Bed of Roses (28 page)

She needed a break.

She tested the back door to make sure it locked behind her, carried her case down to her car. Once she got behind the wheel, she flipped open her phone and called Parker.

“Hey, Emma, I’m on the other line with—”

“I’ll be quick. Can we have a girl night tonight?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Really. I just need girl night.”

“In or out?”

“In. I don’t want to go out.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

Emma closed the phone.

Friends, she thought. Girlfriends. They never let you down.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I
OVERREACTED.”

After a full day of work, during which she’d replayed dozens of Jack details, Emma settled down.

“We’ll be the judge of that.” Laurel took her place in the third-floor parlor, then bit into a slice of Mrs. Grady’s exceptional homemade pizza.

“He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t even say anything wrong. I’m annoyed with myself.”

“Okay, but you tend to be annoyed with yourself instead of anybody else. Even when the anybody else deserves it.” Mac poured a glass of wine, offered the bottle to Laurel.

“Nope. Detoxifying massive quantities of tequila. It could take days.”

“I don’t do that.” Emma scowled over her pizza. “That makes me sound like a weenie.”

“You’re not a weenie. You’re just tolerant, and you have a sympathetic nature.” Since Emma held up her glass, Mac filled it. “So when you get annoyed with somebody, you mean it.”

“I’m not a pushover,” Emma replied.

“Just because you’re not as mean as we are, doesn’t mean you’re a pushover,” Laurel pointed out.

“I can be mean.”

“You can,” Mac agreed and gave Emma a bolstering pat on the shoulder. “You have the tools, you have the skills. Mostly you don’t have the heart for it.”

“I—”

“Being innately nice isn’t a character flaw,” Parker interrupted. “I like to think we’re all innately nice.”

“Except for me.” Laurel held up her Diet Coke.

“Yes, except for you. Why don’t you just tell us what upset you, Emma?”

“It’s going to sound stupid, even petty.” She brooded into her wine, then down at the candy pink polish on her toes while her friends waited. “It’s just that he’s so protective of his space, his place. He doesn’t actually say anything, but there’s this invisible boundary around his area. Except he did say it before. You remember, Mac.”

“Give me a hint.”

“When you decided to reorganize your bedroom last winter. The closet thing. You got crazed because Carter left some of his things at your place. And Jack came over, and he agreed with you. He said all those things about what happens when you let somebody you’re involved with stake territory.”

“He was joking, mostly. You got mad,” Mac remembered. “Walked out.”

“He said that women start leaving their things all over the bathroom counter, and then they want a drawer. And before you know it, they take over. As if wanting to leave a toothbrush means you’re ready to register at Tiffany.”

“He freaked because you wanted to leave a toothbrush at his place?” Laurel demanded.

“No. Yes. Not exactly, because I never said anything about a damn toothbrush. Look, it’s like this. Even if we’re out somewhere and his place is closer, we come back here. Last night, I asked if I could stay at his place because I needed to be in town in the morning anyway, and he . . . he hesitated.”

“Maybe his place wasn’t in girl-friendly condition,” Mac suggested. “He had to think if he’d left any dirty socks or
Big Jugs
magazines lying around, or if he’d changed the sheets in the last decade.”

“It wasn’t that. His place is always neat, which may be part of the thing. He likes everything where it is. Like Parker.”

“Hey.”

“Well, you do,” Emma said, but with a smile that held both love and apology. “It’s just the nature. The thing is, you’d be okay if a guy slept over, maybe left a toothbrush. You’d just put the toothbrush in some proper space.”

“Which guy? Can I have a name, an address, a photograph?”

Emma relaxed enough to laugh. “In theory. Anyway, over breakfast I mentioned I was hitting the market, and since he was out of eggs and milk, I could pick some up for him. And there it was again. That same sort of uh-oh before the no, thanks. But the killer was when he came upstairs. I was putting on my makeup and, beat me with a stick, had my stuff out on the counter. And he got this look. Annoyed and . . . wary. I told you it was going to sound stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” Parker corrected. “It made you feel unwelcome and intrusive.”

“Yes.” Emma shut her eyes. “Exactly. I don’t think he meant to, or that he’s even fully aware, but—”

“It doesn’t matter. In fact, the unconscious slight’s worse.”

“Yes!” Emma repeated, and shot Parker a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“What did you do about it?” Laurel demanded.

“Do?”

“Yes, do, Em. Such as tell him to get over himself, it’s a toothbrush or a tube of mascara.”

“He went to work and I spent a half hour making sure I hadn’t left so much as a flake of that mascara in his precious space.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll teach him,” Laurel added. “I’d’ve stripped off my bra, left it hanging over his shower, left him a sarcastic love note in lipstick on the mirror. Oh, oh, and I’d have gone out and bought the economy-sized box of tampons and left them on the counter.
That
would get the point across.”

“Wouldn’t that be making his point?”

“No, because he has no point. You’re sleeping together. Whoever’s bed is in play, the other party requires some of the basics on hand. Do you get wigged out when he leaves his toothbrush or his razor at your place?”

“He doesn’t. Ever.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me he never forgets to—”

“Never.”

“Well, Jesus.” Laurel slumped back. “Obsessive much?”

Mac raised her hand, offered a sheepish smile. “I’m just going to say I was kind of that way. Not as—okay, obsessive. I would forget things or leave things at Carter’s, and he’d do the same. But that’s what started me off that day you’re talking about, Em. His jacket, his shaving kit, his whatever, mixed up with my stuff. It wasn’t the stuff, it was what it meant. He’s here. He’s really here, and it’s not just sex. It’s not just casual. It’s real.” Mac shrugged, spread her hands. “I panicked. I had this amazing man in love with me, and I was scared. Jack’s probably feeling some of that.”

“I haven’t said anything about love.”

“Maybe you should.” Parker shifted to tuck up her feet. “It’s easier to know how the cards should be played when they’re on the table. If he doesn’t know what you’re feeling, Emma, how can he take those feelings into consideration?”

“I don’t want him to take my feelings into consideration. I want him to feel what he feels, be what he is. If he didn’t and wasn’t, I wouldn’t be in love with him in the first place.” She sighed and took a sip of wine. “Why did I ever think being in love would be wonderful?”

“It is once you work out the kinks,” Mac told her.

“Part of the problem is I already know him so well I pick up on all the little . . .” She huffed out a breath, sipped more wine. “I think I have to stop being so sensitive, and stop romanticizing everything.”

“You have to feel what you feel, be what you are.”

When Parker tossed her words back at her, Emma blinked. “I guess I do, don’t I? And I guess I should probably have an actual conversation with Jack about this.”

“I like my economy-sized box of tampons better. It requires no words.” Laurel shrugged. “But if you’ve got to be all mature about it.”

“I don’t really want to, but I got tired of sulking about halfway through the day. I might as well see how a reasonable conversation works out. Next week, I think. Maybe we both need a little space.”

“We should have a man-free, work free night once a month.”

“We pretty much do,” Mac reminded Laurel.

“But that’s because it just happens, which is good. But now that half of us are hooked up with men, we should formalize it. An estrogen revival.”

“No men, no work.” Emma nodded. “That sounds—”

Parker’s phone beeped. She glanced at the display. “Willow Moran, first Saturday in June. Shouldn’t take long. Hi, Willow!” she said cheerfully as she rose and stepped out of the room. “No, no problem at all. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Well, almost no work. And more pizza for me.” Laurel took a second slice.

Despite a few interruptions, Emma thought the evening had been just what she’d needed. A little space, a little time with friends. She let herself into her house feeling pleasantly tired. As she started upstairs she went through her schedule for the next few days. She’d barely have time to catch her breath, she realized. And that, too, was just what she needed.

After crossing the room, she picked up the phone she’d deliberately left behind and saw she had a voice mail from Jack. Her spirits took a quick jump. So quick, she told herself to set the phone down again. It couldn’t be anything urgent or he’d have called the main house.

It could wait until morning.

And who was she kidding?

She sat on the side of the bed to listen.

It made her laugh. He always could make her laugh, she thought. It was a nice message. Considerate, affectionate, funny.

What else did she want?

Everything, she admitted. She wanted it all.

 

 

 

S
HE LET IT WAIT. EMMA TOLD HERSELF SHE WAS JUST TOO BUSY for that mature conversation. May meant a full slate of weddings, bridal showers, and Mother’s Day. When she wasn’t neck deep in flowers, she was planning the next design.

With her schedule, it simply made more sense for Jack to come to her, when it worked for both of them. She told herself to be grateful she was involved with a man who didn’t complain about her working weekends, the long hours—and who could be counted on to lend a hand if he was around.

On a stormy afternoon in May she worked alone. Blessedly. Her ears might have been ringing from the echoes of Tink’s and Tiffany’s chatter, but now the rolls of thunder, the whoosh of rain and wind soothed.

She finished the maid of honor’s bouquet, then stood for a moment to stretch. Turning, she jumped like a rabbit when she saw Jack.

Her squeal of shock bubbled into laughter as she slammed her hand to her heart. “God! You scared me.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I knocked, yelled out, but it’s hard to hear over the wrath of God.”

“You’re soaked.”

“It’s probably because of the rain.” He ran a hand through his hair, scattering drops. “Killed my last on-site meeting, so I took a chance and swung by. Nice,” he added, nodding at the bouquet.

“It is, isn’t it? I was just about to put it in the cooler and start on the bride’s. Why don’t you get some coffee, dry off.”

“Exactly what I hoped to hear.” He stepped up to kiss her, brush a hand down her back. “I brought the drawings over for you to look at. When you get a chance. Weather permitting, they’ll start on Mac’s place Monday morning. Early. Be prepared.”

“That’s exciting. Do they know?”

“I stopped in the studio first. You want coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

She made the trip to the cooler and back, then settled down with the flowers, her tools, and the picture she wanted to create in her head.

She glanced up when he came back in. “I’ve never really watched you work, on this part. Will it bug you?”

“No. Sit down. Talk to me.”

“I saw your sister today.”

“Oh?”

“We ran into each other in town. Don’t you need a picture or a sketch?”

“I often use both, but this one’s . . .” She tapped a finger on her temple. “White spray roses, this pale viburnum for accents. Slight cascade, which will be both sweet and romantic when I coax these majolicas into full bloom.”

He watched as she clipped and wired, and thunder boomed. “I thought you said it was a bouquet.”

“It is.”

“Why the vase?”

“I’ve soaked the foam, attached the holder. See this part?” She angled the vase. “I keep that anchored in the vase so I can work the flowers in, get the right shape, the right cascade.”

“What do you do when you have the others working in here with you?”