The Secret Art of Forgiveness (24 page)

‘Just know that you love him, and can do it for the long haul, whatever happens. If you have any doubts, sort them out now.' He shrugged and looked a little embarrassed at saying so much about so personal a subject. ‘Sermon over.'

She didn't
know
whether she loved Brett enough. That was the problem. Nailed. She leaned against the stone wall at the bottom of her driveway and wondered how it was that she could talk so easily to Jacob about this when she always found talking about her feelings so difficult. ‘That hasn't made me feel any better, to be honest. I don't know if I love him enough for that, but I'm worried I'm going to hurt him.'
Or hurt me.

‘Then you have to talk to him.'

‘Believe me, I want to, but it's too scary.'

‘You have to be able to say things to him, Emily. Anything. Everything. That's the scary thing about love; you have to open yourself up to be vulnerable. Put your life in their hands for a while and vice versa.' He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. ‘Geez, says the guy who failed at it. Big time. Which is why I'm never doing it again.'

‘Whoa. You're not getting married again? Or what? Falling in love?'

‘None of the above.'

‘That's a big decision.'

His eyes darkened. ‘It's the best one, trust me.'

And now she only wanted to delve deeper. But he seemed to have closed off a little. So she backed away and tried to analyse only what she knew – her own issues. ‘The thing is, he's only ever seen me as Miss Successful. Mainly, because that's the only person I've ever allowed him to see. He's never seen me slip up, or fail, or be horribly drunk. He's only ever seen one part of me – the part I want him to see, not the messy, hopeful, scared…
real
person I am, with a dodgy history and a lot of mistakes.' The truth eventually dawned. ‘I guess he doesn't really know me, and if he finds out what I'm really like he might not like me.'

‘I doubt that. I really doubt that.' Jacob's dark eyes glittered and she wondered… another time, another place, could they have been more than friends?

She sighed. ‘Thing is, I've maintained this facade with him for years. But it's quite exhausting chasing perfect all the time, and I'm not sure I can keep that up for the rest of my life.'

Unlike with Jacob. In a very short time he'd seen her soaked through to the skin halfway up a very wobbly ladder; he'd seen her scared and vulnerable yet high on adrenalin with mascara-stained cheeks and untamed, rain-frizzed hair. He'd seen the core of her – at least, she was telling him things she'd never uttered to a single soul – that meant something, didn't it? What was it about him that made her keep showing him her true self? The thought made her shudder. Then another realisation dawned and she laughed. ‘Oh, God, I'm just like Tamara, aren't I? With this facade of perfection.'

‘Trust me, you are nothing like Tamara. Nothing at all.' This time the smile he gave her seemed to take over his whole body – it was like watching sunshine come out from behind a cloud.

There was something that felt like a miniature explosion in her stomach and she had the strangest urge to kiss him. Right there. Out in the open. To grab him and make out with him like a hormone-addled kid.

And, worse, he knew she did. Because, there was something different about his eyes now. They seemed misted and wider and shining… or something. The air seemed to crackle with a tension she could almost feel. Like she was holding her breath, waiting for something momentous to happen.

She got the feeling that if either one of them took a step forward, then kissing could certainly happen. That they both knew this, and both felt this unbearable tug between them. She also knew that this was very, very bad news.

Because of Brett. Because of her promise to marry him. Because wanting to kiss someone else was a very strong indication that things were not right in New York. Not right at all.

She shook her head, trying to say all of this and none of it to Jacob. ‘I need to go.'

‘Yes.' He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Yes. Go, Emily. But remember that I'm here if you want me.'

‘Er, sorry?' She felt her eyes widen and heart jump.

He smiled ruefully. ‘For a chat. Or help with The Judge. Or, well, anything, you know.'

‘Yes. I know.' For some reason she couldn't work out, she reached to his arm and he dragged his hands from his pocket and took hold of hers. His hands weren't soft and smooth like Brett's, but they weren't rough either. They were pretty damned perfect. And warm and safe. He ran his thumb over her palm as he pursed his lips. Little jolts danced over her skin and she felt herself tugging closer and closer to him.

Jacob's eyebrows rose as if he felt it, too. ‘This is…' When he breathed in he seemed to shudder, controlling his out-breath, but there was a curse, too. ‘You seriously don't need me to screw up your life. Go home, Emily.'

She let her hand drop and gave him a smile that said she wanted to do whatever it was he'd been contemplating, but she couldn't. The old Emily and the new Emily merged into one very scared, very nervous thirty-year-old who felt like a teenager all over again. The feelings inside her showing her she was, at least, alive and vibrant, if also very confused. There was a little light in her gut that was buzzing and zinging.

And then, as reality struck, fizzling and dying. Her life had been so simple in New York. Busy, but simple. But now every which way she turned it was complicated.

* * *

It felt like the Cold War had restarted in her kitchen. Having had little sleep, from mulling over the strange sensations in her body, and what that might mean for Brett and Jacob and herself, Emily wasn't in the mood for Tam's slamming of plates and rattling of cutlery just to indicate she was angry.

She so needed to call Brett and talk to him, to explain how she was feeling and see if, by seeing his face and hearing his voice, she'd know what to say and how to feel. But it was the middle of the night in New York so she just had to wait and shelve those emotions until later.

But waiting wasn't helping with her nerves and shelving wasn't happening. She felt guilty and confused and that made her short-fused and snappy. ‘Tam, can you stop banging around so we can talk about whatever it is that's bothering you?'

‘There's nothing to talk about.' Tam watched Emily stirring the eggs, and sulked.

‘Could have fooled me. But if there's really nothing to say then please stop banging around the kitchen. You're giving me a headache.' The eggs having cooked, Emily dished them onto plates, then lifted the popped-up toast from the toaster. ‘Seems to me that you're pissed off because of that meeting last night.'

‘I've moved on from that. Even though you may not think so, I do believe in democracy. So, if they all voted for you, then that's how it is. But don't say I didn't warn you; it's going to be a nightmare.' Tam shrugged. ‘And now you've even got that Jacob Taylor on side. I told you to keep him at a distance, but did you listen? No. Why would you? You're just the same old Emily.'

‘I am not.' But she knew Tam would blinker herself to anything positive right now. ‘Anyway, what's wrong with Jacob Taylor? He seems okay to me.'

‘He's edging his way in here. Always conveniently
there
when Daddy goes walkabout. Always with an opinion about how we should do this to make him safe, or do that. Clearly everything I do isn't good enough. Why would he do that if he isn't trying to weasel his way in?'

‘Maybe he's just being friendly. He seems okay to me.' Emily ignored the shiver in her stomach at the thought of him and how she'd almost kissed him. Then, the guilt. Oh, she couldn't ignore that.

‘Well, you weren't here when Daddy handed his bank details over to someone in India. Or when he gave those so-called builders a wad of money for a roof they never fixed.' Tam was firing on all cylinders this morning, the vulnerability of the other night just a faded memory. Or had it even been a dream? ‘Forgive me for looking out for my father, but as far as I'm concerned everyone's guilty until proven innocent.'

‘And maybe he's just nice. You remember what that is, right? I think he genuinely cares about The Judge and wants what's best.'

‘I am not going to debate my neighbour's intentions – just be careful there. Now, I'm going to be late for work. I only came to see if you needed a hand to get him ready for the day centre visit. But, as always, you've got it all worked out.'

‘I'm trying to help.'

‘By completely taking over? Matilda's no better. All she wants to do is stay in my house and paint out her misery. There are canvases everywhere with depressing daubs all over them. I don't know; you want to do everything, and she seems to want to divorce herself from her responsibilities as well as her husband.'

Remembering how taking a risk and opening herself a little to Jacob had made things feel easier, she tried it with Tamara. Knowing, obviously, that her stepsister was singularly more difficult than her neighbour, but doing it anyway, because they would always be stuck in this stupid, endless circle of frustrating animosity if she didn't. ‘I'm sorry if you feel I've somehow overstepped the mark, but I am just trying to help. I want to help.' She spread butter onto the toast, nudged past Tamara, poured boiled water into the teapot, then took it over and placed it in the middle of the table.

Tam watched and grimaced. ‘You won't even let me make a pot of tea – it's like you're determined to do everything and freeze me out.'

‘I didn't realise you wanted to make a pot of tea; you should have said. I'd have been happy for you to make – oh, God, are we arguing about making tea? Look, you asked me to stay and I'm just being efficient.' Emily didn't add that, because she had stayed, her job and relationship were now at risk.

With a sigh, Tam sat down. ‘Yes, yes, but I don't want you to take over. You've already taken control of the fair and now I can't do anything without you being one step ahead.'

Emily remembered her sister had lost face last night and had probably been stewing on it. ‘I'm sorry, you're right. I don't want to take over, believe me. That is the furthest thing from my mind. I'd love it if we could agree to disagree and still be able to live with that? And to work together.'
Be positive.
‘You are far more organised than I ever could be. You most definitely have a zillion more contacts around here than me and you know heaps more about The Judge than I do. I'd really like it if we could be a team?'

‘But, what exactly do you mean by that?' Her stepsister's eyes had suspicion all over them. ‘Because, you've done the eggs, the toast and the tea, and every time I've tried to start something you finish it off. It's bloody annoying.'

Was that true? She hadn't realised she'd been doing it. Hadn't asked her stepsister what she wanted. She'd just carried on, on autopilot: tea, toast, eggs. Tam had a point. ‘I'm sorry. I'm used to just getting on and doing things. Maybe we should start a roster? Or is that too formal?'

‘No, it works for me. I like to know where I stand. What's expected.'

‘I could work here; you could work at your office. Then, we could meet in the evenings, after work, and go through what we've done for The Judge, for the house and for the festival. I was thinking, if we did sell some land we could put it towards the roof, and a carer. And, I thought that if we hosted a band here, or one of the orchestras, then we could serve drinks and food and charge for that. Maybe some waltz music, Judge loves that, did you know?' She really did need to slow down. Her thoughts were jumping all over the place. Partly, she realised, so she didn't have to expend more energy on her disastrous love life.

Brett. Jacob. Brett. Her zig-zagging thoughts were exhausting.

‘Waltz music?' The suspicion turned into a deep frown as the words were almost spat out with derision. ‘What? You think he might want to dance to it or something?'

‘Yes. Why not?'

‘You think you have him all worked out, don't you?'

Why was this so hard? One day Tam would show some positivity about one of Emily's ideas, surely. ‘I really don't, Tam. I'm scratching the surface here. But the classical music did put a smile on his face, and that's what it's all about, right? Helping him be happy in the last years of his life?'

Tam visibly shuddered. ‘You want to take him out, to a public place where there's a live orchestra? And encourage him to dance?'

‘Why not?'

‘But people will see him. He's unpredictable.' Tam's voice was sounding a little panicked.

‘If it confuses him then I'll bring him home.'

‘But, he might say something, or do something… embarrassing.'

It dawned on Emily what her stepsister was actually saying. ‘You think he might embarrass
you
, is that it? Is that what this is about?'

Tam shuffled from one foot to the other, as if realising that what she was saying was pretty damned offensive, but she was going to say it anyway. ‘He can say strange things, do odd things. The dead dog questions… you know, sometimes he just won't shut up about it. And he once asked me where his mother was. I mean, really? What if you were out and he said something like that to a stranger?'

This was why Tam didn't take him out and stimulate him, then? Because he might say something to someone, somewhere. There was a twisting sensation in Emily's gut. This was horrible. Just horrible.

Worse, because she'd been there and felt exactly the same. And heaped more shame upon herself for feeling it. Should she admit that? Should she tell her stepsister about the incident in the café and risk another dressing down for taking him out in public? Not likely. ‘I think they understand he's ill – just as Tom does, and Greta and Sally. People are kind, generally.'