“It will get better,” he insisted. “Not all at once, and not every day, but you’ll see.” He paused. “Not—to be honest—that it ever really goes away. You just toughen up and learn to live with the loss.”
Emma wasn’t that sure. But why say so? For her, it was different and she had treated Max shamefully, something she would never have done a year ago. Nothing was his fault. That was all on Emma.
She took a breath. “About those messages you left...I apologize. I should come get his...no, I’m sorry, but I can’t take the pony.”
“Now, don’t be hasty. Until you’re ready to decide, I’ll find a spot for him somewhere.” He spoke as if the carousel horse was real. Like the General. “He’s gorgeous, by the way, or he will be. Great advertising for my shop. Sure, why didn’t I think of this before? No rush,” he added. “None at all. We’ll let other people enjoy him for a while.”
Emma couldn’t imagine having any use for the pony that only reminded her of loss, but she didn’t get to say so. Footsteps sounded behind them on the walk.
“Emma.”
When Christian drew near, he nodded at Max, his eyes on her. “Our hour’s up. Check’s written. I already told Mom we’re leaving.”
Emma tensed. “You go on home. I brought my car, remember?”
“Leave it. I’ll drop you here in the morning before work.”
Max didn’t speak. Emma gave the black-and-white horse, his large eyes shining like ebony, a last look. Then she blindly turned from the merry-go-round. In daylight there would be that familiar music again, the clanging of the bell, the laughter...
She could hardly speak. “Good night, Max.”
“’Night, Emma. Christian.” But then, before she took a step, his voice stopped her. “Do you know what they say about these carousel horses?”
Emma didn’t know. She couldn’t think at all, just then.
“There’s an old saying among carvers,” he said. His tone gentled, as if he wasn’t sure she would like the story. “In the winter the ponies go to sleep—all winter long—but when spring finally arrives, they come back to life again.”
Emma blinked. He was telling her to hope. That life could be good once more, if different, that she might even be forgiven.
But for Emma her guilt was now, and ever-present.
And spring seemed very far away.
BY THE NEXT DAY, Emma had pulled herself together enough to meet with Melanie Simmons. She wanted this new client as much as Melanie wanted her help, and like Frankie, Melanie had connections. They met at the Simmons’s house for a walk-through, then drove to Bluewater Grille, a favorite local restaurant.
Once they’d ordered, Melanie leaned forward, clasping her hands and resting her forearms on the table. “I’m told no one does exactly what you do,” she said, and Emma felt her competitive spirit kick in.
“Actually, I’m part household organizer, part shrink. It’s a matter of my asking the right questions rather than answering them.”
“More than one person has told me how well you get to the heart of things.” Melanie’s eyes sparkled. “You remember Anna Carstairs’s garage? Edie Van Kamp’s family room?”
“Yes, of course.” Both had been hard-to-please clients—like Mrs. Belkin. Edie was another friend of Frankie’s, and she suspected curiosity had brought Anna to her. “I hope they were satisfied with my work.”
To her surprise Melanie said, “That’s why I’m here.”
Emma leaned back as their food was put on the table.
“I’m so glad we were able to meet this morning. You were right. Your storage needs are out of control.”
“Four growing children keep me busy.”
Two boys—eight and six—and twin girls, who, for Emma, would be the hardest part of the job because of their age.
“Your boys’ rooms have adequate storage,” she said, “for their action figures, trucks and cars and books.” Optimus Prime. The Vindicator. “But the girls need cabinets and bins so everything isn’t scattered around or lost.”
“Three-year-olds drop toys everywhere,” Melanie agreed. “They leave clothes wherever they land.”
Yes. I know. Emma took a bite of the shrimp she’d ordered. She wanted to enjoy her meal, not envy Melanie her healthy, happy children. But the delicious food had no taste.
She waited until her voice sounded steady. “Your girls are typical of that age. Let me show you what I’m thinking.” She leaned down to pull the sketches she’d made from her bag. “Their room is a good size. I love this arched window with the built-in seat, but in addition to more storage the twins will need a clear area for play.”
She let Melanie study the drawings.
When she’d finished Emma said, “You have a beautiful home. Together we can polish the girls’ room to perfection.” She added, “The first step will be sorting. One pile to keep, another to give away or donate to charity, a third to throw out.”
Melanie groaned. “I don’t think we can include the girls for that task. They’ll want to keep everything. I’ll warn you. There will be drama.”
Emma tried to smile. “Don’t I know. Grace was fourteen when I married Christian. And there’s still drama.”
Melanie grinned. “Oh, yes. Grace has always been a queen.”
Emma smiled at last. “It’s not easy to persuade people of any age to let go of...a lifetime’s accumulation of clutter.” She gave up trying to eat. “That’s all it is, really,” she said. “Emotional junk.”
“So we’re all like those people on Hoarders?” Melanie asked.
Emma nodded. “I tell my clients to photograph an object, instead, so they can keep the memories they associate with it. But why hang on to the actual Easter hat you wore ten years ago—or whenever people wore Easter hats? Or that shapeless sweater you bought for your first date with the man you married?” With Christian.
Melanie rolled her eyes. “Outdated pants, moldy teddy bears...”
Or sheer hypocrisy on Emma’s part? How could she even think about sorting someone else’s clothes when Owen’s toys and books were still in his room? She hadn’t gone inside since the day everything had changed and she’d wrapped her own guilt around her like a quilt.
Emma cleared her throat. “If people would get rid of one item before making room for something else—the ‘new one in, old one out’ rule—in no time clutter wouldn’t be a factor.”
“‘No More Clutter,’” Melanie
