Keeping Secrets (48 page)

But it will, it will, don’t you see, don’t you have any faith in me? Emma started to say, and then she didn’t. Because of course Rosalie would want to know that she had a safety net, that she wouldn’t starve, that it wouldn’t be the way the Depression had been for her.

“Of course,” she said. “Of course I could.”

* * *

It was shortly after that, when Rosalie left the kitchen, where they’d been sitting around the table, to go to the bathroom, that Emma reached over and squeezed Jake’s hand.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” she whispered so that Rosalie wouldn’t hear. “It’s all right.”

His eyes filled with quick tears. “I…I…” he stuttered—well, part of it was stuttering, and part of it was that he couldn’t find the words.

“I know you did what you thought was right. And it was right, Daddy. You did the right thing.”

“I love you, Emma,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said.

* * *

“Well,” said Rosalie a little while later, “I guess we all ought to be going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re right,” agreed Emma. “And a long road.”

“I know that driving’s tiring. I’ll go and put some covers on your bed.”

“Just leave it. I’ll do it. But first there’s a phone call I need to make.”

Rosalie’s heart sank. She was going to start lining up all her friends, her escapes out of the house, as always.

“I need to call someone in California,” Emma said. “I’ll reverse the charges.”

“That’s okay,” Jake said, without even looking at Rosalie, the keeper of the purse strings. “Just make your call.”

And with that they both headed down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

Emma looked at the phone on the wall beside the refrigerator. She hadn’t talked to Jesse since she’d left him well over a week ago. Jesus, it seemed like so much longer. It always did when you traveled, like you were moving and everything else was standing still. She smiled then. Was Jesse still standing there in his paisley robe, waiting for her to come home and make his dinner?

She’d driven halfway across the country and a good piece back. But California seemed like the end of the world from this vantage point. And so much had transpired in that short time—her daddy’s secret, Miss Carrie and finding out about Mutt and her grandmother, that they’d been in Atlanta, maybe there were relatives there still. Well, she could go back and find them someday, if she wanted to, but that didn’t seem so important now. And Will. Gorgeous, too-smart-for-his-own-britches Will. Where did he get off, thinking he knew so much about her? Was he right? Well, so far it
felt
like he’d been right about her parents—her
parents
, Rosalie and Jake.

But, and then the thought niggled at a corner of her mind, wasn’t it weird, wasn’t it strange? They
weren’t
, really. So who did that make her? Who was she?

Then she heard herself running down River Road, a week or so ago, running from what Jake had told her, calling her own name.
Emma. Emma.
As if she had to say it over and over to hold on. To hold on to her identity.

And then she’d asked him, hadn’t she? She’d asked Jake,
“But who am I?”
as if he were one of those daddies, one of those other girls’ daddies she’d always admired, the ones who were so sure of themselves, who were so strong, who always had the shoulder to lean on, the answer to every question, she’d cried out to him, lying in the dirt of River Road Park,
“But who am I?”

And he’d given her the answer, hadn’t he, without a moment’s hesitation. He didn’t stutter. He didn’t even have to think. He said, “You’re still Emma Fine, of course.”

She was, wasn’t she? She was the same willful, headstrong, independent, what had Will said,
conundrum, a hey-diddle-diddle, a piece of work
? She grinned then.

It didn’t matter, did it? She
was
Emma Rochelle Fine, Southern Baptist-Jew, child of Rosalie and Jake, child of Herman, child of Helen and whoever that slippery devil was (maybe he died, Emma, maybe he fell down a hole, yes, and maybe he was the King of Mesopotamia, what difference?), child of everyone she’d ever known, child of herself—of her own making. And she’d keep on creating herself, wouldn’t she, on and on, keep on making herself up as she went along.

But first, first things first, she had to call Jesse. It was time.

She dialed the number and held her breath. And in that breath, and in those four rings, she practiced, running the words through her mind at the speed of light. “I’m flying home tomorrow, Jesse. But just to pack. Just to pick up my things. I’m leaving my car here, because I don’t have much time left, and I need to talk to you. I need to explain why I’m not coming back again to stay, why I’m leaving you. After Europe, I’m striking out again on my own. We’ll both be better for it, Jess, both of us are better alone.”

After the fourth ring he answered, “Hello.”

“Jesse,” she began.

“This is the residence of Jesse Tree. After the tone, please leave your message. Thank you and goodbye.”

Emma stood there stunned. Jesse’s baritone was still ringing in her ears.

And then she laughed. She stood in Rosalie’s kitchen and laughed out loud. Jesse didn’t need her anymore, either. He’d even figured out how to answer the phone.

She left no message, other than her laughter, that deep rejoicing that seemed to burst out of her in these past few days.

“What’s so funny?”

Emma jumped. It was Rosalie.

“I made your bed,” Rosalie said. And then her curiosity got the better of her, though she knew Emma hated her prying into her business, and she didn’t want to ruin the lovely time they’d had so far. She couldn’t help herself. “Who
was
that you were laughing with on the phone?”

Well, here it was. She could tell Rosalie something consequential. She could jump over all that small talk and get down to the heart of something.

Okay, Will, you talk about my being hard-assed secretive. I can tell her something. I can show those people, who’ve asked me that question ever since I married Jesse: “A Southern girl marrying a black man. Well, you must have done it out of rebellion. Didn’t you do it to show your parents something?” Well, Emma, this is your big chance.

She could say it now. “I have a good-news/bad-news joke for you, Rosalie. The bad news is I’m married to a black man. The good news is I’m getting divorced.”

Rosalie was still looking at her, waiting for an answer to her question.

Emma said, “I was calling Jesse Tree. But he wasn’t home.”

Rosalie looked at her and nodded. And because the name meant absolutely nothing to her, because she’d never heard it before in her entire life, she smiled and said, “Well, maybe you can try him again tomorrow.”

“I’ll do that, Momma,” Emma said.

And Rosalie, who hadn’t heard Emma say that word in so many years that she’d given up hope of ever hearing it again, turned and put her arms around Emma.

“It’s good to have you home,” she said, “even if it’s for a short visit.”

“And it’s good to be here.” Emma hugged her back. “It truly is.”

Then Rosalie switched out the light, and both she and her daughter tiptoed out of the dark kitchen—tiptoed so as not to wake the already snoring Jake who was dreaming about sailing on the blue Pacific with his little girl Emma—tiptoed to their bedroom doors, whispered good night and went to bed.