Lost and Found Family (8 page)

“Not really,” Christian said. “You think I should just let Emma keep on like this?”

“I think you don't have any other choice. Neither does she.”

This wasn't the magic bullet he'd hoped for.

“I guess you're right, but what sense is there in letting Emma remain so haunted about this pony?” he asked. “I know about all the calls you left on our machine. Probably on her cell phone, too. I know she didn't return them.”

“She apologized at Coolidge Park. That's why the pony's in the front room on display, like I promised. Well, one side of him is, anyway. I'd have to finish painting before I could sell and get a decent price for you.” Max looked thoughtful. “If that's your decision, once it's done I'll see what I can do. I'm tapped into a network of people who love carousel horses and in certain circumstances will pay dearly. I can't promise that for a miniature like this—”

“I'd appreciate whatever you can do.”

“If that fails,” Max said, “you can try eBay or Craigslist.”

“Thanks.” Christian started for the door, reluctant to leave and go back to his office at Mallory Trucking. The work no longer satisfied him, and being near Chet Berglund only made things worse. Where that left Christian, he didn't know.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I
TALKED
TO
Max Barrett today.”

Emma glanced up from the television. She'd muted the sound, trying not to absorb the worst of the nightly news report. In recent months she and Christian had developed a habit of eating in the great room, which was better than trying to make conversation at the table with no one else there.

Looking down, she flicked her hand to dislodge a wisp of dog fur from a seat cushion. Emma had given up trying to eat even before Bob had been banished to the sunporch for begging. She seemed to have an uncanny new ability to sense when some troubling issue might come up.

“I hope Max was in a better mood than Frankie,” she murmured. “She's still against the anniversary party.” She half smiled. “Before that Melanie reminded me that you two were already expecting Grace when you ran away to get married. That must have made Frankie's hair catch on fire.”

Christian had to smile. “You should have seen her. Today must have been a minor skirmish by comparison.”

Not really, Emma thought, although it felt good to share a humorous moment with Christian. She recapped their lunch and the way Frankie had marched off toward the parking lot. After that, Emma had eaten way too many chocolates.

“I don't know what else to tell you, Emma. I keep hoping she'll come around, especially for Dad's sake, but...”

“Your mother thinks it would be ‘inappropriate.'”

Emma rose from her seat. Across the room the TV showed an awful video of a new atrocity overseas. With a shudder she picked up her plate and started for the kitchen. Christian got up from his place at the other end of the sofa, and the half-eaten meal that had been on his lap slid to the floor.

With a soft curse he hunkered down to pick up the mess.

“Let's not talk about my mother, okay? I started to tell you about Max.”

Emma bit her lip. The very mention of Max made her blood chill. If he tried to pressure her again about the carousel pony...

“I stopped by on my way back to the office,” Christian went on. “I couldn't believe my eyes. He's got quite a setup there, even though he needs more space. His shop is jammed with carousel horses in every stage of being made, big ones, middle-size ones, small ones. Max says he'll try to find someone to buy the pony.” He took a breath. “I thought you'd be glad to hear that. If he can get it off your hands—”

“I'll be grateful,” she murmured. “Thank you for taking care of that.” Bob was scrabbling at the back door. Any minute now she'd start whining. “The dog,” she said, grateful for the excuse, then disappeared around the corner.

Christian followed her.

“I'll see to Bob,” he said, brushing past her. “You see to...whatever.”

Emma ticked off the chores that had to be done. “I do
have
to clean this kitchen before I go to bed. The great room needs to be tidied again after dinner and probably the floor where your plate fell will need to be mopped.”

“I'll do it.”

“Bob slopped water from her bowl in here, leaving a trail on the porcelain tile, and I did bring some paperwork home.” To be done, she thought, at the kitchen counter before she could even think of trying to sleep.

Behind her, Christian took a mop from the pantry, then fetched a bucket from the garage. “I wouldn't want to keep you,” he said and went to clean the great room floor.

Emma gave Bob a pat as the dog went by, clearly bent on helping Christian. Emma stood in the doorway, watching him work, watching the play of muscles in his shoulders and back and the stiff way he moved as if he were trying to hold something in, or together.

He took another swipe with the mop, then turned. “But you should see that pony, Emma. He's perfect.” For an instant his gaze brightened. “Max's shop is like...Disneyland.”

“I've seen it,” she said. Once, when she'd ordered the pony. “It really is.”

For another moment his eyes held hers. She saw something flash in them and the hint of a smile.

“I could have stayed there all day,” he said, “taking in the colors, the shapes, the smells of wood shavings and glue and paint.”

How could she not be happy for him, even though that happiness had come from Max Barrett's painted ponies? For a change he wasn't stuck in the past like an old record playing the same tune. “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“What do
you
enjoy, Em?”

“Work,” she almost whispered.

Suddenly, he stopped mopping the floor. His gaze had fallen on the front entryway, where Emma had stacked the half dozen cartons she'd lugged in from the car.

“What's all this?”

“Files,” she mumbled, already knowing this wouldn't go well. She should have carried the boxes up before he got home. “Old ones. Most are now inactive—former clients whose projects were finished or, more recently, those who finally decided to hire another firm—like Mrs. Belkin. I need to sort through these dead files but I never seem to have time during the day.”

He frowned, the mop still in his hand.

“I've begun looking for new office space—but so far no luck.”

“And where do these go now?” he asked, his mouth a grim line.

“Obviously, they're on the way upstairs.” His eyes sparked with temper and she said, “Christian, I'm going to have to move from downtown by the end of the year. Why should I pay to move dead paper then?”

“So you moved it here. Now. After I said no.”

“Temporarily, yes,” she insisted.

He shook his head. “Not that I approve of this, but you could have at least waited for me tonight, asked for help if you're so determined. Instead, you carried these boxes in by yourself.”

“I don't need help.”

“Emma.”

“After what you just said, I wouldn't think you'd want to help.”

He paused, tight-lipped, before turning back into the great room to finish the floor. “We already talked about an office here. Painting, and all that. You know my view.”

Yes, she did. In fact, she was amazed he hadn't pitched the boxes out into the yard. But her search for new space wasn't over—and Emma meant to keep going. Wherever she had to.

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
, after touring several possible new spaces with Nicole, Emma ended up at Lanier's office. His somewhat old fashioned, wood-paneled suite had a tendency to intimidate her, like Lanier himself, and she remembered Christian's Freudian slip at Coolidge Park. Yet, after her lunch with Frankie, she needed his help. She faced Lanier across his vast mahogany desk. Like many top executives, he kept it clear.

“My, but you're neat.” Emma drew a stack of catalogs from her bag. “You should see my desk.”

“I'm sure it's well organized—like you. Which is why I put you in charge of the party.” He gestured at the pile she'd made in front of him. “What are these?”

Emma hesitated. As an executive who knew how to delegate, he'd stuck Emma with those party plans—for a party that might not happen. Now that she was here, she felt out of her depth. She didn't have any experience with fathers. Emma didn't even know who her own father was, and she was rarely alone with Lanier. Whenever they saw each other, it was at some family gathering or charity function.

“Invitations,” she said. “I've had no luck with Frankie and your anniversary is getting closer every day. I hope you can help.”

“You want me to choose a design.”

“Not exactly.” She opened a catalog. “Grace and I have discussed these.” Whenever they weren't in yet another wrangle over Grace's continued, if spotty, absences. “We especially like this one—oh, and these, too. They're all simple yet elegant.”

“Like my Frankie,” he said with a smile.

Emma glanced down at her skirt. She'd worn a suit, viewing this meeting as business rather than social. Was she trying to emulate her mother-in-law? Was it that obvious?

After this she had another appointment with Nicole, this time in Brainerd, which wasn't Emma's choice but perhaps a place she could better afford not far from the mall.

“Then I think she'd like this design, too,” she said, trying to focus on the matter at hand. “Don't you?”

Without saying yes or no, Lanier thumbed through the catalog, then picked up another. He gave that a quick scan before tossing it down on his desk.

“You know me, Emma. I don't care if we write the invitations on brown butcher paper with crayons or don't write any at all. I'm up for a party but I'll leave the details to you.” He paused. “I trust you to do the right thing.”

She gave him a look. “You do realize that if this party is a failure, I'll be the one who takes the heat.”

He grinned. “It was your idea.”

“No, it wasn't.” Lanier was far wilier than she'd ever imagined. He wasn't the good old boy he pretended to be—more often than not, she suspected, to tease Frankie. Right now he was teasing her, which she took as a real sign of affection.

“I do have some great suggestions other than the invitation design.”

“Own it,” he said.

“But will you at least show these to Frankie? Talk to her again?”

“If the chance presents itself. I like to choose my best opportunity. Otherwise, I stay out of the line of fire.” He straightened in his chair. “She'll never stop trying to make me a true Southern gentleman complete with a soft Tidewater Virginia-type accent—pure upper crust. If my family hadn't had one soldier on our side in the war between the states—only a private—she'd never have married me.”

“I'm sure that's not true.
You
are a real gentleman.” That Freudian slip, she decided, must have been Christian's alone.

Lanier shook his head. “Poor Frankie never expected to end up married to a guy like me. No polish at all. I speak my mind, though. And she knows that. She needs that.”

“I hope you'll find that opportunity to show Frankie these invitations,” Emma persisted.

He grinned again. “The invitations
you
chose. I'll probably be spending the night in the kennel out back anyway but yes, I'll show her.”

Emma repacked her bag, leaving his desk as clear as it had been when she arrived. “It's going to be a good party, Lanier.”

“I expect nothing less.” He kissed her at the door. “Just don't expect Frankie to thank you for it. Even after she has the time of her life.”

CHAPTER NINE

A
S
SOON
AS
Emma stepped into the twins' bedroom, she saw the obvious remnants of children's play. Even after most of the old furniture had been removed, a pink tutu lay abandoned on the floor. A glittery crown, obviously inspired by the movie
Frozen
, hung from a remaining clothes peg on one wall, looking forlorn. Several dolls, including a much-loved Barbie with blond hair now in dreadlocks, had been kicked into a corner.

Right now Emma was alone, with time to reassess her design for this room before the crew arrived. That wasn't a good thing for her this morning.

Last night she'd told Christian about her meeting with Lanier. “He promised to show Frankie the invitations tonight.”

“Can't wait for that reaction,” he'd said.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Once the invitations are ordered, I'll need to work on the menu with the caterers we select. After Lanier softens your mother up, we can move forward.” Always forward, she thought. No time to think about the past.

“Assuming Dad can get through to her,” Christian had said. “I wouldn't make that assumption. We could wait. Fifty's an even bigger number.”

Maybe he was right, and maybe Frankie was, too. Last year, as if by mutual agreement, Christian and Emma had skipped any celebration of their anniversary.

“But how can we know they'll reach fifty?” she'd said. “Look at Max Barrett. He's already a widower and still young. We can never know what will happen between one moment and the next.” If she'd once thought there would always be another family dinner on Sunday, she knew differently now.

Emma rubbed her stomach and sighed. Since she'd talked with Lanier yesterday, she'd felt queasy.

Waiting for her crew, Emma spied another pair of action figures on the floor. Boys' toys and, she suspected, a commando raid on their little sisters' domain.

Emma shook herself. She couldn't afford to waste time. In a few minutes Derek and Stan would be here. In another hour she had a different client to see, a smaller job but a necessary one. For now, Melanie was on the phone downstairs but she'd come up soon to discuss the further suggestions for this room.

She blinked at the morning light pouring through the bay window. The seat with new storage would make a perfect place to snuggle with a book. Emma liked the gingham curtains Melanie had bought—unable to wait, she supposed, for the room to be complete before she added her own touch. Putting them up this soon wouldn't be Emma's choice but they were washable.

A second later her gaze landed on the half-open closet, where some colored objects had spilled across the floor. They caught the morning sun to sparkle, and the haphazard display of clear green, yellow and blue made her heart crack, but in that same instant Melanie came into the room with her usual smile.

“Well, what's the verdict? Think this disaster scene can be salvaged?”

“It's going to be adorable,” Emma said, but her voice sounded tight. “With only a bit more tweaking.” She turned away from Melanie to point at the far wall. “The shelves will relieve a lot of the clutter that was here before,” she hastened to add, but...were those bits of color on the closet floor really gummy bears?

“How did you make out with Frankie?” Melanie asked.

She sighed. “Not well, I'm afraid. I gave Lanier the invitation catalogs yesterday—and left him to show her.”

“Batten down the hatches,” Melanie murmured.

They wandered the room, Emma making suggestions and Melanie scooping up the last scattered toys. Emma finished by saying, “With the window seat cushion to match the curtains and complement the twins' new bed linens—”

“My best efforts to get them to make their beds have failed miserably, but the new duvets may do the trick. The twins can just fling them over their beds in the morning and I can easily launder the covers.”

Emma glanced again toward the colored pieces on the closet floor.

“Oh, those.” With a laugh, Melanie said, “That's the girls' collection of sea glass from our summer vacation this year. Treasures, they call them.”

Emma could feel Melanie's eyes on her.

“They looked like candy to me. Owen loved gummy bears. He always took some for the General, even that last time—” She could still see those colorful bits in the dirt just inside the stall... She took a shaky breath. “He said it made him laugh to see the horse's teeth get sticky—just like Owen's did.”

“I can't even imagine how much you must miss him,” Melanie said.

And something seemed to burst inside Emma's chest. She remembered Christian's words only last night...his lonely stance at their bedroom window on so many other nights, her own midnight tours of the garden, the eternal silence in the house...even Max Barrett's soothing words that hadn't helped. Melanie's healthy, messy children had dropped their clothes and toys everywhere because tomorrow would be time enough to pick them up.

Melanie was biting her lip and fiddling with her wedding ring. Emma could imagine her thinking that perhaps she'd made a mistake in hiring this obviously deranged woman, giving her access to her home, her treasured family.

Emma hated herself for feeling jealous of another woman's life, her happiness.

And she had a job to do. There was no sense going to pieces. A quick image of Frankie flashed into her mind, the model of womanly control Emma did try, yes, to emulate.

“I feel at such a loss,” Melanie murmured. “I wish I knew how to help.” She paused, then asked gently, “Have you talked to someone? A professional, I mean.”

“We did for a while,” Emma said.

“If counseling makes you uneasy, what about some kind of group?”

“Thanks, Melanie. I appreciate that.” But how would she ever talk about what had happened? Because of her mother's neglect, Emma had been forced to keep her feelings inside lest they scatter all over the place—and, because she'd had no one else to rely on then, frighten her even more. It was always hard for her to open up, especially now, and especially with Christian.

But, “You're right, I have to
do
something.”

“One step at a time.” Melanie guided her from the room, an arm around her shoulders. “I haven't had your experience and I don't know what I'd do in your place, but I'm sure the first try doesn't have to be perfect.”

* * *

O
H
,
LOVELY
.
F
RANKIE
WEIGHED
the stack of printer's catalogs in her hand. She'd found them in Lanier's dressing room, but she knew exactly who was responsible. Emma's handwriting on a piece of paper tucked into one catalog said it all.

Frankie and Lanier Mallory invite

you to share in a celebration

of their forty-five years of marriage

Seven o'clock on the fourth of December

The Laurel Club, Lookout Mountain,
Tennessee

Half an hour later, she strode into No More Clutter. With barely a glance at the shop, which seemed to be littered with packing cartons, she went straight for Emma's desk and slapped down the stack of catalogs.

“Explain, please.”

Emma was on the phone but she quickly said goodbye and hung up, looked down at the catalogs and then up into Frankie's eyes. They seemed as dark as a coming thunderstorm.

“I don't think they need an explanation.” Emma tried to hand the catalogs back but Frankie refused to take them. With a sigh, Emma laid them on her desk. “Lanier didn't show these to you. Did he?”

“Lanier is on a hunting trip today,” Frankie said. She had left a message on his cell phone before she threw on a pair of slacks, a silk blouse and blazer and headed down the mountain into town, straight to the source. After this matter was settled, she had a luncheon meeting. “I imagine he's lying low in anticipation of my reaction.”

“Lucky me,” she thought she heard Emma murmur. Emma moved papers around on her desk, avoiding Frankie's gaze.

Now that her anger had been voiced, and the edge taken off, Frankie glanced toward the other desk. “Where's Grace?”

“She didn't come in.”

“And what's all this?” she said, indicating the cardboard boxes everywhere.

“I'll be moving from here by the first of the year.”

That surprised Frankie. “You've been in this location since you first opened your business. Moving because?”

“My landlord raised the rent. I can't afford it. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find suitable new space. I'll keep looking but...”

She doubted Emma would give up but, momentarily distracted by the news, Frankie paced the room. Those dark chestnut shelves in one display area and the matching granite-topped island were passable, she supposed, for someone's walk-in closet, but they were nowhere near the quality and style of her own pieces at home, including those in Lanier's dressing room.

“Is Grace sick today?” she finally asked.

“That's what she said.” Emma clearly didn't believe her.

Frankie frowned. “You don't imagine that husband of hers is some kind of abuser?”

“For heaven's sake,” Emma said. “Grace wouldn't fall in love with a man who doesn't treat her well.” She paused. “Christian and I weren't happy when they eloped, but it's clear they love each other. Rafe's age isn't that great an issue for them—in fact, it may be a help—and sooner or later,” she said with a faint smile, “Grace will grow up a little more.”

Frankie wasn't convinced. “Grace hasn't been herself lately.”

“Grace hasn't really been herself since...”

Neither she nor Emma seemed willing to go any further on that topic, at least, not today. One day her resentment might bubble over the top. For now, Frankie paced again. And frowned at the white plastic-coated metal shelves meant for someone's laundry room. They were simply unacceptable.

“If I were you, I'd get to the bottom of things with Grace. I'll be talking to Melanie about her, as well.”

She tried not to see the flash of hurt cross Emma's face at the thoughtless reminder that Melanie, not Emma, was Grace's mother. Frankie returned her attention to the offending catalogs.

Her aversion to the party had become almost an obsession—like her fixation on the daily paper's obituary section—but this past dreadful year was coming to a head. Frankie wouldn't call attention to it in any way.

How foolish it would be to confide in her son's second wife, a woman with whom she had never fully connected. Yet they were alone in the shop. No one would hear them, and Emma would never be like some of Frankie's friends, saying one thing with a sweet smile while meaning another.

“How would you feel,” she said, “if Christian came to you and said he'd like to throw a birthday party for...?” She couldn't finish. She didn't know which was worse. That horrid day nearly a year ago and the crushing loss she still felt, or a celebration that would only bring more unbearable expressions of sympathy.

“A party for Owen?” Emma finished for her. “I would be shocked.”

“That's how I feel about my anniversary.”

Frankie snatched a catalog off the desk. She recognized the printing firm, one she'd used for some charity event. And her gaze homed in on a page that had fallen open. The company did fine work.

“Lanier will be home tonight,” she said, riffling through the catalog. “Probably dragging some poor deer's carcass on the hood of his truck. His dogs will be so overly excited from the hunt they'll howl all night. I'll tell him then. You may cancel whatever arrangements have been made.”

She skimmed the page, then another. And another.

“Oh, this one's very nice,” she murmured.

Emma leaned over to look at it. “That's one of the designs Grace and I liked.” She raised an eyebrow. “I know you'd prefer a small dinner rather than a large party...”

Frankie sighed. “And I know Lanier dropped this on you, the same way he relies on Christian to do his bidding.”

Emma half smiled. “I was glad to help, but I'm a household organizer not an event planner.” She paused. “You are.”

Frankie couldn't argue with that. She had the suddenly exhilarated feeling she often got when she was asked to chair an event like the Pink Ball or the Coolidge Park fund-raiser. She had a poor record of saying no.

“Please, Frankie. You'd add so much to this event—which would help both of us.”

“Well. Then maybe... I can offer a bit of help. And some of my friends would never forgive me if they weren't included. Just a few, though,” she said, already searching through her mental Rolodex.

Emma looked stunned.

“An about-face, I realize,” Frankie said, not meeting her gaze. “I should tell you something else. Another reason I've objected to this occasion is indeed my friends. Most are nothing but sympathetic, and none of them would ever dare to say a harsh word to
my
face about what happened last year, but at a party with the drinks flowing...loose tongues can be very cruel, as I'm sure you know.”

“Yes,” Emma said.

“Still. Since Lanier is so bent upon having this party...”

The look of relief in Emma's eyes was something to see.

“If we're going to do this,” Frankie said, “let's do it right.” She glanced around the shop, taking in the boxes, the clutter that was so unusual for a business called No More Clutter.

She glanced at her Rolex, a birthday present from Lanier last year, mere months before the accident that had stopped time for Frankie and frozen her heart once more. “But all that will have to wait. If I don't hurry, I'll be late for a meeting.”