Thin Ice (50 page)

are suffering."

He'd heard the rumors, but ... “How bad is it?"

"He's going into Chapter 11 as soon as the hoopla over the Saints dies down. In the meantime he's going to milk it for al he can get.

He has no emotional ties to the team. Not like ... not like me."

Surprisingly, she looked embarrassed. “Why are you teling me this?"

"You did me a big favor today. I like to repay my debts. I also know your contract's up. And while I'm sure the front office wil happily renew it unless you get al big-headed and demand a few more milions—which you wel deserve after the miracle you puled off this year—but you didn't hear that from me—I thought you might want a head start on finding a job closer to home."

Closer to home. Closer to Emily.

Eric closed his eyes and swore.

"My sentiments, exactly.” Catherine opened her door. “Thanks for the ride. My condo's just up the street. The salon's open for another half hour. Ask for Henri. Tel him I sent you."

"Wait.” She paused, hand on the door, eyebrows raised. “Wil you be al right?"

Her smile was briliant, but Eric saw the sadness beneath it. “Of course. I'm a Stumpinski. I thrive on chalenges, live for corporate power plays. I'l be so deep in sharks I won't have time to notice I'm stil single."

"But they wil, Catherine. Trust me."

"It's not a shark I want, Eric. I want a partner."

In one fluid movement she slipped out of the Boxter and was gone.

Eric puled into Emily's driveway at seven-thirty, stil wondering how to break the news to her. He had a week, two at most before any official announcements were made, but rumors could start any minute. He swore again, and almost wished Catherine hadn't told him. Then he would have been able to ask Emily to marry him with a clear conscience.

He couldn't ask her now, not without teling her about California.

Robbie answered the door and led him to Emily and Patricia, Robbie answered the door and led him to Emily and Patricia, seated at a set kitchen table, their plates clean, unused. They'd waited for him. “Sorry I'm late."

Emily smiled in welcome. “No problem. Eric, this is Patricia.

Patricia, Eric.” Emily stood and gave Eric a quick kiss, as if she did so every night of the week when he came home for dinner.

Happiness bubbled inside him at the thought. “Patricia and I were just discussing ideas for redecorating the house."

Redecorating the house. Strengthening her roots. Eric's bubble burst as he felt a stab of guilt and forced a smile. “Let me know if I can help. I'm handy enough with a toolbox and I'l be free most of the summer.” At least they'd have that much.

Emily laughed. “We're talking accent pilows and walpaper borders

—not ful scale remodeling.” She smiled and patted his cheek affectionately. “But thank you. I might cal you if I find a good sale on siding."

Home and hearth, Eric thought duly, taking a seat at Emily's insistence while she and Patricia put dinner on the table. Never had it felt so right. Never had it seemed so far out of reach.

"You're quiet tonight,” Emily said later, as they sat on her front porch and watched the occasional car rol by. The grandfather clock in the hal had chimed nine times just moments earlier.

Through the windows, they could hear Robbie and Patricia talking as they watched the first Harry Potter movie. Patricia had never as they watched the first Harry Potter movie. Patricia had never seen any of the Potter movies, and Robbie had found that inconceivable. He'd made it his personal mission to bring her up to speed on the storyline.

Eric stared at the stars and felt the ring burn a hole in his pocket. He couldn't propose to Emily under false pretenses. But he couldn't bring himself to tel her about the Saints being sold yet, either. Not after she and Patricia had spent most of dinner tossing color schemes and tile pattern ideas back and forth across the table. Even Robbie was excited at the prospect of changing his room from Batman to something more grown up.

"Pretty big project you and Patricia are planning.” By dessert, it had somehow grown in scope to include several rooms, paint, new drapes, carpeting, and something caled chair rails.

Emily smiled. “She's a very good decorator. I think this wil be just what she needs to get back on her feet—restore her self-confidence."

Her compassion and generosity touched him in ways he couldn't describe. It also made him shake his head. The woman desperately needed a new car, reliable transportation, but was more concerned with turning her own home inside out to boost another woman's morale. A woman who had once stood against her in court and society. Eric liked Patricia wel enough, but couldn't understand Emily's wilingness to drown herself in debt just to make her former mother-in-law feel better.

"And what wil it do for you,” he asked quietly. “It's going to cost a bundle to do this place over the way Patricia sees it, Emily.” He knew better than to offer to help with expenses. She'd veto that so fast his nose would spin.

Emily laughed, surprising him. “I can't believe you're worried about that."

"This from the woman who was waiting for her tax refund to get a tune-up for the Subway?"

"That was when I was putting four siblings through school."

He arched a skeptical eyebrow. “They're al graduating? At the same time?"

"No, sily. They found me out and forced me to close up shop."

She looked so pleased and proud he couldn't stay upset with her.

“Sounds like you had quite a visit with your family."

"It was wonderful, Eric. I wish you could have been there."

He looked into her eyes and wanted to lose himself in the peace and love he saw there. He reached out and touched her cheek, and wished they were back in his apartment, alone and naked. “Take me there now. Tel me what it was like."

She did, painting such a warm picture of family togetherness it made She did, painting such a warm picture of family togetherness it made his heart ache. In Turnersvile, she had found what he had longed for al of his life. Emily Jordan was the answer to his prayers, but he, with his rootless, erratic lifestyle, would be the downfal of her dreams. Anyone with eyes could see Emily was the kind of woman who needed a home to cal her own. Not a series of rented houses and spur of the moment moves.

How many times had he moved in the past ten years? Six? Seven?

How many more times would he pul up stakes before he decided to retire? And what would be waiting for him then?

Damn it. He wanted it now. He wanted it al. Emily and Robbie, a house to come home to, a career that didn't tear him in two every time he turned around...

He exhaled heavily and decided to folow Catherine's advice. He'd cal his agent in the morning. Once he knew what his options were, he'd be able to put things in perspective. He hoped.

Emily heard the weary resignation in Eric's sigh and felt a pang of guilt. But no regret. She'd deliberately chosen the best of her memories of her visit with her family in an effort to show Eric how much she wanted to share with him. How much she wanted him to stay a part of her life. She wanted him to know not only could he count on her, but the entire Jordan clan if need be.

Instead she'd made him withdraw.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring you down,” she said, hiding her

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring you down,” she said, hiding her disappointment.

"Bring me down? You didn't do anything to—"

"Ruin your mood, then."

"Honey, you didn't do anything to ruin my mood. It's just—” He caught himself. There was realy no direction he could take that wouldn't hurt her. He settled for saying, “It's just that what you described ... with your family and al ... it's very different from the life I've known."

And not nearly as appealing as she'd hoped, Emily thought dismaly.

“You've never told me what it was like, growing up in Barton.” She didn't want to discuss the life he led now. She wanted to make connections, not comparisons that might hurt her cause. “Do you stil have family there?"

"No. There's no one since my mother died."

"Would you tel me about her? About your childhood?"

For the longest time, he said nothing. Emily was about to suggest they rejoin Robbie and Patricia when he said, “In the beginning, she was a lot like you. Soft and pretty, loving and caring, proud and determined.” He sent her a quiet smile. “Very proud and determined. She was the only child of a banker in International Fals, about twenty-five miles east of Barton. She eloped with my father when she turned eighteen. Ten months later I came along.

father when she turned eighteen. Ten months later I came along.

"She was young, but she was the kind of mom every kid dreams of having. You might say we grew up together. She loved classical music, fairy tales, crossword puzzles, sunshine and spring. And her celo. It was the only thing she took with her when she eloped."

Emily was fascinated. “The celo was your mother's?"

"She hadn't played for years, but I couldn't bring myself to sel it after she died."

"Did she teach you to play?"

"No. I was too cool for that."

"I see. What made you change your mind?"

"Time. Maturity. Knee surgery. I was laid up for a year or so with nothing but time on my hands, so I decided to bring it down from Barton and give it a shot. This might sound strange, but when I play, I feel close to her, like maybe she's listening to me the way I listened to her play."

Emily smiled. She couldn't wait to hear Eric play. “And your father?"

The warmth in his eyes withered. “He owned a bar just outside of town. It wasn't much of a place, an old two-story farmhouse he'd picked up at an estate auction. Most of his customers came from a picked up at an estate auction. Most of his customers came from a manufacturing plant a quarter of a mile down the road. They'd stop on their way home to unwind. Looking back, I think he must've seen my mother—the banker's daughter—as his ticket to easy street.

"Only it didn't work out that way. My grandfather disowned her when she ran off with my father, who was a good ten years older than she was. After I was born she tried to mend the rift between them, but her father was too proud to budge.

"Once, when I was six, she took me to see him.” He looked at her then, his face stark and emotionless. “The first and last memory I have of my grandfather is him teling my mother, “I have no daughter” and shutting this big oak door in our faces."

Eric pushed himself to his feet, walked to the shadowed end of the porch. “She cried al the way home. I'l never forget the sight of her, not saying a word, just looking straight ahead and driving and crying those silent tears. A few days later, my father took his own drive and never came back. Just like that, he disappeared. My mother didn't know he'd left her until she found out he'd cleaned out the bank accounts and the bar til. She'd thought he was on one of his monthly liquor-buying trips to International Fals. Turned out those were fake, too. The next delivery of liquor showed up right on time

—and my mother had to figure out how to make it pay for itself, and us, if we wanted to eat.

"She talked the guy into giving her two weeks to pay, sold whatever she could to handle the booze bil, moved us into the three-room she could to handle the booze bil, moved us into the three-room apartment over the bar, and took up barkeeping. Eighteen hours a day. The first shift from the plant would come in at eight, the third would leave around two the next morning. The only time I saw her between shifts, she was usualy napping. Otherwise, she was working."

He turned and met Emily's eyes. “She worked like a dog, but she made that place support us. We always had enough food on the table, and she even managed to put some money away—which I didn't find out about until she died. The bar itself was never hers, so I couldn't inherit that, but somehow she managed to save up almost forty thousand dolars over the years."

He shook his head. “She never spent any money on herself.

Everything she did was for me. Stil, I grew up fast, living over that bar. By eight I'd discovered hockey and was a rink rat, just to get away from the endless smoke and noise. On the ice, I could build up my strength, work out my anger, vent my frustrations. Managed to turn myself into a hockey player—while my mother managed to turn herself into a lush."

He turned away again and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Leaving her was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I knew if I stayed in Barton I'd end up washing beer glasses and busting up fights for the rest of my life. So at sixteen I left school and headed for the Junior Hockey League in Canada, promising her I'd get her out of that helhole as soon as I was making some money.

"It never happened. She died three years later."

Emily didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat was locked tight.

Eric looked at the sky, his voice breaking. “She was only thirty-seven."

Emily responded with her heart. She stood and slid her arms around Eric, pressed her face into his back and wiled him to give her his pain. He remained rigid for several agonizing seconds, then slowly removed his hands from his pockets, turned, and wrapped his arms around her. A long moment later, he buried his face in her hair.

How long they stood there in the shadows of the porch, Emily didn't know. Nor did she care. She'd hold him forever if he needed her to.

Finaly he lifted his head, his eyes dark with grief and wet with tears.