foremost, because Margaret would have forbidden it had Emma asked her permission.
Margaret had made sure that she understood her son was not to be worried unnecessarily. And for the past six months—despite her own reservations—Emma had bowed to her friend’s wishes.
Had she been Sam, she wouldn’t have wanted to be kept in the dark. She would have rather been apprised of the situation without delay. But her loyalty had been to Margaret. Until that day three weeks ago when her doctor said she might not live to see the summer’s end.
Margaret had been in a Houston medical center hospital undergoing treatment. Luckily, she had brought her address book with her, and Emma had found Sam’s current F.P.O. number listed in it. Sitting beside her friend’s bed as she slept, Emma had written to him as tears blurred her eyes, then posted the letter before she had time to change her mind.
Miraculously, Margaret’s condition had improved within seventy-two hours, and Emma had begun to regret her hasty decision. Yes, there was a possibility the doctor could still be right. Margaret’s recovery could be nothing more than a temporary respite. As often happened with a potentially life-threatening illness, she could suffer a relapse at any time. One that she might not survive.
But with Margaret almost her old self again, there no longer seemed to be any reason for Sam to come home. Not that he was going to. At least, not to her knowledge.
Three weeks had passed since Emma had sent her letter, and she had heard nothing in reply. He could have responded by mail, of course. That would take at least ten days. But considering the urgency with which she had written…
Emma had been sure he would call, if only to affirm that his mother’s illness was as serious as she had implied. Beyond that, she hadn’t known what to expect. But she’d been fully prepared for him to have some reason—some very good reason—why he wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Serenity. And she would have understood.
There were too many painful memories for Sam in the small town where he’d grown up. Memories to which she had contributed in a ruinous way. She knew now that by blaming him for Teddy’s death, she had been trying to assuage her own sense of guilt. Guilt that had sprung from her relief that Sam had been the one to survive that terrible accident on the narrow, winding road just outside of town.
I hate you, Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….
Hardly a day had passed since then that Emma hadn’t wished she could recall those brutal words. But Sam hadn’t given her a chance. He had stayed for his brother’s funeral, but not in his mother’s house. And after the service, he’d vanished, never—as far as she knew—to return.
Emma couldn’t blame him. Not then, and certainly not now. Even with Margaret’s health in question, she could understand why—torn as he had to be—he might choose to stay away. All that he had to look forward to here was more grief.
Yet again, Emma cursed her impulsiveness. She could have waited, should have waited.
“But you didn’t,” she muttered as she hung the gardening tools on their hooks, then disposed of the trash bag.
Doing her best to shake off the melancholy mood that had settled over her, Emma hurried back to the front yard. She pasted a smile on her face as she joined Margaret on the porch and accepted a tall glass of tea. Then, with a murmur of thanks, she sank into the old wooden rocking chair that matched her friend’s. She took several swallows of the icy drink and sat back contentedly.
“Mmm, wonderful,” she said.
She tossed her straw hat aside, took off her gold wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the little white wicker table, then tried to finger-comb some life into her damp curls. She was in desperate need of a shower, but first she wanted to relax a while and enjoy the gentle breeze wafting across the shady porch.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Emma. The yard looks just lovely. I’m going to be the envy of all my neighbors,” Margaret stated proudly.
“Maybe not all. Mr. Bukowski looks like he’s trying to give us a run for our money.” Emma nodded toward the house across the tree-lined street where an elderly man puttered about, snipping and trimming his already well-tended rosebushes.
“That old coot would sleep with his precious American Beauties if his wife would let him,” Margaret retorted. “We won’t count him.”
“Well, then, I have to agree. Your yard definitely measures up now.”
“Thank you, Emma. I really do appreciate all your hard work.”
“Gardening never seems like work to me. Now scrubbing toilets and mopping floors—that’s my idea of work.” Emma shuddered delicately, then met her friend’s gaze with an impish grin. “I’m so glad we found Mrs. Beal to handle those nasty chores for us.”
“But you have a yard of your own to maintain,” Margaret said, a look of concern shadowing her eyes. “I feel like I’m already taking advantage of you enough as it is.”
“What nonsense.” Emma waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve been paying Mrs. Beal to clean my house, as well as yours, while I’ve been staying here with you. Aside from cooking dinner occasionally and doing a few loads of laundry, I haven’t really contributed that much until today. And, as I keep trying to convince you, I love gardening.”
“You also have the responsibility of a full-time job,” Margaret reminded her gently. “A job you love, too, but lately haven’t been able to give the attention it requires because of my needs.”
“Actually, I’ve found a solution to that,” Emma advised with studied nonchalance. “Marion Cole and I have agreed to try job sharing for the summer. She came in one day last week asking about part-time work, but I don’t have the funds to add anyone to the staff. So I’m going to let her have some of my hours. She’s an experienced librarian, she’s well liked by everyone in town and, with her husband out of work, she needs the money.”
“That’s awfully generous of you, Emma. But…” Margaret shrugged and looked away as she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her skirt.
“It’s only temporary. Marion’s fairly sure her husband will get a job offer from one of the companies he’s interviewed with in Dallas or Houston. And I like the idea of having more free time this summer. We’ll be able to drive down to Galveston for a few days before your next appointment with the doctor in Houston the way you wanted. I know how much you love the beach, and it’s been ages since I’ve been there.”
Trying to ignore the fact that Margaret was dabbing at her eyes, Emma took another long swallow of tea, then rolled the cold, wet glass over her cheek as she looked out across the lawn.
Margaret had never been the type to show her emotions, but lately even the smallest act of kindness seemed to make her weepy. Much as Emma wanted to comfort her, she said nothing. Calling attention to Margaret’s treacherous tears would only embarrass her friend unnecessarily.
Instead, she rocked quietly, allowing Margaret a few moments to gather herself. Without her glasses, everything beyond the porch railing blended pleasantly into a bright blur of colors, sometimes stable, sometimes shifting, depending on the slant of the breeze.
She didn’t realize that the dark blue blob she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye was an automobile moving slowly down the street until it pulled into Margaret’s
