Pictures of Emily (3 page)

“Th-the water—” she protested, barely able to form the words through her numb lips, “—w-will ruin it.”

He draped it around her shoulders anyway, then held it in place with his arm, her body pressed to his.

The pier stretched out before them, a planked walkway that suddenly looked much longer than it had before.

They began walking.

Emily’s feet felt like lead, her joints and muscles pulling tighter and tighter.

They walked.

Shaking, teeth chattering… Pain. Her skin hurt, her body hurt, her hands, her feet—

Wind cut through her like a knife.

They walked.

She kept her chin down and her eyes half-closed to protect them from the slicing wind. Her breath rasped in her chest. Beside her, she could hear his labored breathing; see it making a steam cloud before him.

But it didn’t seem like they were moving at all. Like a bad dream, she was placing one foot in front of the other, but was getting nowhere. She lifted her head to check on their progress, the wind stinging her eyes. The end of the wharf seemed no closer.

Had to get warm, had to get inside… In her mind, she pictured a roaring fire. She tried to feel its warmth, but failed. Another series of tremors hit her, coming right on top of the other. Beside her, Sonny Maxwell was shaking almost as badly.

“Come on, Emily. You can’t stop now.”

She managed some more steps, vaguely wondering how he knew her name. Of course everybody knew his name.

Sonny Maxwell.

Sonny Maxwell to the rescue… to the rescue… to the rescue.

From a distance came a voice, raised in alarm, penetrating her fog-enshrouded brain. She heard footsteps hammering over wooden planks.

“Emily!”

It was Annie McIntyre, the postmistress. Her voice cut through the pain-induced haze. “Emily! You poor, poor dear! We have to get you home immediately!”

Emily sensed rather than felt Annie pat her hand. She experienced a moment of panic when she was pulled from Sonny’s grasp, his arm replaced by Annie’s.

“Come on, honey,” Annie coaxed.

Emily lifted her face, searching behind her, wind burning her cheeks. Sonny Maxwell was gone. And she hadn’t even thanked him.

Annie took charge. Emily wasn’t aware of walking up the hill to her house, but suddenly they were inside the door, being bombarded by a stream of questions from her three younger sisters.

“Emily will tell you later,” Annie said, shooing the girls away.

She helped Emily out of her clothes and into a tepid bath, increasing the water temperature as Emily’s body thawed.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said, clucking her tongue. “And imagine—to be pulled out of the water by Sonny Maxwell, of all people.” Her voice was a combination of awe and disgust.

The whole island had been humming about Sonny Maxwell for weeks, ever since he’d made reservations at the St. Genevieve Inn. And even though there was no theater on the island, they had magazines, radio, television and VCRs. Sonny Maxwell’s face was as well-known as the President’s. More so, maybe.

“Paid to look pretty,” Annie said. “Imagine that. What kind of world are we living in where a person can make a living by looking pretty? It’s sinful.”

A week ago, Emily’s father had said much the same thing, and Emily had agreed. But that was before she’d come face-to-face with Sonny Maxwell.

There weren’t many people Emily disliked—no one, when she really thought about it. But, upon the occasion they should ever have met, she’d been prepared to dislike Sonny Maxwell. If it was true what the tabloids said, there was hardly a woman in the world who hadn’t spent a night in his bed. And anyone who treated women as sex objects, anyone whose life revolved around materialistic pleasure seeking and self-gratification couldn’t be anyone she would like.

But that had been before.

He’d been a surprise. Nothing like she’d expected. There had been something about him that had called to her… a sadness, maybe. Or possibly a loneliness. But how could someone like Sonny Maxwell be lonely?

“And with your father out to sea,” Annie said, chattering away, “it would be the end of the poor man if he lost you, too. I’ve never seen a man take a death any harder than he took your mother’s. I told him he shouldn’t have planted that weeping willow tree. Somebody always dies after a person plants a weeping willow tree.”

By the time Emily was dry and tucked in bed with a hot water bottle and a bowl of soup, she was feeling almost herself. But what about Sonny Maxwell? He’d been just as wet, just as cold. Had someone fixed hot soup for him? Or tucked a hot water bottle at his feet? And she hadn’t even thanked him, hadn’t even offered her home and fire.

“Now you just rest,” Annie said. “I’ll get the girls’ supper.”

“You’ve done enough, Annie. Claire is twelve. She can get supper on the table.”

“I won’t hear of it. I won’t go home until I know everything here is in order.”

In another hour and a half Annie was gone, leaving Emily feeling guilty for the relief she felt at the peace that had descended.

She let out a sigh and stared down at the quilt that covered her. The swatches of fabric represented different family members: a piece of her mother’s apron, a blouse that had belonged to Claire, a dress of Tilly’s, a jumper of little Babbie’s, denim from Papa’s jeans.

She touched a finger to a patch of light-blue calico. It was from the dress she’d worn the first day of school. Emily remembered her mother holding the bolt of cloth to her small chin, declaring that the cornflower blue perfectly matched her eyes.

But their family was shattered when Sara Christian died of a misdiagnosed ruptured appendix. The doctor had said it was just a bad case of the flu. Now Emily’s mother lay in a grave on the hillside overlooking the harbor.

She’d been gone four years. It didn’t hurt as much to think of her now. The pain was tempered with bittersweet memories. But Christmas and birthdays— special times were still hard to get through.

A small sound from the vicinity of the bedroom door, like that of a tiny mouse, drew Emily from her reflections. The door creaked and swung open, inch by slow inch. Five-year-old Babbie stuck her head inside. “Emily…?”

“Come on in, sweetheart.”

“Annie said to leave you alone.”

Emily patted the bed. “I could really use some company.”

Babbie came in, followed by twelve-year-old Claire and ten-year-old Tilly. Unlike Emily, who was a throwback of her grandmother’s Swedish ancestry, all three girls reflected their father’s strong Irish heritage. Their eyes were green, their hair dark brown.

Babbie scrambled up on the bed and cuddled next to Emily. Her little sister smelled like soap and bleach and clothes that had been dried outside.

“Tell us about the prince who rescued you,” she begged.

Tilly let out a loud snort. “He wasn’t a prince. His name is Sonny Maxwell. He’s an actor and a model, not a prince.”

“I can call him a prince, can’t I, Emily?”

“How about calling him the make-out king,” Tilly mumbled under her breath.

“Tilly—” Emily frowned. Tilly spent far too much time in front of the television. Even though she wasn’t supposed to watch soap operas and tabloid TV, Emily had caught her at it more than once.

Emily patted Babbie’s leg. “You can call him a prince if you want.”

“I can’t believe you met Sonny Maxwell,” Claire said. She came around the side of the bed, picked up a comb and began running it through Emily’s damp blond tresses. “What was he like? What did he say?” “What color were his eyes?” Babbie wanted to know.

“Gray,” Claire said.

“How do you know?” Babbie asked.

“I saw it in a magazine.”

“Did he ride a noble steed?” Babbie’s words came out in a breathless rush.

Tilly rolled her eyes.

Emily pulled Babbie close and ruffled her tumbling dark curls. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. There was not a noble steed in sight.”

Babbie’s face fell, then brightened. “Maybe it was waiting behind a building.”

Tilly leaned close to Claire and whispered, “More like a big black Harley with a babe on back.”

“Tilly!”

Middle child syndrome, Emily had to remind herself. She’d read all about it. Claire was so polite and poised that it seemed Tilly went out of her way to be the very opposite. Claire was a model student, while Tilly always had to stay after school. She constantly tried to be the center of attention by doing and saying outrageous things.

“Come on, Tilly. Sit down and listen to the story.”

“Okay.” Trying to act as if she wasn’t really interested, Tilly shuffled across the room, crossed her arms at her waist and plopped down on the bed, her legs dangling over the rail.

“The story, Emily,” Claire begged.

Emily laughed. “Okay, okay. Now stop shaking the bed!”

They settled down, their faces expectant, even Tilly’s. Never had Emily had such a rapt audience.

“As you know, I was bringing in the kite, just like I always do—”

“The dragon kite?” Babbie interrupted.

For over a year Emily had been trying to perfect the dragon design. Now, reminded of the loss of her gangling, ungraceful creation, she smiled a little wistfully and said, “Yes, the dragon kite.”

“I knew it. It had to be the dragon,” Babbie said. “The prince rescues her from the dragon.”

“Let Emily tell it,” Claire said.

Emily told them of how the kite had been wrenched by the wind, how she had grabbed for it and had fallen into the frigid waters. How she’d been pulled beneath the surface and darkness had filled her. How she’d felt as if death might be very close—

But then Sonny Maxwell had come.

And she’d felt his white-and-gray light stronger than she’d ever felt anyone’s light before.

As a small child, Emily had discovered that in times of high emotion or stress, certain people put off a light she could sense.

The islanders said it was because she was a December’s child, born between the hours of midnight and dawn of Christmas Day. Emily wasn’t sure what she believed, she only knew she could sometimes sense colors.

The only other person she knew of who had the same strange ability was Greta Svenson, the midwife who lived on the other side of the island. Greta had told her that the light was called an aura, and that it was a reflection of a person’s heart and soul.

She’d also told her that a white aura was a sign of purity and goodness. Gray was the color of pain and sadness. Of emptiness. It was the color sometimes seen when a person dies, when the soul leaves the body.

Purity and emptiness.

That’s what Sonny Maxwell’s aura had been telling her.

“What did he say when he pulled you from the water?” Claire asked, her voice breathless in anticipation, interrupting Emily’s confused musings, pulling her thoughts back to the present.

Emily drew her blanket-draped legs closer to her, wrapping her arms around her knees. “He asked me if I was a mermaid.”

That got the gasp she’d hoped for.

“Did you get his autograph?” Claire asked.

“Oh, I’m sure!” Tilly said. “They were both freezing to death!”

“I’d love to have his autograph,” Claire said sighing.

“Hey, I know. Let’s invite him to dinner,” Tilly suggested.

They all looked at her. Claire started jumping up and down, clapping her hands. “Yes, let’s! Let’s!”

Emily frowned.

“Please, oh please,” they all three begged.

“To thank him,” Claire added.

“Well…” Emily shot Tilly a severe look. “If Tilly can behave—”

“Cross my heart.” Tilly drew an A on her chest and smiled a smile that made Emily want to hug her and scold her at the same time.

“Oh, sure,” Claire said, rolling her eyes and mimicking her sister. “You can’t be good for a whole evening.”

“Wanna bet?” Tilly demanded.

“Girls!” Emily broke in. “Of course Tilly can be good. Can’t you, Tilly?”

“Of course.”

Emily wanted to believe her. Oh, how she wanted to believe her.

Sonny was standing in the second-floor bedroom of the St. Genevieve Inn, getting ready to head to Emily Christian’s house. He’d asked the tomboy who’d returned his jacket a few casually placed questions and found out that Emily’s mother was dead and Emily was helping to raise three younger sisters, one being the ornery looking Tilly Christian.

His first instinct had been to decline the dinner invitation. He wasn’t a mingler, never had been. And it was too late to start now. But he couldn’t get Emily Christian out of his head. No matter what he was doing, or where he was, he kept reenacting the events of yesterday. And the main point of his focus dwelt upon that slow-motion moment when he’d looked Emily Christian full in the face and felt the earth move.

Corny? No doubt.

He couldn’t figure it out, but he knew there had to be a logical explanation. His own borderline hypothermia, maybe.

He grabbed his shirt from the bed and shrugged into it, tucked in the tail, buttoned and zipped his jeans. Then he raked his fingers through his straight hair, giving his reflection a cursory glance in the cloudy oval mirror hanging above the ornate dresser.

Doreen was right. He needed a haircut.

He’d no sooner thought about her complaint about his hair when a rapid, no-nonsense knock sounded at the door.

Doreen.

She had a distinctive knock.

He opened the door to find her standing in the hallway, a hand on her hip, the big tan purse she always carried slung over one shoulder.

Her eyes took in his white oxford shirt and clean jeans. “So,” she said, disapproval in her voice and stance. “You’re going.”

“Yeah.”

They had known each other so long that Doreen assumed she had the right to gripe about the way he lived. Maybe she did.

“You were an idiot to jump in that water yesterday,” she said.

“I’m a strong swimmer.”

An understatement. He could have elaborated, but he didn’t. He rarely elaborated on anything.

“What if you get sick from your little swim?” Doreen asked. “They probably don’t even have a doctor on this island.” She snorted. “But then maybe that’s all for the best. If they did, he’d probably burn roots shaped like men, chant incantations and use leeches.”