Emma turned back to her work. The house her grandmother left her had been empty for thirteen months. Dust that would have upset Nan covered everything. Emma had spent her first two weeks back home digging into the grime and neglect, eradicating loneliness that made her ache for Nan’s comforting, sensible company.
With every dish and each neatly folded linen, slightly musty from disuse, she heard her grandmother whisper, “Come home. Take your place. Grow up, girl.”
And every time she felt tempted, she remembered that Bliss had always felt like a suit of clothes that didn’t fit. She had no place here, and she’d finally grown enough to know her life was elsewhere.
Besides, Noah lived here. Each time she left the house, she risked running into him. She didn’t want to renew their unhappy relationship, but she still wondered why she’d never been enough for him. Why he’d never chosen her first.
It couldn’t matter anymore. She wouldn’t allow it. When a woman couldn’t find answers to such a simple question, her only peace would come from burying the question forever.
She carried the last tray of china cups from one of the cherry cabinets to the kitchen island. She surveyed stacks of Limoges Haviland China, and the jewel tones of Nan’s everyday Fiestaware.
Which stack to wash first? The last time she’d emptied the kitchen cupboards to clean the shelves, she’d been eight years old, and she’d stood on a red stepstool to pass crockery and china to Nan. The memory filled her with longing so keen she closed her eyes and felt the metal stool’s steps cutting into her bare feet.
Lift your face and look to the sky to keep from crying.
That was what Nan had always said.
Emma looked up at the plaster ceiling. An iron chandelier hung from a rose medallion in the center. Both were blurred by her tears. She hadn’t yet come to terms with the death of the one person who’d made her believe unconditional love existed.
She could almost see Louisa Dane, in a pale green housedress, her hair in tight, black curls, her movements swift and economical.
“Careful,” she’d said that long-ago afternoon when thunder had rumbled on the mountain, and wind had blown gusts of raindrops through the open windows. “I’ll be leaving these dishes to you, and you’ll pass them on to your daughter. You don’t know it now, but one day you’ll have some chicken or ham, a sweet potato or some coleslaw from these plates, and you’ll remember helping me with my spring cleaning.”
“But will I be glad?” Emma had asked, eager to get to the attic for a rendezvous with Nancy Drew or Judy Bolton, girl detectives whose books Nan’s mother had collected.
“More than you can imagine. This is a memory you need to press in your heart. I know because I loved my grandma, too.”
Emma picked up a rose-painted plate and held it to her chest as if she were hugging her grandmother. As if she still could.
The sound of sawing stopped, abruptly dragging her back to the present. Owen had no helper, so when he needed an extra set of hands he put hers to work.
“Why are you here, Noah?” she heard him ask.
She straightened, then set the plate carefully back on its stack.
The men’s voices continued, one filled with righteous anger, the other low and rich, bringing back hurtful memories.
“Cut the drama.” Noah’s voice rose above his brother’s.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Owen asked. “Can I offer you a beer?”
Emma’s stomach tightened, reminding her of every argument she’d witnessed in her own home and at Noah’s. Wife against husband. Brother against brother. Father against children. Her newly clean, white kitchen dimmed as she took a step toward the hallway.
“Beer jokes aren’t funny when I’ve picked you up staggering drunk so many times. I came because Mom asked me to make sure you’re sober enough to work on this house.”
As Emma left the kitchen and looked down the long hall to the front door, Noah stepped in front of the screen, his back to it. In his navy suit, he was out of place. His dark brown hair was shorter, curling tightly against his head, cut close above his ears. His back looked broader, his shoulders tense.
“I’m not drinking,” Owen said, with the futile air of a man no one believed.
Noah’s stillness was hard to read from behind.
“Even if you aren’t,” he said, “this isn’t a one-man job.”
“When it’s not, I put Emma to work.”
“Emma’s paying you, and you make her work on her own house?”
She hurried toward them, slowing only when Owen’s gaze veered over Noah’s shoulder, his eyes angry enough to light a fire.
“Stop,” she said. “I don’t need to be rescued, Noah, and Owen, we’re losing daylight minutes.”
She opened the screen and stepped onto the porch. Lean and controlled, Noah dropped his ice-blue gaze all the way to her bare feet and then dragged it back up her faded jeans and Doctor Who T-shirt, to her makeup-free face and pulled-back hair.
“Emma.”
She trembled as if he’d touched her, but he showed no sign that she’d ever mattered more than any homeowner who’d hired his brother.
Then he tugged at his tie, a sure sign of tension, and she released a breath. She didn’t want to be the only one pretending indifference. But the past was over. Time had swallowed it up, and she should be grateful she never had to worry about mattering to Noah again.
“Why don’t you come inside?” she asked. “Owen’s busy out here. We don’t need to disturb him.”
“Don’t bother, Emma,” Owen said. “I’m the reason he came. He’d like to breathalyze me. You don’t even figure in his plans.”
A gust of cool wind rustled through the changing leaves and brushed the mortified heat from her skin. She’d given Owen this job even though her father had suggested his drinking might turn her renovations into a disaster. When she’d left town, Owen had been a guy who liked to party. Now, he was as blunt as a hammer, with an alcohol problem that cloaked him in censure.
“One thing I don’t have to do anymore,” Emma said to both brothers, “is listen to anyone in your family argue. This is Owen’s place of business, and I can’t afford more labor hours while you two sort out your problems with each other.”
Noah nodded. “Right.” He turned to his brother. “I’ve given up being the family do-gooder. This was a onetime deal. Just drop by the inn and let Mom see you’re sober.”
His suggestion apparently lit a fuse. Owen’s work boots scraped through grit and sawdust on the porch planks as he came at his brother. Emma stepped between them.
“What do you think you’re doing, Owen?”
“I don’t need—”
“You
