By Design (18 page)

She gave him a look. “After the very last thing that, er, happened on it?
I
would have set fire to it.” She looked around and sighed. “Graham, this is a wonderful early Christmas present. Thank—”

“Oh, this isn’t your present.”

“It isn’t?”

“Not quite.” He scanned the yard, put his arm around her shoulders, and pointed. “There. Try that on for size.”

Emmie’s jaw dropped. Around the back corner of the house came a familiar figure, pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with ragged, water-bloated pieces of drywall, and grumbling and cursing the entire time.

Kyle.

Emmie thought she would burst with the giggles that bubbled up inside her. “
How
did you manage that?”

Graham looked quite pleased with himself. “Oh, I just looked up his number, gave him a call, had a little man-to-man talk—you know.”

“Really.”

“Well, okay, I told him that you were going to sue the pants off of him, but if he joined my crew, I’d be able to get you to reconsider.”

“Wait a minute. Sue Kyle—and Caitlynn, for that matter—and all you’d get would be a case of beer and a couple dozen giant cans of Aqua Net.”

“Not necessarily.”

“The only thing he has that’s worth anything is his truck.”

“Exactly. Laid down his life to save his ride.”

Kyle tipped the contents of the wheelbarrow into the Dumpster’s open end and frowned in their direction.

“Kyle!” Emmie called, pointing at some of the pieces of drywall sliding out onto the driveway. “Don’t leave that stuff lying around. Pick it up.”

Her ex glowered at her, but at a stern look from Graham, he started picking up the pieces and flinging them, Frisbee-like, into the Dumpster.

“Anyway. Merry Christmas.”

Emmie hugged Graham tight around his waist. “It’s the best present ever.”

“What in the blue blazes are you doing?”

Emmie fell backward out of a tall, dusty box and blew at a cobweb in her hair that dangled in front of her face. “Looking around.”

“Cripes, for a minute I thought the mice were on steroids, all the noise you’re making up here.” In the dim light of the single bulb hanging from the attic rafters, Bob Brewster craned his neck to see around his daughter, who was clumsily trying to block his view. “What have you dug into?”

Emmie ineffectively brushed at the cobweb again. “Nothing.”

“Emmaline, is that a box of Christmas decorations?”

“It is that time of year, you know, Dad. We really should figure out what we’re going to do about Christmas.”

“‘Do’ about it? What’s to ‘do’? December twenty-fifth, Christmas shows up, all on its own.”

“You know what I mean.”

Bob Brewster sighed. “I know.”

Emmie and her father hadn’t celebrated any holidays last year—understandably, as her mother had died only months before. They let Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s slip by. Then, before they knew it, they were well into the new year and didn’t have to worry about the holidays again for months. But Emmie knew that if they didn’t celebrate Christmas this year, they likely would never celebrate it again.

“It’s one thing to miss Thanksgiving, like you did, but
Christmas
. . .”

“I know.”

“So?”

He sighed again. “Whatever you want to do, Emmaline.” He looked away. “I just don’t know that it would be all that enjoyable without your mother.”

Emmie’s father did have a point. Her mother was the driving force behind all their holiday celebrations: keeper of the decorations (and she had designated, color-coordinated decorations for even minor holidays—Emmie had come across her vivid green St. Patrick’s Day stash as she hunted for the Christmas decorations), maker of the special meals, enforcer of the traditions. She knew there was no way she could ever measure up to her mom’s structured habits. But she was willing to try. Her dad, however, apparently wasn’t.

After thinking for a moment, he brightened and suggested, “How about you join me for a trip to the casino instead, eh? I hear it’s a lot of fun on Christmas Eve, and they have a big buffet on Christmas Day . . .”

Emmie cocked an eyebrow. “Er . . . no, Dad. Just . . . no.”

Bob shrugged. “I thought it was a good idea.”

“Just let me take care of everything, okay? You don’t even have to get me a present.”

“Oh, I’ve already gotten you your presents.”

“You have not.” Emmie knew that her mother had always taken care of gifts. “Live tree?”

“God, no!” he burst out. “Here’s my contribution—I’ll carry that nice pre-lit tree down to the living room. Paid enough for it the year before your mother died—might as well get our money’s worth out of it. If you miss a live tree so much, I think there’s a spray can of pine scent in the bathroom.”

“Okay, we’ll use your fake tree. But everything else—I plan.”

“I’ll bet it won’t be just you and me, am I right?”

“Not if I can help it. Will Aunt Phyllis come if I ask her?”

“No, she’s going to want to be with her grandchildren.”

“Okay.”

“So it
is
just you and me.”

“I happen to have friends, Dad.”

“What about your new young man? I thought you’d be out with him tonight, in fact—Friday night and all.”

Emmie dug into the box of decorations again. She mumbled something that her father couldn’t catch, but instead of giving up and wandering off, as she hoped, he persisted. “Speak up, Emmaline.”

She stood up and fidgeted. “I said, we were supposed to. But . . . he got a call.”

“Work?”

“Something like that.”

The truth was, late that afternoon, Graham had called to cancel their dinner plans, because
Juliet
had called him, all distraught. He told Emmie, regretfully, that he should go over to her house to talk to her while Kevin had the kids. Emmie wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She wanted to be furious at Juliet for clinging to Graham. And she wanted to be furious at Graham for caving and going back over there. Instead, she tried to be mature and understanding—Graham had to talk Juliet off the ledge. That made sense. She admired his compassion.

When he’d told her his plans, Emmie had blurted out, “Are you going to tell her about—” then froze. She had almost said “you and me,” but then she wondered if a couple of make-out sessions constituted a “you and me” that required an announcement.

She could hear the smile in Graham’s voice when he said, “You and me, you mean?” Emmie let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding. “That’s the plan.”

And he had promised to call her as soon as he was through. So she had her cell phone in her pocket at that moment and was trying not to pay attention to how late it was getting.

“Don’t worry about Graham,” she said to her father. He would call. He had promised. “Speaking of special friends, would Concetta come for Christmas Eve?”

“No, she has her own people.”

“Okay, have it your way.”

“Well, who’s that leave you with, then?”

“I’ll ask Trish—her family is enough to fill the whole house.” Emmie had no intention of reaching beyond her immediate circle again—not after last week’s fiasco. Trish and her family, and possibly Graham and Sophie (she hoped, she hoped), were quite enough.

“Ain’t that the truth. She still got those two annoying boys, or has she sold them to a traveling circus?”

“Dad! They’re good kids.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s what they said about Frank and Jesse James.”

As her father made his way back downstairs, Emmie’s phone finally rang. She yanked it out of her pocket, bobbled it, kept it from falling into the cardboard box, answered the call. “Hey,” she said breathlessly.

“Hi.” He sounded penitent. Penitent was good. She could work with penitent. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“’ S okay. What’s going on?”

“Don’t you mean, ‘How’d it go?’”

“Oh . . . you know . . .”
Maintain casual tone. Maintain casual tone.
“I mean . . . yeah. How’d it go?”

Graham sighed into the phone, and Emmie wished he were there with her. She loved it when he was close enough that she could feel his breath on her ear, when he unabashedly inhaled her scent.
Focus, soldier!
Graham was saying, “. . . was really, really upset. This is gonna be tough.”

“What did she say?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. I don’t really want to . . .”

“Wait, let me guess. She loves you, she never loved Kevin. Or she never loved Kevin the way she loves you. She can’t live without you. Give her one more chance, pleasebabyplease. How’m I doing?”

“Pretty darn good, actually. But she was a bit more desperate.”

Emmie absently wrapped a length of silver garland around her neck like a scarf. “More desperate than pleasebabyplease?”

“Much. She, er, said some things . . .”

“She did
not
tell you she’s pregnant.”

“Oh, God, no!
No!
Hey, what do you take me for?”

“Wimmins have done far worse to far wiser men than you, grasshopper.” And Emmie coiled a length of red garland around her head. She hoped it looked like the band Devo’s red hats and looked around for a mirror so she could check. “Okay. So what
did
she say?” she prompted.

“I don’t know if I should . . .”

“Hey, this affects me, too, you know.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“She sort of . . . you have to know she was really upset, and she said . . . she ‘might not be responsible for her actions’ in the near future.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t really know. But apparently it was sort of a threat.”

“And your response was?”

“I told her she was being ridiculous and not to do anything crazy.”

“Yeahhh, that was exactly the wrong thing to say.”

“What?”

“Telling her ‘don’t be ridiculous’? That translates into ‘don’t be a stupid hysterical female’. Women tend to get offended at stuff like that.”

“What should I have told her, then?”

“Well,
she
would have preferred you to throw yourself at her feet and tell her she was right all along and can’t we be together just like she said. Pleasebabyplease. But since you don’t agree with her on that . . . you, er,
don’t
agree with her on that, do you?”

“Of course not,” he said, and Emmie’s toes tingled at his warm tone.

“Then there really was nothing you could have said, I guess. She’s just trying to win this battle with you. She wants you to go along with what she’s decided. And since you don’t want the same thing . . . you, er,
don’t
want the same thing, do you?”

“You know I don’t,” he said in the same warm tone, but it was warped by some weird audio effect.

“What’s that noise?” Emmie asked.

“What noise?”

“There it is again. It’s like some strange echo. I’m hearing everything you say twice.”

“Huh.”

“Are you going through a tunnel or something?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“It’s getting louder.”

“Maybe your attic has an electromagnetic energy field in it.”

“My attic does not have an electro—Hey, how did you know I was in the attic?”

Then a floorboard creaked, and Emmie whirled around to see Graham leaning in the attic doorway. “Tinsel. That’s a good look for you.”

She rushed at him, and the tinsel tumbled off onto the dusty floor.

 

“So I was thinking . . .” Emmie began.

“Dangerous.”

“You bet. Hand me one of the whatchamajiggers there.”

“One of the . . . ?”

“The . . . the . . . thingy.”

“Oh, that’s clearer. Thanks.”

Emmie sighed and tapped her foot. She looked down into the box at Graham’s feet from her vantage point on a stool. “One of the small candy canes.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Graham started untangling one from a marvelous knot of ornaments. Emmie had taken down the tree two years before, and it showed. Her mother would have wrapped each ornament, breakable or not, in new tissue paper, and placed them in neat rows in the box. And perhaps labeled each one.

Despite the problem of Juliet hanging over their heads, Emmie was really enjoying the fact that Graham was helping her do something so sweetly domestic as decorate the Christmas tree. He had even told her father to relax with a cup of coffee while he got the tree down from the attic, which likely endeared him to Bob Brewster for life.

He handed the ornament up to her. “Now . . . what were you thinking?”

“About Juliet.”

“Emmie, I really don’t want to spend all our time together talking about her.”

“I know. I don’t, either. But I was just . . . thinking, you know?”

“Okay. And?”

“Well, first, I’ve gotta ask . . . what can she do to you? All that ‘might not be responsible for her actions’ stuff.”

Graham focused on untangling more ornaments and said slowly, “I think it’s more of a threat of what she’d do to herself.”

“You don’t think she’d really—”

“No, definitely not. People who are serious about . . . that . . . don’t call someone to let them know.”

“What she’s counting on is that you’ll come running every time she calls you. Snowman, please.”

“Glass or tin?”

“Um, tin. Still, just implying . . . that’s pretty crazy in itself.”

“True.” Graham handed one up and said thoughtfully, “Juliet . . . she’s more the type to get sort of . . . overly emotional. Then there’s no talking to her. She even threw something at me once.”

“She
did
?”

“Yep. A vase. How clichéd is that? Shattered against the wall next to my head and everything, like something out of the movies. Went
everywhere.
I’ll bet she was vacuuming up glass splinters for a month.”

“Yikes. I didn’t think she was the type. By all means, let her down gently before she kills you.”

“I tried that. Didn’t work, did it?”

“Do you . . . want me to talk to her?”

“That’s, um, crazy. Sweet, but crazy.”

“Well, just be careful with her, all right?”

“Of course. I just wish she’d taken the hint weeks ago. Then I could have . . .”

“Could have what?”

He glanced up with a sly grin. “Been free to pursue you earlier, of course.”

“Oh
really
,” Emmie said. “You really liked me before? Even when I was rude to you? Even when I brought down that wall with my bare hands?”

Graham laughed out loud as he pulled another mess of ornaments out of the box at his feet. “Oh, hell, by then I was already half in lo—” He froze, and trailed off, his last half word more of a squeak as he realized what he had just nearly said.

Emmie bit her lower lip to hide a smile. “This part seems to be done,” she announced, checking out the top half of the tree for bare spots. Graham held up a steadying hand as she stepped down off the stool, and she nearly swooned right there. She also dipped into the box of decorations; while her head was low, she said, “Oh—and Graham?” She glanced up, and he dared to look her way, blatantly jumpy. She smiled. “You’re cute when you’re freaking out.”