By Design

Graham caught Emmie by the elbows and steadied her. She looked up once again at that warm smile and in one step closed the short distance between them. She shocked even herself, leaning into him—and was mortified for a moment, as Graham, startled, drew his head back a fraction of an inch. Then relief and warmth flooded through her as she felt his arms close around her, his broad hands spread across her back. She slid her arms around his neck, felt her heart hammering in her chest. She dropped her gaze and noticed a pulse throbbing at the open collar of his striped Oxford.

Their foreheads touched, their noses nuzzled, and then Emmie’s mouth sought Graham’s. Or his sought hers. She wasn’t sure anymore, and it didn’t matter. Emmie gloried in the sensation of the length of his body fused to hers. They fit. They fit! She always knew they would . . . but she had no idea just how perfectly. The tip of her tongue grazed his bottom lip. He pulled her tighter and his tongue found hers—just a little, just enough to draw a little gasp from deep in her throat . . .

eKENSINGTON
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

A million thanks to the following angels:

Agent extraordinaire Jordy Albert, who may actually be a Time Lord, because she messed with time in order to make it look like she sold my book in less than three weeks. Or she actually did sell it in less than three weeks. If the latter indeed occurred, it is all the more impressive, as it is more astounding of the two options.

My editor, John Sconamiglio, for his mellow attitude and constant encouragement, and the entire righteous staff at Kensington Publishing.

My ever-patient family, especially my son Owen, who selflessly agreed to play video games (oh the sacrifice) when mama needed to work.

Neighbors Ken and Norma Embling, for letting me use their falling-plaster story, which I related without embellishment. It happened exactly that way.

Carla O’Hornett, for answering my countless questions about the interior design industry.

Andrew Woloson, for getting insurance details through my thick skull. I hope they got through properly. If not, it’s all my fault.

Wendy Blake, for inviting high school alums to her annual holiday cookie party. However, let it be known that any similarity to Juliet starts and ends right there.

Elizabeth Torgerson-Lamark, for her fabulous photography skills that made me look less like a gargoyle.

My former bosses Bill and Scott. If it hadn’t been for their encouragement, I never would have had the courage to leave that full-time job and write a novel.

And finally, the two psycho kitties (
q’uest que c’est
), who always keep me humble. I am their servant first and foremost, at all times.

A hand snaked toward her from her left. Emmie Brewster’s eyes never strayed from the television, but her peripheral vision caught the movement. “You jonesing to make a stub the newest fashion accessory?”

“I was just wondering about that last Tootsie Roll you got there . . .”

Emmie sighed and glanced over at her best friend, Trish, who batted her eyelashes coquettishly. Emmie heaved herself forward toward the coffee table, seized the candy, unwrapped it, and bit it in half. “Here,” she said, handing the bitten piece to her friend.

“
Danke
.” Her jaw working diligently, Trish said around the lump of candy, “Ee sool wowt, oo no?”

Emmie sighed. “Yeah, we should go out. Beautiful day, blah, blah. But I’m, you know,
busy
.”

Trish swallowed and said more clearly, “Watching design shows? Seriously?”

“It’s educational.”

“Oh, please! You do this for a living! What in the world could you possibly learn from them?” she muttered, disappearing behind the Sunday comics.

“Not to use pea green spray paint to renovate an old lamp, for one thing. Ew!” Emmie tucked her right toe into the cuff of her left sock and scratched her itchy ankle.

Trish said from behind the paper, “Those socks again? Will you throw them the heck out, please?”

“No! They . . .” Emmie searched for a reason not to. “They have kitties on them.”

“I’ll
draw
kitties on your feet for you. Just get rid of the damned socks!”

“No!”

Trish tossed the paper aside and pounced on the socks, yanking them off Emmie’s feet before she could react. “They’re going out!”

Trish disappeared into the kitchen. Emmie raced after her, but she was too late. She swung around the doorjamb just in time to hear the hum and growl of the trash compactor as it mashed her socks into last night’s potato peelings.

“You suck.”

“Emmie, my darling,” Trish said, leaning her long and narrow frame along the counter, “there’s something you’ve never understood about life. If you don’t like something, don’t put up with it—
throw it out!
”

Emmie had a funny feeling they weren’t talking about her socks anymore.

Sure enough, Trish asked, “Did you hear from him this weekend?” She had one eyebrow cocked suspiciously; she already knew the answer.

Emmie looked down at her bare feet on the yellow and blue linoleum. “No.”

“Even though he knows about today?”

Reluctantly, she murmured, “Yeah.”

“So . . .” Trish prompted.

“What?”

And Trish reached over to the refrigerator, plucked a photo of Emmie and her erstwhile boyfriend, Kyle, out from under a ladybug magnet, and shoved it down the sink drain. She flipped on the water and flicked the switch for the disposal.

“Are you trying to destroy all my kitchen appliances one by one, or was that just easier than finding a pair of scissors?” Emmie shouted over the din.

“It’s more dramatic. Never underestimate the value of good drama,” Trish shouted back. She turned off the disposal and studied her friend. “You know what your trouble is?” Emmie winced. Nothing good ever came after “you know what your trouble is.” “You’re too safe. Too quiet. You’ve got your comfy little job—”

“Which keeps me in kibble.”

“And your comfy little house—”

“You like my comfy little house.”

“And your comfy little life. And nothing much moves.”

“I thought that was a
good
thing.”

“Yeah—when you’re eighty.”

“You calling me an old lady?” Emmie demanded. Trish smirked. “Hey, at least I don’t have cats.”

“First kitty socks, then real kitties. It just follows. I’d be worried if I were you.”

“Yeah, well, looks like someone else has ‘adventuring’ covered.” Emmie fished out a colorful postcard from her pile of mail and catalogs on the counter and handed it to her friend.

Trish turned it over and winced. According to the postcard, Emmie’s father was in the middle of a “fantastic” vacation in Saint Lucia. “Hm. I was going to ask how he’s holding up.”

“Oh, just fine, apparently. My dad used to be the kind of guy who thought that Saint Lucia was in Italy.
Now
look at him.” She gestured at the postcard with disgust.

“People grieve in different ways, sweetie.”

“I don’t think he grieved at all.”

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair. He was
so
broken up when your mom died. I remember.”

“Yeah,” Emmie said grudgingly. He had been in shock for quite a while; when you’d been married for thirty-five years, she reasoned, it must be tough to suddenly be without that person who’d been by your side for so long.

Especially because her parents’ marriage was about as ideal as you could get. Oh, not because they’d never had their differences—of course they had. But they’d always seemed to be in sync with one another, always engaged in a balanced, give-and-take dance. When one pushed forward, the other gave way to make room, and vice versa. Granted, her father was usually the one pushing and her mother the one yielding. Bob Brewster was unapologetically the more forceful of the pair, and while that bothered Emmie at times, Jennifer Brewster always saw through his bluster. She never saw her husband’s behavior in a negative light; instead, to her he was simply confidently decisive in all things. Even when he was wrong, he somehow came out sounding like he was right. Emmie never could figure out why her mother let him get away with that, but she’d just take Emmie aside and explain that “that’s just the way your father is.”

What amazed her more, however, was how her mother managed to take his nonsense in stride. Bob would barrel through situations like a bull in a china shop, and Jennifer would sigh, shake her head, and clean up the mess in his wake. If Bob made unwise investments, she adjusted the budget to cover the loss, and eventually their finances would recover. When Bob adopt a Great Dane on a whim, she came up with the idea to walk him like a pony—driving the family car at a crawl on a country lane, hanging on to Bruce’s leash out the driver’s side window, so he didn’t take anyone in the family for a drag. If Bob suddenly decided it was time for a family camping trip to the Adirondacks in May—blackfly season—she was the one who brought the bug spray . . . and reserved a hotel room in Old Forge in advance, so after several miserable hours, they could leave the wilderness to the bloodsucking beasts.

Yes, his wife often kept him in check, kept him on the straight and narrow. To his credit, Emmie’s father often was brought up short by his wife’s skeptical look; that often got him to think twice about his decisions, and on occasion he even backed down and did things her way. But for the most part, he had the freedom to do what he wanted, safe in the knowledge that someone would pick up after him.

Emmie usually didn’t think that was fair, but then Jennifer would catch her daughter’s eye, wink, and smile, and Emmie knew she had her own measure of control in the partnership. It was like a daily master class in how to maintain a successful relationship.

But now there was no wife to shake her head at Bob and keep him from going off the rails, so off the rails he went. Not right away, however. Trish was right; for the first few months, Bob Brewster didn’t know what to do with himself. Emmie came by to see him almost every day, and sometimes, although he was up and dressed, she wasn’t sure he’d moved from his recliner in the living room for hours at a time, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t eating, except for maybe a sandwich—and she could only tell because there were crumbs in the sink, where he’d stood to eat it.

He’d definitely been lost without his wife, and at the time, his daughter worried that he’d never recover. But then, almost out of the blue . . . he did. With a vengeance. It was as though he woke up one morning, shook off his mood the way he’d done so often before with more minor issues in his life, and charged ahead, that familiar white-haired bull in a china shop again. Before Emmie knew it, he was off on one vacation after another. Maybe he decided if he stopped moving, he’d die, like a shark, Emmie thought.

So from that point on, he simply never stopped moving.

“But it was like he . . . recovered too quickly or something.”

“There’s no set time for grieving.”

“I know. I don’t want him to be moping around a whole year later or anything, but he could at least . . . acknowledge the date.”

“Like your official wallow?”

“Precisely.”

Today, September 8, was the first anniversary of Emmie’s mother’s death, and she had decided to face the day by
not
facing the day. Her plan was to hunker down in her house and, yes, “wallow.” And Trish was going to help her through it. Trish Campo, her best friend since elementary school, always seemed to float confidently on the surface of life instead of succumbing to all the nasty bugaboos that threatened to drag other women under. That was precisely why Emmie still clung to Trish, even now, in their “old age,” which was mumble-mumble-mutter-something past thirty. Trish was her lifeline, her floaties, and she’d keep Emmie from sinking under the weight of her residual sorrow today.

Emmie headed back toward the living room, beating her friend to the remote by inches. “My house, my remote,” she declared. “My wallow,” she added for good measure.

 

As the shadows lengthened in the living room, Emmie and Trish sank lower and lower into the sofa, and Emmie’s spirits dipped accordingly.

“I dunno,” she mumbled, her wineglass tipping sideways in her hand at a precarious angle. Trish wordlessly righted it. It promptly tipped again, but less so. Trish let it be. “I don’t get it. I feel like I’m missing something.”

“You want your mommy.”

“You know what, though?” Emmie turned her semi-focused chestnut eyes up to her friend. “I don’t. I mean, I miss her, but she raised me right—to be self-shuff . . . shelf-shuff . . . independent.”

“She did do that.”

“When I thought I wanted to join Pee Wee football, she didn’t talk me out of it.”

“Yeah, a few drills at practice did that.”

“She convinced me to take AP Calculus. Don’t know how she pulled that off.”

Trish snickered. “Thought you were gonna jump right out the classroom window at least once a week. Sometimes twice.”

“She told me I wasn’t a freak if I didn’t have a date to the prom.”

Now Trish laughed outright. “Rick
loved
having the both of us as his dates. His friends thought he was going to get a threesome at the end of the night, and he
let
’em think it.”

“She was
so
happy when I got into Westfall College. She got choked up whenever she talked about it. For, like, an entire year.”

Trish nodded fondly.

“Oh—remember when she kept hammering at me about Billy Joosten, in college? Told me a thousand times not to go out with him. She was convinced he was a psychopath.”

“She was pretty much right.”

“Hey, he was never formally charged with anything.”

“They’ll find the bodies one of these days. You mark my words.”

“She . . . she gave me the down payment for this house.”

Emmie and Trish sighed, cherishing their own favorite memories of Jennifer Brewster.

“She was a great mom,” Trish said after a moment.

“She was. And I feel like I’m letting her down.”

“Oh, you are not.”

“Yuh-huh. She always wanted . . .” At this Emmie felt her throat constrict; she couldn’t get any more words out.

“More,” Trish finished for her. “She wanted more for you.”

“And I don’t have even half of what she had.”

“Don’t tell me you want marriage and kids and all that crap.”

“Not just for the sake of having them, no.”

“Because I did that for the both of us.”

“And you did it well.” Emmie toasted her. Trish and Rick had dated all through high school and college. Their boys, Justin, eleven, and Logan, six, were mostly polite and well behaved and only slightly insane—just the usual boy-type madness, which included shouting at the tops of their lungs from morning till night and leaving lots of LEGOs around. “But . . . remember when we were younger, like twelve?”

“Ayup. You had bad hair. I had too many freckles. I still have too many freckles,” Trish murmured, suddenly engrossed in her forearm.

“Remember the feeling we had, that the world was wide open, that anything could happen at any minute? That we were in on a big adventure?”

“Yeah . . .”

“What happened to that? Because now it feels like . . . things are closing in . . . and . . . and . . .” She drifted off, not sure what she was trying to say.

“Are you going to throw up?”

“No.” Emmie slapped her friend’s wrist, not noticing the wine finally sloshing out of her glass. “But I feel like there’s something I should have done. Or should be doing. I just don’t know what it is . . . Hey!” she burst out, making Trish jump. “Do you remember Juliet Winslow?”

“Oh my Goooddd!” Trish drawled, laughing.

“No, no, seriously!” Emmie insisted, refilling Trish’s glass, and her own, all the way to the rim. “Remember her? She had everything. She was . . .”

“Perfect,” Trish finished for her.

“Like Venus on the half shell,” Emmie agreed wistfully. “Barbie doll—blond hair, blue eyes, skinny. Smart, talented, sporty. Not one flaw. Plus she was nice, remember?” Trish nodded. “Damn, you couldn’t even hate her, she was so nice.”

“What happened to her, anyway?” Trish mused.

“God, I don’t know. That’s what happens when we blow off reunions, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“I wanna know,” Emmie said abruptly.