshine. For once she welcomed the heat, which helped to dispel the ice that had taken up residence in her veins.
“Honey, slow down,” her mother called as Emma hit the top of the steps.
The sharp retort worked to settle the oncoming panic, and Emma slowed, taking several deep breaths.
“Sorry mom,” she said. “I couldn’t stay in there one more second.”
“You should at least speak to your sisters,” her mother said. “They need you right now.
Emma snorted. “Did you miss the killer glare on Imogene’s face? They don’t need me.”
“They’re children, and they’re in pain. No matter what, you’ve all suffered a loss,” her mother said. “I thought Mr. Casings wanted to talk to you, as well. Something about important legal matters.”
“I can’t think about legal matters right now,” Emma said. “I’ll catch up to him after we leave the cemetery.”
Straight on Toward Paradise Page 2
