Lost and Found Family (6 page)

CHAPTER SIX

C
HRISTIAN
WAS
HIS
mother's son in at least one way. He played tennis every Thursday after work, usually with one of the Mallory VPs. But tonight, for the first time in months, it was Chet Berglund's turn.

Now that he wasn't riding, Christian ran on a treadmill or lifted weights at the club most nights. Sitting at a desk all day got him nowhere—except another trip down memory lane—and after Sunday he was still worried about Grace. She hadn't wanted to talk about the barn. And as for Emma...hard exercise tended to clear his head for a while.

Unfortunately, tonight's match hadn't occupied his mind enough to break the usual cycle. Sweating, he ran a towel over the back of his neck and shook his head. “Sorry, Chet. My game just wasn't there.”

Chet put a hand on Christian's shoulder. They'd been friends before Chet's barely-under-the-surface competitive streak had taken over. Christian supposed the game had helped to work out some aggression for both of them. “Can't blame you, man. If I were going through what you are—”

“The O'Leary mess? I don't think we'll ever reach agreement. They expect us to haul freight for nothing. That won't happen.”

Chet didn't take the hint. “I wasn't talking about the negotiations.” They walked toward the locker room but Christian's steps dragged. “How's Emma holding up?” Chet asked, tilting his head to the side in apparent concern.

“As well as can be expected.” He didn't want to be probed like a sore tooth, but Chet wasn't about to be deterred, and Christian wondered if his wife, one of Emma's former friends, had put him up to this. He didn't want to lose his temper and tell Chet it was none of their business. “How's Merry?”

Chet grinned. “Expecting,” he announced, all but puffing out his chest. “If the office grapevine hasn't told you, this will be our third. She's queasy right now but that will pass. Usually does.” He added a little man-to-man laugh.

Christian had missed a step. “Great. Congratulations.”

“After two girls, two weddings to pay for someday, I'm hoping for a boy this time to carry on the family name.” Chet poked Christian in the ribs. “Sure wish I had a business to hand on like Lanier. But then, I don't have your family prob—” Chet broke off.

Christian fought the urge to punch him. Did Emma hear this kind of stuff every day? When Merry had said she wouldn't have time for their friendship, that it was too difficult being around her, Emma had come home in pieces.

He wanted to wipe that smug grin off Chet's face on Emma's behalf, if not his own.

His stomach in knots, he opened his locker. “You know, after Emma and I lost
our
son
,
I expected certain things. I knew that everyone would come to his funeral and try to comfort us. I knew there'd be so many flowers, baskets and fruit arrangements we'd hardly be able to get down the aisle in the church or through our own house.” He took a breath. “I wasn't even surprised when the whole day was a cold rain. Funeral weather. I expected support, understanding of how devastating that loss was—still is—but you know something else?”

“Listen, I understand, but I've got to go.” Chet started toward the showers until Christian stopped him.

“I'm not finished. And the least you can do is listen. What I
didn't
expect—what I'll never get over—is people like you. Not everyone,” he said, keeping his voice low, “but a few who can't keep from all but shouting ‘better you than me.' As if they can ward off trouble in their own lives. I'm glad you and Merry are having another baby but—”

“And, honest, we thought Owen was the cutest kid—”

Christian looked at the floor. “Yeah. He was.” He glanced up and met Chet's gaze. The smile was gone. Maybe there was even a bit of remorse in his eyes. Or maybe Chet had seen murder in Christian's gaze. Too late, Christian thought. “Don't you
ever
come at me like that again, and rub my face in the tragedy that has all but destroyed my family. Find another tennis partner,” he said, “and at work, keep out of my way.”

“Christian.”

“I mean it. Tell your wife, too. Emma is off-limits.”

A few other players had turned at their lockers, and their curious gazes homed in on Chet and Christian. With effort he lowered his voice even more until it was almost a whisper.

“You want to gossip? Find another target.” He jabbed a shaking finger into Chet's chest. “I'm done. I'm not your friend—and you're sure as hell not mine.”

* * *

“D
ON
'
T
GIVE
C
HET
another thought,” Emma said. “He and Merry are climbers, for one thing. She always did everything she could to get me to endorse her with Frankie. Merry wanted to join her garden group—people your mother has been with since you were small—and she was sure I could persuade Frankie to approve her. Ditto for her book club.”

“So she was holding a grudge,” he said.

“Maybe. In any case she used our friendship. She does whatever she can to belong to Frankie's social set.”

For herself, Emma had discovered soon after the accident that sorrow was a lonely thing. At first she and Christian had tried counseling, but they soon agreed it wasn't for them. Her growing-up years had taught her she was really on her own where any problems were concerned. Her mother's various boyfriends and occasional live-in “uncles” for Emma had made her feel isolated. Now, she had good reason to feel that way.

Only that morning yet another client of hers had bailed out. Thank goodness Melanie had loved her formal drawings for the twins' room and hadn't blinked at the estimate. At least she'd be able to make her rent for another month. Emma reached for Christian's hand, then stopped herself.

They were walking shoulder to shoulder across the Walnut Street Bridge, a favorite local spot that connected downtown to the trendy North Shore. Other evening strollers passed them, many with dogs on leashes. The night was balmy rather than cool, with a lingering hint of late Indian summer, but Emma could sense the tension in Christian. He'd called her from the health club, asking her to meet him, a rare occasion these days.

“Emma, I was so mad. I wanted to deck him.” Christian stopped walking. He drew Emma to the bridge railing to look out over the Tennessee River. “Chet knew perfectly well he was baiting me. At the office he's always trying to get between Dad and me—as if that will get him where
he
wants to go.”

“And where is that?” As if she couldn't guess. But he needed to talk.

“My job,” he said. “I'd tell him he can have it but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.”

“Good for you.” Emma leaned against the rail. From here she could see Coolidge Park and the carousel below. She sighed. It bothered her that he was no longer happy at work. Despite the ups and downs at No More Clutter, the very real risk of having to close her business, Emma loved what she did every day.

He nudged her side, sending a wave of warmth through Emma. They rarely touched these days, and even when she was the one to evade it, she longed to restore the real closeness they'd once shared.

“Thanks for listening,” he said.

“I really should have stayed at the office. I start at Melanie's house tomorrow and I need to talk to my crew first. But you sounded ready to explode.”

“I'm glad I didn't at the gym. Too much. Can you imagine my parents' reaction? And at least half a dozen people in that locker room saw us.”

“It helps sometimes to blow off steam.”

Resting on his elbows, Christian turned his head. “You don't,” he said.

Emma half smiled. “Inside, I do. I'm a real pressure cooker.”

“Yeah, but most of the time you just keep moving like
The Little Engine That Could
.”

Emma froze. She didn't want to ruin this moment. Yet, as she'd just been reminded, this wasn't any normal date night for them. The last had been almost a year ago, a few nights before the accident.

“Moving on?” she said.

He shrugged. “That's how you come across. While I keep spinning my wheels.”

Emma eased away from the railing. The sun had set and lights were coming on all over the city. In the darkening sky a few stars were popping out and later, perhaps, there'd be a gorgeous harvest moon. But she felt a faint chill now. She began to retrace their steps back across the bridge to the downtown side.

“I understand why you were angry with Chet—he and Merry are two of a kind. And I'm sorry you had to learn that again tonight.” She drew a deep breath. “But about us, Christian... I don't want to probe the wounds any deeper. I can't.”

“Then what will you do, Emma? Go home and clean the house? You just cleaned it yesterday. And the day before that. Yeah, I notice,” he said, keeping pace beside her. “The laundry's always washed and dried and folded even before the hamper's full. You clean and cook and care for Bob—for me—you spend every minute of the day keeping busy at work and then at home all night.” He caught her arm. “Does that really help, Em? Because it doesn't help me.”

Emma tried to block out his words, the flurry of despair they caused. At the end of the bridge she turned right, then headed downhill toward her car. Christian stayed on her heels.

Her legs felt too weak to run but she wouldn't have anyway. She still loved him.

When he'd called her at the store, he'd suggested dinner after a walk on the bridge so he could cool off first. Now all Emma wanted was to go home. In her own car.

“I told you. I
can't
. You want to drag everything out, rehash what happened—but what good would that do? I
know
what happened. I was there, as Grace pointed out.” Blindly, Emma poked her key at the door lock.

She slipped into the car. Blinking, without looking in her rearview mirror, she pulled out of her space and left Christian standing there shaking his head.

* * *

E
MMA
DIDN
'
T
SLEEP
WELL
.
She rarely did.

In the darkness she tiptoed from the bedroom, leaving Bob with Christian, and crept along the upstairs hall. If Christian woke to find her missing, he'd search for her, but Emma needed a chance to make sense of things however she could.

Outside Owen's room, she stopped and simply stood there, resting one hand against the closed door. After long moments, she laid her forehead against the cool wood. How many nights had she come here to check on him only to remember at the last second that no one was in his room?

If she hoped to use this space, even temporarily, she had to overcome her reluctance to step inside.

For another moment Emma listened to her rough breathing in the dark. Then she put a hand on the knob, turned it but didn't push the door open.

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Owen asleep in his bed, which was shaped like a blue truck. He used to nestle among his stuffed animals, including the bear he'd named Grizzle, his model trucks lined up around their perimeter like guardians. But then, Bob would have been there, too. Her legs trembling, Emma leaned lightly into the door as if it might open without her having to decide this time.

She hadn't even stripped the bed. But she couldn't sit there to inhale that lingering scent of him, soapy clean and fresh. Her favorite time of day had been just before bed when he'd come from his bath, the smell of baby shampoo still in his damp hair. Then they would curl up together while Emma read him a book.

Stepping back, she turned and padded along the hall to the stairs and went down, taking care not to put a foot on the one board that creaked midway.

Following her usual route, Emma didn't have to disarm the security system. Whenever she or Christian had opened a door at night without thinking, the shrill sound had shredded every nerve in her body. So she hadn't set it. It wasn't as if Owen might go exploring now in the middle of the night and set off the alarm. Besides, they lived in a secluded neighborhood halfway up a mountain, and their small suburban town below had a low crime rate.

Downstairs Emma eased out the front door. She walked aimlessly around the yard, the grass silvered by moonlight, and down the drive. From the woods across the road, a hoot owl called. Something else rustled in the fallen leaves. A raccoon, an opossum, even a fox? Or the small herd of neighborhood deer? Once, she and Christian had seen a bobcat slink from the underbrush and run along the road.

She stared at the place where she thought she'd heard something, but no other sound came. Emma stopped at the edge of the driveway, looked back at the house she had loved and then away. She glanced at one of the flower beds. The ground was bare now, the daylilies dormant for the coming winter, the sunshine yellow daffodils Owen had helped her plant mere resting bulbs beneath the surface of the soil. Like the sleeping ponies Max had told her about.

Last March those flowers had bloomed and gone again without Emma really noticing. She turned away to retrace her steps.

Just inside the door, Bob met her in the entryway, startling Emma. The dog nudged her hand.

“Thanks, girl,” she whispered, letting her fingers sift through the dog's mahogany and black fur, letting it warm her hand. And her heart.

Comfort, she thought, could be such a small thing. Or absolutely huge.

She gave Bob a last pat, then started up the stairs, the dog's nails clicking over the wooden floor behind her. Without a word from Emma, Bob followed her into the bedroom and onto the bed between Emma and Christian.

Her husband was right.

She had to deal with what had happened. Somehow.