The True Love Quilting Club (5 page)

“And then there’s this,” Belinda said.

“What?”

She opened up a drawer and pulled out several sheets of notebook paper covered with drawings and pushed it across the counter toward him. “Charlie drew these on Saturday when he spent the night with his cousins.”

Sam picked up the pictures and flipped through them. Page after page of crayon drawings featured a stick figure in a skirt being killed in various ways. In each picture her eyes were X’s and her mouth was a wide open O of distress. There were bombs and knives and guns. Looking at the pictures his son had drawn weakened Sam’s knees, made his stomach lurch drunkenly.

“I’m really worried about Charlie,” Belinda murmured.

“All little boys draw images of war. I did. Ben and
Joe and Mac did too. Are you telling me your boys don’t?”

“Exclusively?”

Sam blew out his breath.

“With women as the battle victims?”

He shook his head and suddenly realized Charlie was feeling as dead inside as he was. Sam had trouble talking about his thoughts and feelings, and his boy couldn’t talk at all. Belinda was right. He’d been setting a terrible example for the child.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

His aunt drew in her breath. “It’s time to find that boy a new mother.”

“Valerie is irreplaceable.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t mean you both don’t deserve some happiness in your lives. You need to feel normal again.”

“And you think the aging Cyndi Lauper wannabe you sent to my office is the answer to my problems?”

“No, of course not. It’s just time you tried again. Not just for your own sake but for your son. He needs to see how people move forward after a tragedy. Right now you’re both in a holding pattern.”

It was true. He didn’t want to admit it because he didn’t want to date, but it was true.

“Okay,” he relented. “You can fix me up. But I’m only doing this for Charlie’s sake.”

“Oh yes.” Belinda clapped. “Your mom is going to be so excited.”

“Yeah, well, you and she are the only ones.”

“We gotta talk.”

Emma met the determined stares of her two roommates and knew they’d reached the end of their rope.
Two weeks had passed since that awful day in Scott Miller’s office. Two weeks of being hounded by the tabloid media. Two weeks of being ridiculed on morning radio. Two weeks of eating too much chocolate and reading romance novels because it was the only thing that kept her mind off her dire straits. Yes, Miller had had it coming, but she couldn’t help feeling bad about what she had done.

The nightmare of that day had not ended with her sprinting from the theater. Before she’d gone two blocks, she heard the wail of sirens, but it wasn’t until a few hours later, when the paparazzi showed up on her doorstep, that she learned what had happened. It turned out Miller had a preexisting condition that caused his testicle to torque when she’d kicked him in the groin.

By the time they got him to the hospital it was too late to save the damaged testicle. She was feeling pretty damn guilty about that until Miller released a statement to the press claiming she’d assaulted him because he’d refused her advances when she’d tried to have sex with him in order to procure a part in his new play. After that bullshit, she let go of the guilt and daydreamed about hacking off his remaining testicle.

Her roommates, Cara and Lauren, circled her futon, their sleeves rolled up, looking like people who were about to stage an intervention or deprogram someone who’d been kidnapped by a cult. Emma swallowed the Tootsie Roll she’d been chewing and laid down Rachel Gibson’s latest novel. Cara sat at Emma’s feet. Lauren took the chair at the head of her bed.

“We’re sorry, Em,” Cara said, “but we just can’t take this anymore.”

“We can’t step out of the apartment without stepping over the paparazzi. It was fun at first, until we realized they only want to take pictures of
you
.” Lauren shook her head. “We don’t like it.”

Hey, she understood. She didn’t want this kind of attention either, although Myron kept assuring her that any publicity was good publicity. It certainly didn’t feel that way. Her stomach hurt whenever she peered out the window and saw reporters skulking on the street below, although their numbers had started to dwindle over the last few days as fresh news stories pulled them away to more gossip-worthy pastures. Her goal had been to outlast them. Stay holed up in the apartment until they got bored or a bigger celebrity did something more shocking. The plan had worked.

Until now.

Cara folded her hand on her hip and took a deep breath. “We have someone else who wants to move in with us.”

“Someone who’s got cash,” Lauren added. “You gotta go.”

Cara glared at Lauren. “She doesn’t mean to be so blunt.”

“Yes she does,” Emma said, “and she’s right. You have to do what you have to do. I appreciate you letting me hang on as long as you did.”

“You’re welcome.”

“When do you need me gone?”

“Meg’s moving in tomorrow.” Lauren leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest, a look of bored patience on her patrician features. She was a fashion model, obligatorily tall, underweight, and petulant.

“You want me out
now
?” Emma cringed to hear
her voice come out high and reedy and desperate. God, she was pathetic.

Lauren and Cara nodded in unison.

“Okay, great.” She forced a smile. “I’ll get packing.”

Cara hovered, wringing her hands, her lips pursed. “Do you have someplace to go?”

Emma almost preferred Lauren’s blunt disinterest to Cara’s false concern, but she wasn’t going to play the victim, so she lied through her teeth. “Yes, sure, no problem. I’ve got lots of friends.”

The real answer was no, she had nowhere else to go. The man she’d grown up thinking was her father now lived in Seattle with a new wife and ten-year-old daughter. They would not be happy to see her, even if she could scare up the money for a plane ticket—which she couldn’t. She’d be lucky to afford a bed for the night at the YWCA. Most of her acquaintances were aspiring actresses living with multiple roommates in apartments as cramped as this one. She had no idea where her mother was or if she was even alive. She had no siblings. No grandparents. No boyfriends. No fallback plan. No soft place to land.

It’s what happens when you spend your life chasing stardom instead of building relationships.

New York had a way of making people feel anonymous. It was not the best city for a girl bent on standing out and being special. Emma had been down. She’d been low. But she’d never been this up against it. Two hundred dollars in her bank account, another fifty in her wallet, a credit card that was rapidly approaching maxed-out status.

Feeling like her limbs were made of sticks, Emma swung her legs off the futon and got to her feet. She
kept smiling idiotically and tamping down the hysteria pushing against her rib cage.

Don’t break. You won’t break. You’re Scarlett O’Hara plucking that damn radish from the hard, dry soil. You’re Ripley battling chest-ripping aliens. You’re Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz.

Okay, maybe not Dorothy because Dorothy’s theme was “There’s no place like home” and Emma had no home, but she was strong. She could handle this. It was always darkest before the dawn, right? Can’t go up until you’ve hit rock bottom. Well, if that was true, then, baby, she was primed to be a shooting star.

“You want us to help you pack?” Cara offered.

Emma drew on every ounce of pluck she possessed. “You know, why don’t you guys go grab a cup of coffee at the Daily Grind, I’ll be gone by the time you get back.”

“Are you sure?” Cara knitted her brow.

“Absolutely.”

Lauren already had hold of Cara’s arm. “Come on, let’s give her some space.”

After the door shut behind them, Emma fought the urge to sink to her knees and burst into tears. Instead, she recited the names of every strong woman of film she could think of as she pulled her suitcase from the closet and tossed it on the futon. “Lara Croft, Ilsa Lund, Elizabeth Bennet, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

She stuffed her clothes into the suitcase and switched to strong-minded actresses. “Susan Sarandon, Glenn Close, Bette Davis, Uma Thurman,” she said, raising her voice against the undulating waves tightening her stomach with spasms of dread. “Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Collins, Demi Moore.”

But even as she uttered the names of determined women who’d taken rejection and turned it into success, Emma feared that no matter what her mother had told her, she simply didn’t have what it took to be a star. She didn’t even have her mother’s star brooch to wish upon. Her touchstone was gone. She had nothing to keep her grounded.

Once her bags were packed, she looked around the dingy apartment they’d tried so hard to spruce up—bringing in braided rugs to hide the deep gouges in the ugly hardwood floors, caulking and painting over a bullet hole in one wall, hanging festive curtains over a window that looked out over a debris-filled alley, but it had been like putting lipstick on a pig, and the attempt came off looking sad and desperate. Emma hitched in a breath. God, she was going to miss this place.

She stepped to the door, bracing herself for any media types who might still be camped out, ready to duck her head and let loose a string of “no comments.” She unlocked the three deadbolts, and just as her hand touched the knob, a knock sounded.

Startled, she jumped back.

“NYPD, open up.”

The police? Emma stood on tiptoes to peer out the peephole. Sure enough, there was an NYPD badge being held up to it.

She opened the door.

Two burly, dark-haired cops in uniform stared at her, expressions neutral. “You Emma Parks?” the taller one asked.

“I am.”

“You’re under arrest.” The shorter cop dangled handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Alarm spread through her. What had she done? “What’s this all about, Officer?”

“Sexual assault charges, ma’am, brought against you by one Scott Miller. Now if you’ll turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Not knowing what else to do, she complied. A chill of fear squeezed her heart as he clamped the cold metal handcuffs around her wrists and intoned, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

“I do,” she whimpered.

They hauled her down the steps of the third-floor walkup, and when they hit the ground floor, the media converged on them at once, microphones thrust in her face, cameras rolling, dozens of people clamoring to speak to her.

And as the policemen stuffed her into the back of their squad car, Emma couldn’t help thinking that this was the most attention she’d ever received.

“What do I look for in a woman?” Feeling put on the spot, Sam stared into the camera.

After promising his aunt he’d let her put him on the dating circuit, he’d dragged his feet for a week. Honestly, he didn’t see how his dating was going to help Charlie stop drawing disturbing pictures and start talking again. But then Belinda got his mother in on the act and she started nagging him as well, calling from their campsite in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Finally he’d thrown in the towel and set up an appointment. And now here he was sitting on a stool,
with the background scene of Lake Twilight behind him, his hair freshly trimmed, wearing new Levi’s and a red shirt. Belinda had picked out the shirt because she said the color made his eyes pop. To Sam’s way of thinking, that wasn’t a good thing. He felt like a giant dumbass.

Aunt Belinda stood behind the cameraman holding up the cue cards with the questions she wanted him to answer written on them. She had a big smile on her face and flashed him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. How he hated being the center of attention. He’d rather visit the dentist.

He paused, considering the question. Should he say what he really wanted? Or should he say what he thought women wanted to hear? Should he even consider his desires at all? Or should he be looking for the kind of woman best suited to be Charlie’s new mother? What did he want in a woman?

Belinda gave him an exaggerated look that said,
Say something
.

“Um…well…I want someone who is traditional.”

Belinda shook her head.

Sam frowned. “I want someone untraditional?”

“Cut!” Belinda exclaimed and bustled over to Sam.

“What?”

“Traditional isn’t a good descriptor. With that you’ll get women who tend to be rooted in their opinions.”

“So what should I say?”

“What does traditional mean to you?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Like Valerie I guess.”

“Okay, then mention Valerie’s appealing qualities.”

“All right.”

Belinda dodged out of the way of the camera. “Let’s try it again. Let’s take it from the top. And sit up straighter.”

Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, Sam sat up straighter. “What am I looking for in a woman?” For some reason Trixie Lynn Parks popped into his head—captivating, artistic, soulful, dramatic, outrageous, intrepid, audacious, resilient, profound. A woman like that would be a lot to keep up with. “I’m looking for a woman who is calm and practical, with a lived-in look.”

“Cut!”

“What now?”

“Lived-in look?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’ll get unkempt women who’ve let themselves go.”

“I mean that I don’t want someone who is fussy about their appearance. None of those girly-girlies who act like the world has come to an end because they broke a nail.”

“Let’s change questions,” Belinda said. “Tell us what you value most.” She nodded at the cameraman, who started recording again.

“What do I value most?” Sam smiled. That was easy enough. “Being a father and a veterinarian. My family means a lot to me. I love animals, and I live in the greatest town on earth.”

Belinda held up a new cue card.