Can't Help Falling (37 page)

Allie sighed. “Don't equate Peter with God. Believing in God doesn't make a person perfect. We're still just as prone to messing up and doing the wrong thing as everyone else.”

“It doesn't really matter anyway. Lacey called this morning. She thinks she can get me some freelancing work with her firm. After the ball.”

“Are you going to take it?”

“I don't know. It's not like I have anything keeping me here once the ball is over.” That was what she'd come for. She'd never actually thought about what would happen after.

She asked a question that had been bugging her. She wasn't going to get an answer from the one person she really wanted to hear it from. “That teacup. In his mom's collection. Was it really the same one that was in the wardrobe that night?”

“What do you think?”

What did she think? The truth was she'd been trying not to think about it. Because if she thought too much, connected the wardrobe with the teacup, with Peter's being there, with the mysterious notice that Allie never put up, it all started pointing to a rather uncomfortable reality. “I've gotta go, Al. I'll see you when you get back.”

Getting out of the car, she set the alarm and headed up the path. “You heard that, right? Writing on the wall, big booming voice, something really unmissable.” She directed her words to the sky. Nothing came back except the sounds of birds and the cool fall wind rustling leaves.

Well, that was that, then.

Sitting on the porch was a square cardboard box.

Getting closer, she saw that her name was on it, written in cursive script. No address. No postage. It had obviously been hand-delivered.

Sitting on the porch, Emelia picked it up and turned it around. No return address. No sign of who or where it had come from.

She put it down, then reached her fingers inside the gap and released the tape. Lifting the lid, she peered inside to see a small, rectangular card with bunches of cream-colored tissue paper underneath.

She picked up the envelope, slid her finger under the seal, and tried not to hold her breath as she pulled the card out. She didn't even know what she was hoping for, but she prepared herself for disappointment.

The same cursive writing was inside the card.
Emelia, This will probably sound really strange to you, but God told me this was meant to be yours, not mine. Love, Maggie.

Lifting the tissue paper, Emelia peered inside the box, already knowing what she would find. And there it sat. The pink rose teacup.

The one that had been in the wardrobe the night she met Peter. The one that he'd been trying to find for years for his mom. The one that said more than any booming voice from the sky or writing on the wall.

“Okay.” She breathed out the words. “You're real. Now what?”

“Y
OU'RE A HYPOCRITE
.”
T
HE MORNING'S
wake-up phone call from Allie echoed in Peter's mind as the rising sun bounced off Highbridge.

“Have you ever thought that maybe she was exactly who she said she was? Maybe you were one of the few people she let in to see the real her? She is Emelia Mason, Peter. There's a reason that she wrote as Mia Caldwell. There's a reason she came here.”

The more he let Allie's words sink in, the more he knew she was right. He had been left a trail of clues. Emelia had told him she had been called Mia back home. That she'd wanted to be an investigative journalist. Had told him multiple times she had a past he would hold against her. But, like a fool, he'd just bowled on through her assertions.

“Why on earth would she believe in a God who forgives her when you won't?”

It was Allie's final words that had propelled him out of bed and out onto the water. She was right. About all of it. Peter was a hypocrite. Anita had been playing fast and loose with life long before Emelia, Mia, whoever she was, had written that article.

His oars had cut through the water with power. About the only good thing he had going was that his rowing was the best it had been since the accident. His shoulder felt smooth and
stable when he went for a big reach. But not even a good row had managed to wipe away the storm whirling inside him. So he'd gotten in the car and started driving. Found himself almost home before he even realized that was where he was going.

His feet crunched on the gravel as he let himself into the back entrance. A pot of coffee sat, still hot, on the counter, so he poured himself a large mug and took it with him on the trek to the library. His mother would be there, reading the Saturday paper, as was her habit. He could only hope she had the words he needed to help bring clarity to this whole mess. He was certainly getting nowhere on his own.

He walked down the hall, averting his eyes from the spot where he'd trapped Emelia against the wall, almost kissed her. Even his parents' house wasn't safe.

As much as Allie's telling-off from Italy had knocked the air out of him, he still didn't know how to forgive Emelia. Didn't know even where to start. She hadn't told him. That was what burned deepest of all. All their time together and she'd let him think the biggest thing between them was faith, when there'd been another canyon equally wide. And then she'd sat there and just listened as he'd told her how he blamed himself.

She'd let herself get outed by Victor, of all people. He supposed he should be grateful to his brother for shattering the moment before Peter had done something that would have had him wallowing in even more regret, but he couldn't. Especially not now that he knew Victor had been there that night.

He was almost to the door to the parlor when footsteps came from his right, along with a dragging sound. He turned and sucked in his breath.

Emelia. The ball was still weeks away. It hadn't occurred to him for a split second she might be here.

She wore an old T-shirt and yoga pants. Hair pulled back in a haphazard bun with a pencil stuck through the center. A long roll of shimmery silver material was tucked under one arm and dragging beside her. Her attention was focused on that. She had no idea he was standing only a few meters away.

He gripped his mug so tightly, he wouldn't have been surprised if it shattered. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. In a few seconds she'd be right on top of him. “Hi.” It was brusque. He didn't know how else to do this.

Emelia started and dropped the roll of material. It unraveled across the wooden floor, spilling a shimmery silver lake in its wake. They both just looked at it until the wooden tube came to a stop.

Emelia spoke. “It's going to be puddles. For between the worlds.”

“I'm sorry?”

Emelia gestured at the material. “We're going to put Astroturf down in the entranceway. Then this will be big puddles over the top.”

From
The Magician's Nephew
. The woods and pools that transported people between Earth and Lewis's magical worlds. Narnia nerds would love it. “It's a great idea.”

He looked up to see she'd come a couple of steps closer. Was looking straight at him. She looked tired. She looked beautiful.

He searched for something neutral to say. If she kept standing there just looking at him like that his heart might crack open. “Is everything going okay? With the planning?”

She looked at him, big blue eyes filled with questions. “Do you hate me?”

He flinched. “I don't hate you. And I owe you an apology.”
He tried to loosen his grip on the poor mug he was strangling. “I told you there was nothing you could have done that would make me walk away and then I did. I spent months lecturing you about God, and then when it really mattered, I didn't even live what I said I believed.”

“I believe now.” Something like surprise flitted across Emelia's face. Like she hadn't meant to say it.

Peter stared at her. “Believe what?”

“ ‘Yes,' said Queen Lucy. ‘In our world too, a stable once had something inside it that was bigger than our whole world.' ”

It was a Narnia quote she had spoken, no doubt, but he didn't know it. Which meant it had to be from
The Last Battle
. The part he hadn't gotten to.

Emelia seemed to realize it too. “He sent me a teacup. God.”

“What?” Was this a really weird dream? He bit the inside of his cheek, the pain confirming it was reality.

“Via your mom. The one in the wardrobe. When we met. She left it on my porch. You didn't know?” She sounded surprised.

He shook his head. Not that it surprised him. His mother was frequently carrying out mysterious errands of kindness that she didn't want anyone else to know about.

“Why did you never tell me the full story? That the teacup in the wardrobe that night was the same one you'd been looking for for years.”

“I didn't know if you'd even seen it. And if you had it just sounded too . . .” Something caught in his voice.

“Crazy?”

He gave up a half smile. “Wouldn't you have thought so? We don't exactly live in a world where magical teacups spring up by the dozen.”

She shrugged. “True. I don't pretend to even begin to understand any of it now. Least of all why God went to so much effort to get through to a girl like me. But I'm glad He did.”

“Me too.” He meant it.

“Are you ever going to forgive me?”

His sigh was ragged as he poked at the shimmery ocean with his toe. “I'm trying. You have no idea how much I wish that I could get past this. I just don't know how. Even when I forgive I don't know how to move from there.”

Emelia gave him a quivering smile. “It's okay. I get it.” She dropped to her knees, started rolling up the material. “I need to get on with this. I'll see you at the ball. Maybe both of us will manage to get at least one thing we're hoping for.”

He wanted to be the bigger man. To crouch down beside her and help her cut out magical puddles or whatever it was she was about to do. But there was no wishing on make-believe magic in the world that could fix this. So he turned and walked away.

B
Y ANY MEASURE, THE BALL
was a success. The huge wardrobe doors providing the entryway into the ballroom. The garlands hanging from the ceiling. The statues positioned around the perimeters of rooms and in unexpected corners. The huge lamppost that oversaw everything from the center of the dance floor.

Outside, pairs of horses took people on sleigh rides around the estate, complete with cups of hot chocolate and boxes of Turkish delight. A dusting of snow had fallen during the day, giving the countryside a newly whitewashed look.

Since she'd been given the chance to finish what she'd come to England to do, Emelia had spent the last two months eating, sleeping, and breathing the ball. Hadn't given herself any time or energy to think about anything else.

The result? A sellout event featuring some of London's wealthiest Americans. Emelia had never been more right about anything in her life than about targeting the moneyed American wives living in London and pricing the tickets at an amount that screamed “exclusive.” Once Lacey had used a few of her London contacts to plant the seed that it was the winter event to be seen at, there was a virtual stampede for tickets.

She had achieved exactly what she had come to Oxford for. She'd saved Anita's charity. And yet it felt meaningless. Flat.

Emelia didn't know what she'd expected when the money was tallied and the outcome known. Relief? A small sense of satisfaction? But all she felt was hollow. Deep down she'd always known this ball was never going to give her the absolution she was looking for. But working out how to forgive herself . . . she didn't even know where to start with that.

There was nothing to keep her in Oxford now. No matter how much she wanted there to be. It wasn't like she'd expected God to sprinkle some magical fairy dust and conjure up a happy ending. Except that was exactly what she had hoped for. If He could land a teacup on her porch, surely He could fix things between her and Peter. Instead all there had been since the day they ran into each other at the house was silence.

Then he'd walked in tonight with Sabine on his arm and Emelia had let go of her final hope. The one that had held out that maybe, maybe, if he knew that she believed what he did, they could still find a way through. But she'd been kidding herself. She'd hurt him too deeply, betrayed him too fully, for that to be enough to glue their relationship back together. She'd tried to summon up a glimmer of gladness for them that they'd worked things out. Sabine was nice. They had history. She'd be the best aspiring Olympian's girlfriend in the world.

Allie was right. Believing in God didn't mean she didn't have to own her stuff and the fallout of her own decisions. Which included losing the best guy she'd ever known.

Focus, Emelia.
She almost tripped as a couple pushed past her on their way to the Turkish delight bar. The man offered
her a quick “Are you okay?” and at her nod, kept moving. Everyone had places to be, people to be with, except her.

What next, God?
Lacey had called that morning, needing an answer on whether Emelia was going to accept the work for her firm. Emelia had managed to hedge a few more days instead of answering. She didn't even know why she was hesitating. It was just freelancing. Hardly a lifetime commitment.

In the corner of the ballroom a string quartet played. Two of the four sat in the thrones that had been created to look like the ones from Cair Paravel in Narnia. The other ground-floor rooms had been equally transformed. The library had turned into Uncle Andrew's study from
The Magician's Nephew
. The entranceway was the wooded area between the worlds. The parlor, the underground land from
The Silver Chair
. Even if you weren't a Narnia fan it was still pretty spectacular.