Pictures of Emily (10 page)

“Because people want to read lies. Lies sell papers.”

“He didn’t seem like a bad man. I’ve always thought the most important thing a person could do as they live their life is be kind to others. I used to think everybody thought that way.”

She looked at him, her eyes full of confusion and hurt, begging him to make sense of something that made no sense.

He wished to God he could take the hurt from her eyes; shelter her from the world. A person had to be on guard, be careful. But he didn’t want to tell her that. He didn’t want her to change. “Some people take advantage of kindness,” he said.

She picked up the notebook that had fallen to the porch floor. He watched as she read the reporter’s notes, her eyes moving back and forth. When she was done, she shut the notebook. Without looking at him, she got to her feet and went inside.

Sonny picked up the notebook and opened it.

It’s easy to see why Sonny Maxwell chose Emily Christian as his lover. She has an open, earthy quality that spells sexy. Like Lil’ Abner’s Daisy. Big bedroom eyes that say she’s hot, ready, and willing to please her man.

He should have hit him. No, he should have killed him.

Sonny sat on the porch for a long time. After the sun was gone, he went inside and burned the notebook in the fireplace. While he watched the edges of paper curl, he came to a decision.

He found Emily upstairs, packing. He didn’t go any closer than the doorway. He wrapped his fingers around the wooden doorjamb and hung on. “I’m sorry, Emily.”

She looked up from the suitcase and smiled. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d been crying.

Mermaid tears.

Something twisted inside him.

But it was her smile that hurt the most. It was sad and wistful and brave, defying the moisture in her eyes. A brave front. She was learning. She’d grown her first layer of defense against the world.

“It’s okay, Sonny.”

“I have an idea.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing that can be done. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“There’s something we could do to stop the gossip.”

She looked up, a puzzled frown on her innocent face. Suddenly he was scared. More scared than he’d been when he’d handed her the article.

He didn’t want to let her go. Now that he’d found her, he didn’t want to lose her.

He swallowed and said, hoping to sound offhand, “We could get married.”

Her big blue eyes grew even larger. She started to say something, stopped, then started again. “Married?” She tested the word in her mouth as if she’d never said it before.

“This is all my fault,” he said.

Don’t blow it. Don’t let her see how much you want her.

“Getting married would stop the lies. And it would get the press off my back. They don’t seem to be interested in staid, married men.”

When she still didn’t answer, he rushed on. “It could be temporary. Just for show.”

“You mean… kind of like a pretend marriage?”

“Yeah, pretend.”

She moved her hands in nervous confusion. Her eyes looked at everything but him. “Getting married would only give credence to the lie.” Now she looked at him. “Thank you, but no. I couldn’t possibly marry you.”

Her rejection was like a physical blow. Mentally, he staggered back. Once again, he was a child being shoved away.

She doesn’t want you. Nobody wants you.
It was hard to breathe. But he had to say something, had to let her know that her rejection didn’t matter.

He called upon his acting talent, but then he’d never been much of an actor. What had one critic said?

Sonny Maxwell was a pretty package with nothing inside.

“Yeah, well.” He managed a shrug. “It was just an idea.”

Blindly, he turned and left.

Emily stood staring at the empty doorway.

Sonny was gone, but the small room still reverberated with dark, powerful emotions. There hadn’t been any visual colors, but she had felt a black despair of the most staggering magnitude. And it was still there, pressing down upon her.

He’d wanted her to say yes.

She couldn’t believe it.

Yes.

When she hadn’t, his face had gone still. Pain and despair had filled the room.

She slowly closed her suitcase. Then she went downstairs.

Sonny was sitting on the couch, staring at a small pile of ashes in the fireplace. His sun streaked, wind-tousled hair lay shaggily over the collar of his shirt. One fine-boned hand rested on a bent knee.

Love for him rushed over her and through her, scaring her, overwhelming her. She was in love with someone she barely knew.

She was in love with Sonny Maxwell.

Softly, she spoke his name. He turned and looked at her. The pain wasn’t apparent now. He’d gotten it under control. He waited, watching quietly.

“I’ll marry you,” she whispered.

A spark leapt into his eyes, a flash of joy, of life, then it was gone, covered up. But it had been enough to warm her.

He got to his feet and came to stand in front of her. He took both of her hands in his.

It seemed most unlikely, but she had the strangest feeling that he was too overcome to speak.

Nonsense.

He pulled her close, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss on her lips. Then he was enfolding her in his arms, pulling her to him, holding her tightly, his fingertips in her hair, against her scalp, pressing her ear to his heart.

“Are you sure, Emily?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” So very sure.

For Emily, saying yes had come naturally. She loved Sonny. And even though she knew he didn’t love her, she sensed that he needed her, and she harbored a secret hope that in time that need would turn to love.

In the fairy tales Babbie was so fond of, the stories always ended when the princess said yes. Emily hadn’t looked ahead to the reality of getting married. There was a marriage license to buy, blood tests to take, decisions to make. It was overwhelming.

She was thankful Sonny was so organized, so practical.

“Have you thought about where you want to live?” he asked as they stood in the courthouse waiting to apply for their marriage license.

Reality. “I don’t know.” In truth, she hadn’t thought beyond the present. But she didn’t think Sonny would be able to stand the isolation of St. Genevieve, and now she had to face the possibility of a life away from her family, away from her little island.

When they finished with the marriage application, he grasped her by the elbow. “We have another matter to take care of before we leave.”

“Another matter?”

“Come on—”

His eyes were shining with some strange inner excitement, some secret. She’d never seen him look so alive.

They took the elevator to the third floor and a cramped office where they met a man who looked as if he might be a lawyer.

“Everything has been taken care of,” the man said. He handed Sonny an official-looking document. “We just need Emily’s signature on the bottom line.” Sonny passed the paper to Emily.

A deed. A deed to the St. Genevieve lighthouse. She looked up at Sonny, unable to take it all in.

“I—I don’t understand ”

“It’s a present. A wedding present.”

Her grandfather’s lighthouse?

Half-formed thoughts collided in her mind. The lighthouse. It was so sudden, such a surprise, more than she could grasp. Here he was, giving her something she had thought unattainable, something beyond her reach. And since the lighthouse included the attached cottage, it might also mean that they would live on St. Genevieve.

She glanced up at Sonny, then back at the paper in her hands. He was already under the impression that she was using him to save her name. What would he think if she accepted such a gift—one he knew she wanted so desperately? To him, it might seem that she was using him again, this time in order to own the lighthouse.

Sonny was more important than the lighthouse. Much more.

He looked so pleased with himself. She hated to disappoint him, but she knew she must. She handed the paper back to him. “I can’t accept this, Sonny. It’s too much.”

“I went to a lot of work to get this arranged. You have to accept it.” He stuck the paper back in her hand and led her to a nearby table. He picked up a pen and worked it between her fingers. “Sign the paper, Emily. The lighthouse should be yours.”

“Sonny, I can’t possibly accept such a gift.”

“Don’t think of it as a gift. Think of it as saving a piece of history. Come on, Emily. Sign it.” He stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave her a smile that made her melt inside. “Sign it for me.”

And so she signed it for Sonny, and became the new owner of the St. Genevieve lighthouse.

Sonny and Emily were married in the little white church on St. Genevieve Island—the church where Sara and John Christian had been married and where Emily had been baptized. The church where Emily still sang in the Sunday choir.

Emily told Sonny that a courthouse wedding would have been fine, but he’d somehow seen through her brave smile and insisted the wedding take place on St. Genevieve, with her family present.

Now, dressed in Sara Christian’s wedding gown, Emily stood by Sonny’s side before Pastor John.

With this ring …I thee wed…

Dressed in black tails, Sonny bowed his head toward her, a shaft of sunlight striking his hair, reflecting off the golden streaks. If ever a man could be called beautiful, Emily thought, it was Sonny Maxwell.

She lifted her hand to accept the ring. Feeling disembodied, she watched her hand tremble, helpless to stop the tremors. Then she felt the steadiness of Sonny’s sure grip as he slid the plain gold band on her finger.

With this ring, I thee wed… Forsaking all others… Till death do us part—

Then it was Emily’s turn. She repeated the vows, her voice shaking as badly as her hands. Sonny had to help guide the gold band on his own finger. Then he squeezed her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “This will all be over in a few more minutes,” he whispered.

No, it was just beginning. It wasn’t until that moment that the full significance of what she was doing hit her.

When the vows were completed, Pastor John said, “You may kiss the bride.”

Through a blur of confused and churning emotions, Emily saw Sonny smile down at her. Then he bent and brushed his lips lightly across hers.

Like a promise. A sweet, sweet promise.

Her eyes were about to drift closed when his lips left hers. Pastor John indicated that they should face the congregation.

They turned.

The pews were full. All of St. Genevieve had turned out to see Sonny Maxwell make an honest woman of Emily Christian.

“May I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Sonny Maxwell.”

The sound of applause echoed through the church.

Emily was hardly aware of being escorted back down the aisle and out the double doors. Sunshine touched her face, and a crisp wind tugged at her skirt, molding the fabric to her legs.

And then people were there, pumping hands, kissing cheeks. Emily was enveloped in frail arms, pressed into matronly bosoms. Kelly McFarlin gave her a broad wink. Her father, with a hint of suspicious moisture in his dark eyes, hugged her to him, then pounded his new son-in-law on the back.

Emily’s sisters were making their presence known. Babbie couldn’t seem to hold still. She danced an excited circle around everybody. For her, they were living the perfect happy ending. Claire was in her glory, vacillating between holding her head extremely high, and watching Sonny with dreamy eyes. Tilly was trying to maintain a bored facade, but when it came time to throw the rice, she dropped all pretense of disinterest. In fact, she became so caught up in the festivities that John Christian was forced to halt her pitching arm in mid-throw, firmly reminding her to toss
gently
.

Doreen was busy snapping pictures, documenting the occasion. Martin Berlin, looking dashing in a tux, hovered near her shoulder. Occasionally Doreen would flash him a studied look of irritation. Then he would lean close and whisper something in her ear, and Doreen would reward him with a reluctant smile.

Sonny broke away from the cluster of chatting people and strode toward his Jeep, which he’d had ferried to the island. It was old and, as Sonny had put it, didn’t have much go. Emily liked the fact that Sonny wasn’t obsessed with speed. Another stereotype shattered.

She was still staring in the direction Sonny had gone when Doreen came up and surprised her by giving her a quick hug. And Emily could have sworn she detected a glimmer of tears in the woman’s eyes. With his dry surgeon’s palm, Martin shook her hand.

Sonny pulled up in the Jeep. He set the emergency brake, then came around to her side.

“Sorry about the wheels. A Jeep and a wedding gown don’t quite go together.”

Emily thought it charming. “It’s wonderful,” she assured him.

He helped her up, tucking her skirt inside before shutting the door. Then he slid behind the steering wheel.

They pulled away, Emily waving goodbye. Claire, Babbie and Tilly stood beside their father, waving as if Emily were boarding a ship to journey far, far away.

And in a way, she was.

The Jeep rattled over the rutted lane. In the short time Emily had been gone, the grass had turned a vivid green, and the huge baseball-size dandelions St. Genevieve was famous for had opened. They covered the gently sloping hills like fields of bright yellow carpet.

The St. Genevieve lighthouse stood on an outcropping on the north end of the island. It was attached to the quaint cottage by a wooden ramp.

Sonny stopped in front of the white picket fence, shut off the engine, then came around to help Emily out.

They went through the arched gateway and up the cobblestone walk. Their hard-soled dress shoes echoed sharply against the porch floor.

“I made a couple phone calls and found someone to clean up the place.” Sonny swung open the wooden door and stood aside.

It had been four years since Emily had been there. She was surprised and delighted to find that it hadn’t changed very much. The wooden church pew, worn smooth and shiny from all those devoted churchgoers, still stood near the door, next to the oak hat rack.