Blitzing Emily (37 page)

“He will,” her father insisted. He squeezed her hand.

“Do you have a few minutes right now?” Emily asked.

He stroked her cheek. “Dinner’s not ready yet.”

Emily’s insides were knotting, but if she was going to find out once and for all what happened to their family, there was no time like the present. She led him into the family room. They sat down on the couch. She stared at her shoes for a moment. Suddenly, she was a confused fifteen-year old who wanted to hold her parents together with whatever means she had. Fear rose inside her like the waves battering the shore after a storm, but she had to know.

“Dad, when you and Mom called it quits, what happened?”

“Punkin, are you sure you want to discuss this?”

Emily nodded.

He rubbed his chin with a free hand, and slid his arm around the back of the couch. “I wasn’t home much. As a result, your mom and I fought a lot. Instead of talking about it, it was easier to leave. I thought she’d be happier with someone else.” His voice dropped. “It was my fault.”

“I don’t understand how it could get to that point. You still loved each other. You never talked?” Emily said.

They sat silently for a while. The anniversary clock on the mantel ticked. Finally, she gathered every bit of courage it took to ask. “Was there someone else?”

“For your mom, no. For me, never.”

“You never cheated.” She picked at a loose thread in the couch cushion. She concentrated on pulling breath into her lungs. He gave her a squeeze.

“There’s never been anyone else for me but your mom, and there never will be.”

“But you left because she said you cheated.”

“No. I left because I realized I asked her to give up everything she ever wanted, and maybe she’d be happier with someone else.” She glanced over at him in utter astonishment. The ex-neighbor who spitefully told Emily that her father cheated on her mother was the liar, then. How could anyone tell a lie so monstrous?

“Honey,” Margaret called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready. Come and eat while it’s hot.”

“We’ll be right there,” Mark responded. Emily got up from the couch, and he held out his arms to her again.

“Let’s not go this long before we have another conversation.” Her father held her. She felt his tears on her cheek. “Maybe we could talk some more after dinner.” His arms tightened around her. “Buddies?”

“Buddies.” Emily gave him another squeeze. “Do you still love Mom?”

“I never stopped.”

In one afternoon, her world had shifted on its axis. Brandon was right. It was too bad Emily wouldn’t get the chance to tell him that.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
HREE DAYS AFTER
Emily’s conversation with her parents about Brandon she was in San Francisco, preparing for performances of
Rigoletto
. Rehearsals were finished for the day. She had an hour to herself before a reporter from one of the local TV stations arrived for an interview that would run tomorrow on the news. She decided to treat herself to a pedicure in the hotel’s spa.

She melted into the soft leather of a pedicure chair. The warm water, infused with essential oils and slices of fresh lemon, felt like heaven on her feet. She reached out for a copy of
People
magazine to flip through while she de-stressed. She almost dropped it on the floor when she saw an all-too-familiar face.

Anastasia Lee posed with her infant daughter, Delilah, in a highly stylized black-and-white photo shoot scheduled to appear in
Vogue
. Anastasia’s expression was remote as she sat in a high-backed chair. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a black silk chiffon knee-length dress with décolletage that was only possible with aggressive use of duct tape, and impossibly high heels. The baby was a replica of her mother, dressed in a white couture gown with a black sash. Delilah had her mother’s bee-stung lips and miniature high heels of her own. The caption under the picture read: “Anastasia Lee shows off her first-born, Delilah Marie, with Seattle Sharks’ Brandon McKenna.”

It was the oddest baby photo Emily had ever seen. At the same time, she didn’t want to see more. She dropped the magazine onto the floor next to her chair, turning away from it.

T
HE REPORTER SUBMITTED
questions prior to the interview. It should have been twenty minutes of the usual—talking about the role, how much she loved working with the opera company and seeing San Francisco again, and urging people who had never been to the opera to give it a try. She could do these interviews in her sleep, which is why she told David she could handle it on her own for once.

The reporter was young. He was handsome. He veered off the script almost immediately.

“Miss Hamilton, I’m quite a sports fan, as well as an opera buff. You must be thrilled about the Seattle Sharks’ three-game winning streak.”

“It’s terrific. Congratulations to them.” She felt an invisible, icy fist grip her stomach. She smiled brightly. “Let’s talk a little more about
Rigoletto,
and why I’m looking forward to singing this role so much.”

His smile was dazzling in response. “You know, Miss Hamilton, I’ve gotta ask.” He almost looked apologetic. “What’s the status of your engagement to Brandon McKenna? You’ve been very quiet about your wedding plans. Our viewers would love to know what’s in your future.”

Emily recrossed her legs, and resisted the impulse to cross her arms over her chest. She forced herself to sound casual. “We appreciate your interest, but we’re not ready to announce our plans as of yet.”

“Are you and Brandon still engaged?”

“I’d prefer we didn’t discuss my private life.” She smiled at him again. “Do you have any remaining questions about the performances?”

He tried again, a couple of times. Finally, Emily pulled off the lavalier microphone pinned to the neckline of the cobalt-blue silk blouse she wore, extracted the battery pack from the back waistband of her skirt, and got to her feet. She extended her hand. “Thank you so much for stopping by.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

“I have another appointment. Let me show you out.” She walked to the door, pulled it open, and waited for the camera person and his assistant to gather their equipment. The camera person and assistant shook her hand on the way out. “Thanks again for the interview.”

Emily extended her hand to the reporter. He didn’t shake it. “Are you often this difficult?” he said.

“I’m here to answer questions about my performances and about the opera, not my private life. All questions were agreed upon in advance.” She gave him a nod. “Thanks again.”

The suite door shut behind him. David was right: Meeting the guy without his presence was just plain stupid. She could only imagine what was going to end up on the newscast. At the same time, she didn’t raise her voice, she was courteous, and she didn’t bite on the guy’s insult. She sent David a text to call her. He would be upset, but she’d deal with it when she talked with him.

She sat down on the couch in the living room of her suite, grabbing the smallish tote bag holding her knitting. The interview was the least of her problems right now. She couldn’t get the photo of Anastasia and her daughter off her mind. She couldn’t imagine the Anastasia she’d met as a parent. Was she affectionate and loving toward her little girl, or was Delilah an expensive prop? As she sat knitting, she wondered if Brandon had seen the photos. The last place he would want to see his infant daughter was at a high-fashion photo shoot.

Brandon would take his daughter to the park. He’d put her in a jogging stroller, making sure a blanket was tucked close around her so she didn’t get a chill. He would take un-posed, casual photos of her on his smart phone, and he’d e-mail them to everyone he knew. She’d wear soft cotton, age-appropriate outfits, mostly pink. Definitely no heels. When they got home, he’d tell her a story as he rocked her to sleep. He would think baby spit-up on his shoulder was a fashion statement.

Hurt and jealousy swamped her. She never thought she wanted a baby, but she wanted his.

She’d been pulling the yarn so tightly on the needles she couldn’t get her needle back into the work. She tossed the knitting onto the couch cushion, picked up the remote, and flipped on the TV.

She needed noise. Any distraction from her thoughts would do. She flipped channels until she landed on ESPN. After all, they might have something about Brandon. She grabbed up the knitting again, watching
SportsCenter
from the corner of her eye. She ripped out the row she had ruined.

Emily’s head snapped up from her work when she heard the announcer say, “We have a breaking story tonight in the Brandon McKenna saga. For those who’ve been breathlessly monitoring the situation, this story has taken an unbelievable twist. Brandon McKenna, all-planet defensive end for the Seattle Sharks, discovered his ex-girlfriend, model Anastasia Lee, was pregnant with what he was told was his daughter, Delilah. By the time the baby was born, McKenna was engaged to opera diva Emily Hamilton. That engagement evidently ended. We’re not sure, because neither McKenna nor Miss Hamilton will answer questions about it. Despite the fact McKenna took another DNA test recently, he’s been showing off photos of the tyke to anyone and everyone in the Sharks locker room. Happily ever after, right? Let’s go to the tape.”

The tape showed Brandon emerging from the team headquarters and making his way through a knot of reporters to his car. Her heart beat faster to see the man she still loved. The camera flashes were blinding, and one reporter stuck a microphone in his face.

“Brandon, is it true that paternity tests show that Delilah is not your daughter?”

“No comment.”

“We have unconfirmed reports that Miss Lee lied that you were the baby’s father.”

“No comment.”

Brandon’s face looked cold and unyielding, as though it were carved out of granite. His lips were pressed together so hard they were white. Nobody else, though, seemed to glimpse the anguish Emily saw in his eyes.

“How do you feel about this?” another reporter asked.

Brandon whirled on the guy. “How would you feel about it?” He finished pushing his way through the crowd and climbed in his Land Rover. He pulled away without another word.

The guys on
SportsCenter
were still talking, but Emily wasn’t listening. Her stomach had dropped away. Cold chills swept over her. “Oh, no,” she gasped out.

She was wrong. He’d tried to tell her. Tell her? Hell, he begged, and she didn’t listen. She threw his words back in his face. She called him a liar, and told him she could never trust him. She’d made the worst mistake of her life.

The memories of the last few minutes she spent with Brandon came back with sickening clarity. Brandon pleaded with her to listen, and Emily ignored him. Even worse, everyone told Emily she was making a mistake, and she ignored them all, too. Her fear of being hurt overshadowed her willingness to take a risk. She was going to spend the rest of her life knowing she tossed away the best thing that had ever happened to her out of fear and insecurity.

She ripped out another row of her knitting, but dropped it on the coffee table when she realized she couldn’t concentrate. She walked to the window that looked out over San Francisco and gazed at the falling dusk. She could go to the coffee shop downstairs and get a bite to eat. Who was she kidding? She had lost her appetite, maybe permanently. She reached out to pick up her handbag, accidentally dumped it over, and her smart phone shot out onto the carpet.

She still had his number. She wondered if she had the guts to use it. She hit the “Brandon-cell” stored contact, and waited. It rang, and rang. Finally, his voicemail picked up. “Hey. It’s McKenna. You know what to do.”

There was so much to say, and Emily couldn’t speak. She finally hit the “end call” button. The silence of the room enveloped her.

E
MILY RETURNED HOME
on an early-morning flight from San Francisco two weeks later. Nobody she loved waited for her at baggage claim, and right now, she wondered if anyone would again. She wanted to talk with Brandon. A hundred times she’d reached for her phone, pulled up his number in her contacts list, and chickened out.

She ventured out into a cold, drizzly Seattle morning. She was meeting Amy for coffee and a chat before Amy’s store opened for the day. Emily’s schedule was insane right now: A voice lesson, a costume fitting for an upcoming production, an afternoon rehearsal with Seattle Symphony. She was singing in their holiday performance of
The Messiah
.

Emily stepped inside the Starbucks across from Amy’s shop. She’d been to their stores around the world, but she had to smile when she noted the lone, still-dripping umbrella propped against the front door frame. The only people in Seattle that used them with any regularity were tourists. She breathed in the tangy scent of ground coffee. The slight humidity of heat and multiple other customers wearing damp clothing brushed her skin. Yes, she was home again.

Amy seemed uninterested in Emily’s recitation of the appointments that crammed the calendar on her smart phone. She sipped her coffee and raised an eyebrow.

“You still haven’t called Brandon.”

Emily fiddled with the cardboard sleeve on her coffee cup. She didn’t meet Amy’s eyes.

“If we weren’t in public, you’d be getting the chicken arm motions and the bok-bok-bok,” Amy told her. “You can do this. Call him.”

“It’s the holidays. It’s football season. He’s probably busier than I am.”

“You’re miserable,” her double-crossing sister pointed out. “Put yourself out of your misery. Make a move.”

Jake Tollifson, the grandson of the nice woman Emily had met at the opera benefit, called several times while Emily was in San Francisco to ask her out. She kept telling him “no.” He kept asking. Dating wasn’t even a consideration, at least for her. All she could think of was Brandon, and how stupid and stubborn she’d been.

Amy broke off a piece of doughnut and popped it in her mouth, giving Emily a tiny headshake as well.

“We are going to have quite an argument if you keep this up,” Emily warned. “I told you, Brandon and I are over.”