finally turning to face him.
“Apparently that’s not happening, Emma.”
She glanced away. He’d never shared her enthusiasm for the store, especially after Owen was born. They had a young child who needed her attention—he’d said that how many times? Why be surprised that he wouldn’t support her need to keep on with her business? After all, the accident had happened while Emma was on a call with a client.
Still, Christian was partly to blame, too. “You expect me to sell my business—when you won’t even discuss selling the General? And that horse is just standing around in his stall, eating up money every single day—after what he did to my family? No, Christian.”
His mouth tightened, but it seemed he knew better than to pursue that subject.
“In any case, while I look for new space,” she said, “I may have to start packing up downtown, bringing a few files home—”
“No.”
Her tone hardened to match his. “What do you mean, no?”
But he’d already turned his back and was leaving the room.
* * *
LATER THAT NIGHT, Christian gazed out the bedroom window and thought—as he did, over and over—of the accident that had taken his son’s life. He could only guess how that loss had affected Emma.
He shouldn’t blame her for wanting to repair her business, but he did. Just as he resented her for that remark about the General. He shouldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk about anything more meaningful than the day’s happenings—which, today, had been critical for her.
With an arm braced against the window frame, he envisioned Emma months ago when everything had still been good between them. In his mind he saw her rushing around after work to fix dinner. He watched her hand Owen another green pepper stick so he wouldn’t get too hungry before their meal was ready. He saw her face light up as it used to do whenever he’d walked in the door to find her waiting for his light kiss.
But he’d had plenty of practice in reading her new body language. He saw her back stiffen every time he used the shortened version of her name, as if they were now two different people—which he guessed they were—and he had no right to even that small, familiar intimacy. Em. He was the only one who’d ever called her that.
He hated the rift between them. It had become as deep and wide as the Chesney Rim, which, farther up their road, carved Sequoia Mountain into two distinct halves.
You’d think by now he would have developed better tools to cope, as their once-upon-a-time counselor had advised. He’d tried. But, always, there was the memory of Owen.
He felt helpless, unable to understand that loss or how to reach Emma. He kept wanting to do something, make something good, or at least better, come from their tragedy so it wouldn’t seem so senseless. But what had he done tonight? He’d made her feel worse than she already did.
“Christian,” she said into the darkness, as if they hadn’t quarreled earlier and this was just like any other night. “Come to bed.”
He didn’t answer. How did she manage to shut out the remembered sounds of baby steps, a first complete sentence, the joyous shout of a toddler’s laughter?
His mother never hesitated to move on. She still managed her life as she always had—with crisp efficiency. She’d promptly packed away every sign of her only grandson, or for all Christian knew she’d donated everything to one of her charities. Not a picture remained on the mantel in her home in Lookout Mountain. Where the oil painting of Owen had once hung in the hall—his mother called it the gallery—there was only a glaring white rectangle. He’d grown up in that house, where only pleasant conversation was allowed, and he didn’t want that in his own marriage.
“Be right there,” he told Emma. Bob was already on the bed, lightly snoring on top of the covers. Like the sofa, their bed had once been strictly taboo. But that rule was from the days when the dog slept with Owen, the two of them tangled together in the covers.
“I’m falling asleep,” Emma murmured. “Before I do, a couple of things—first, don’t forget we have that reception tomorrow night at Coolidge Park.”
He wanted to groan. Tomorrow was shaping up to be just too much fun. And there it was, the subject he’d hoped to avoid, another slot in a schedule. Another lockstep appearance he didn’t want to make, like going in to work every morning.
“We have to go?” He didn’t wait for the answer he knew would come. “Let me guess. My mother is the chairperson. It’s not one of those monkey-suit things, is it?”
“You’ll be fine. Or wear your charcoal-gray suit instead.”
“I didn’t know I owned a charcoal-gray suit.”
“And a black one.” He knew exactly when he’d worn that one. Her voice trembled so he guessed Emma didn’t need the reminder, either. “If you keep moving, Frankie might not notice it isn’t a tuxedo.”
Like that would ever happen. His mother had eyes like an eagle. He turned to see Emma propped on an elbow in bed. In the dim light of the moon her blond hair looked darker and so did her ocean-blue eyes, almost black. She seemed like a total stranger.
Christian sent her a grim smile. “I’ll give Mom one hour. Write a check for the cause, whatever. Make conversation with all those ‘important people’ she hangs out with—even take part in another of those endless silent auctions—then we’re out of there.”
Her tone was light. “You sound like an eighth grader at a grown-up party.”
“Thanks,” Christian said drily.
He allowed himself a brief moment of pretending this was just any night, not even a year ago, their quiet time together at the end of a busy day. Maybe Emma was pretending, too.
“You’re already squirming,” she said with a little smile in her voice, “but you know we have to do this.”
“My mother...”
But that was tomorrow. He’d have time to prepare himself for the usual prying questions, the intolerable sympathy from people he barely knew. And, somehow worse, from those he did. The words never sounded genuine.
“...speaking of Frankie,” Emma murmured. “My second issue. Christian, I had a call today from your father. It’s their anniversary soon and he’d like to throw a big party. He wants me to do the planning—”
“Trust me. Mom doesn’t want a party.” Neither did he.
“Could you talk to her?”
For another few seconds he peered into the darkness, at the patch of driveway in front of the garage doors. “I can try,” he finally said when what he really wanted was for the whole world to stop.
No, he wanted time to move backward like a videotape running in reverse until the accident hadn’t happened at all. Until they were still a happy family with a grown daughter and a sweet little boy. The child Christian had yearned for yet, after his divorce, never expected to have until he met Emma.
At
