By Design (31 page)

“Are you hungry?” It was unlike him to interrupt; Emmie could tell he was still edgy. He moved to a small table in front of the fire that held a tray of crackers, cheese, and fruit. “It’s not much, but—”

“Graham, what’s all this about?”

He stopped fidgeting and took a breath. “This is my ham-fisted way of apologizing.” He crossed the room to join her at the windows. “And to tell you that I was an idiot. You were right. About all of it.”

“What—”

“Everything you said . . . you were right. About how I wanted Juliet to need me, and that I liked being able to ‘save’ her. I got so angry because it hit so close to home. I thought I had gotten my head straight after Kat’s death, but I hadn’t. I . . . I’ve got no excuse. I was wrong, and I lost you because of my need to play the hero. So I’m sorry.”

Emmie stood frozen, barely breathing, her heart thudding. She licked her lips and said slowly, “Are you only saying this now because Juliet’s gone?”

“You heard, huh?”

“We had a little chat. It was . . . enlightening.”

“Wow, aren’t you special. She only sent me a text saying she was leaving.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it.”

Emmie studied him. “You kept telling me that the two of you were over.”

“And I meant it.”

“But I saw you with her. Outside her shop.”

“You did?”

Emmie nodded.

“That was the day I told her, in no uncertain terms, that we were done. She said she was okay with it.”

“That’s not what she told me.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She asked me for advice. On how to get you back.”

Graham winced. “Good Lord. Well, I never told her it was you—”

“Trying to protect me again,” Emmie pointed out.

“Was that so wrong?”

“No,” she said with a reluctant sigh. “It was kind of you. But she knows now that it’s me you’re—uh, you
had been
seeing . . .” Emmie drifted to a stop.

“Ah.”

“But . . . when she said she was okay with your ending it . . . you believed her? You actually thought she wouldn’t pull her suicidal act ever again? That could have gone on forever.”

“I know. You’re right.” He paused, looking her in the eye, his expression desperate. “Emmie, I’d understand if you don’t believe me, but after . . . that . . . last night I was with you . . . I cut Juliet off completely. I spent all that time alone, to think. And the entire time, I wasn’t missing Juliet. Just you. I don’t want anyone but you. It was always you.”

Emmie thought back to that moment in the shadowy back room of Juliet’s shop, when Graham had murmured in her ear, “I would still choose you.” He had wanted her then, and he wanted her now. She desperately wanted to believe him. Desperately.

She remained silent. And the more she said nothing, the more crestfallen Graham looked.

“You know the reason I finished this room and asked you to meet me here? Because of the day I first showed you the house. When you walked into this room, even as horrible a state it was in back then, you just . . . lit up. And then you”—he gestured toward the windows—“you turned your face up to the sun, and you closed your eyes, just drinking it in, so happy. And all of a sudden . . . it’s going to sound crazy, but it was like this whole scene just . . . unfolded in front of me. I could
see
this . . . future . . . you living here with me and Sophie. I wanted to be here with you, to see you wake up in this bedroom and turn your face up to the sun, to see you that happy . . .” Emmie swallowed. Hard. Graham shook his head. “I know; it’s nuts. And I know I’ve blown it with you, through sheer stupidity. Or ego. Both, I guess. So I figured I had nothing to lose, trying to win you back, with this.” He faltered. “And . . . I figured if I
didn’t
win you back, at least I’d be able to give you the room. Your room, as you envisioned it. And, if you liked it, maybe I’d get to see you happy one last time.”

Tears were sneaking up on Emmie. She could feel them, constricting her throat, pricking at her eyes. Her breathing became shallow as she tried to maintain control, but she knew in the end she was going to lose it. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

“Emmie?” Graham ventured. “Please . . . say something. I’m dying here.”

She bit her lip, turned to gaze out the window, down at the snow-covered lawn, a waning gibbous moon hanging low in the sky, just as she had pictured it. “You did all this for me?” she whispered.

He took a step closer. “Nobody else.”

“You really want”—her voice was raspy—“me?”

“Nobody else.”

She slid into his arms then, resting her cheek on his chest, squeezing him around his waist for all she was worth. Tentatively, Graham encircled her with his arms, then, after a moment’s hesitation, more strongly.

“You more than half lo’ me?” she asked huskily, her eyes closed.

“Emmaline Brewster, I love you so much more than half. I love you completely.” He kissed the top of her head. “And I just want to see you happy again.”

She met his gaze; her eyes were teary, but she was smiling. “There’s no sun to look up at.”

“No, but you’re breathtaking in the moonlight. And . . . if you stay tonight, I’ll make sure there’s sunshine tomorrow morning.”

“Now, how are you going to guarantee that?”

“I can call in a few favors. I owe you that much.” She was at a loss for words once again. He flinched. “I’m sorry. That was too . . . If you’d rather go home—”

Emmie stopped his train of thought, and his words, with as passionate a kiss as she could possibly muster. All the love she felt for him went into her embrace, and she savored the feeling of their bodies melding together again, finally. “I
am
home,” she whispered.

 

There was sun in the morning. Emmie opened one eye to a brilliant shaft of sunlight . . . and immediately closed it again. It probably had something to do with getting very,
very
little sleep the night before, but she wasn’t ready to face the daylight just yet. Instead, she stretched, loving the feel of the soft mattress cradling her, the rich bed linens enveloping her bare skin.

“Good morning.” Graham was propped up on one elbow, smiling down at her. She beamed back.

“Window treatments,” she murmured, closing her eyes again. “Need window treatments.”

He laughed—a pure, joyous sound that thrilled her to her toes. “I’ll leave that to you.” He kissed her deeply, and she ran her hand along his bare chest. “Hey,” he said softly, “I’ve got something for you.”

“I
know
.”

But he bounded out of bed, and Emmie watched him, puzzled, but enjoying the view nonetheless. He picked something up from the mantel and crawled back under the covers. It was an envelope. When he handed it to her, she peeked in it, then looked at him.

“Uh, last night was perfect and all . . .”
Boy was it.
“But . . . paying me puts it in kind of a sordid light, don’t you think?”

Graham put his head in his hands. “That’s not what I meant!”

“I mean, do I
look
like Julia Roberts to you?”

He looked her up and down hungrily. “Better. Much,
much
better.”

“Focus!” she ordered. “Now. Can we please stop throwing this stupid insurance money back and forth?”

“It’s not your insurance money.”

“Okay, now I really don’t get it.”

“It’s not a gift, either. It’s an investment. I want to be an investor in By Design.” He smoothed her hair back from her forehead with a loving hand. “Consider it seed money to back the most promising new business in town.”

She shook her head, disbelieving, but felt loved, and grateful, all the same. “When are you going to stop giving me things?”

“Never, I hope.”

“Then can I put in a request?”

“Name it.”

“How about if I show you instead?”

The weather was astonishingly mild for mid-May, and Graham, Emmie, and their friends were taking advantage of it. While Sophie, Justin, and Logan chased each other among the blossoming apple and pear trees at the far end of the West Street yard, the adults lounged on the grassy slope nearer the house.

“I dunno,” Emmie was saying, her face turned up to the late afternoon sun as she rested her head on Graham’s chest, “I’ve gotta blame Trish. And Rick, of course. You don’t get a pass, dude.”

Rick took a swig of beer and sighed. “I know.”

“Well,” Trish ventured, “I’d say it’s your fault, Emmaline.”

“How do you get there?”

“It was all that lingerie talk. One thing just led to another . . .”

“Oh, then we can blame Avery,” Emmie said.

“Hey!” the lad in question burst out. “I was only trying to help you. It’s not my fault that the baby machine over there got ideas of her own.”

Trish grinned at her best friend. “Nope, still blaming you. So if it’s a girl, I’m naming her Emmie.”

“You might as well name her Victoria; it’d be more accurate,” Emmie said, sniggering. “When did you know?”

“Oh, way back. I just didn’t want to say anything till I was sure. That’s why I stuck with water that afternoon at your house.”

“Sneaky.”

“You bet. And come September, you’ll be getting a beached whale of honor, like it or not,” Trish said.

“Don’t worry—you won’t have to wear black and white.” She lifted her head and shouted, “Sophie! C’mere a second!” The little girl scampered over. “What color should we have for the wedding?”

Sophie looked puzzled. “White,” she said.

“Well, yeah, but we have to pick another color. Like for, you know, the dress
you’ll
wear. So what’ll it be?”

“Yellow!” Sophie shouted immediately.

“Right! High five,” she ordered, and Sophie obliged, then ran back to her game with the boys.

“Yellow? Seriously?” Trish said. “I’m going to look like an enormous grapefruit with feet?”

“We’ll figure something out for you, matronosaurus,” Emmie said. “The only thing that matters is that little flower girl over there gets to wear a poufy yellow princess dress.”

Graham gazed down at Emmie. She tipped her head back to study him. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, although he sounded a little choked up. “Not a thing.”

He kissed his bride-to-be, eliciting “ews” and groans and comments of “Cripes, get a room” from everyone else.

“So,” Emmie said to the group, “September sixth . . . too close to the date mom passed? Rude? Morbid?”

Trish smiled. “Your mom would approve.”

Graham said to Avery, “You’re going to be a groomsman, right?”

“Me?”

“Oh, yeah,” Emmie said. “And we’re inviting Adam. Once he gets a load of you in a tux—whoo. You’re in.”

“Wait a minute. Who says I want Adam back? Maybe there are going to be a bunch of available men at the wedding. It could be a smorgasbord for ol’ Avery.”

“Well, it’ll be overloaded with construction workers, if you like that kind of thing,” Graham said.

“That has potential.”

Emmie laughed. “Oh, stop. You want Adam back. Just admit it.”

“Ugh, you are becoming such a matchmaker. Quit it.”

“Sure your dad’s going to be in town to give you away?” Trish teased.

“I made him
swear
.”

Rick asked, “And where will this grand event take place?”

“Right here.” Graham gestured to the lawn. “Couldn’t think of a more perfect place.”

“Just promise me that at least one of the bathrooms in this place will be done by then,” Trish pleaded.

“Honey,” Emmie said, “I will paint a Porta-Potty yellow and put it right near the reception tent in your honor.” She explained to Graham, “Both times she was pregnant before, she was in the bathroom so much I forgot what she looked like. She couldn’t complete a sentence without having to take a potty break in the middle.”

“The house will be completely finished by then,” Graham reassured Trish. “What with the best interior designer in town on the case.”

“Who’s that, now?”

Emmie made a face. “Oh, very nice. It just so happens that By Design is a pretty hot property lately.”

“I’ve heard. Annette sure talked you up to the alums. Are you redoing something in
every
house owned by a member of the Class of ’95?”

“No,” Emmie scoffed. “Classes of ’94 and ’96, too.”

“Ooh, pardon me.”

“
And
I found out it wasn’t all Annette’s doing. She knew some people, but then one of the Popular Girls made a passing comment . . .”

“Who, then?” Rick asked.

Emmie and Graham exchanged glances. “A certain penitent blonde who wants to make amends.”

“No
,
”
Avery gasped.

“Yep. But Annette did talk me up to her current friends and clients. I’m getting to see the inside of lots of mansions that would knock your socks off. I can’t wait to get my hands on some of those. But most important is this house right here.”

“We’ll be able to move in by August,” Graham said.

“Great!” Trish enthused, and then hesitated. “Aw. Then you’ll sell Casa de Emmie. How sad.”

Emmie smiled wanly. “It’s funny how you outgrow one home but grow into another. I’m okay with it.”

“Actually,” Graham cut in, “I was thinking . . . you might not have to sell it.”

“You want to maintain separate residences?”

He rolled his eyes.

More seriously, she said, “I don’t want to rent it out.”

“No, not that. We could make application to switch it over to a commercial building instead of a residence. It could be the perfect location for Cooper Architecture
and
By Design. You’d be in a 3-D example of your work. What do you think?”

Emmie beamed. “I love it. And I love you,” she added, eliciting more nauseated noises from her friends.

“Well, then, welcome home.”