Hearts Unfold (58 page)

The three of them laughed and
Emily took Stani's arm.
 
“He's learning,
James.
 
This is a whole new world for
him.
 
Now come on, you.
 
I'm ready to sit by the fire for a
while.”
 
As they walked toward the house,
she said sweetly, “Another one of your lovely tea trays might be nice.”

The setting was perfect.
 
The crackling fire, the golden sunlight
slanting across the floor, Emily curled beneath a quilt, her head on his chest,
her hand resting over his heart.
 
James’s
truck had gone through the gate some time ago, and they had been here alone,
just staring into the flames.
 
With one
finger, he tilted her face up and kissed her, a long, tender kiss that he hoped
foretold of things to come.

“I've been looking forward to
being alone with you like this.
 
We
haven't had much quiet time, have we?”

“I'm sorry.
 
But around here people sort of assume they're
welcome.
 
It's not like that in Manhattan
I guess?”

“No, it's a bit different
there.
 
Not quite so informal.”
 
Before he could say more, she ran her hand up
into his hair, raising her mouth to cover his.
 
When the kiss ended, he'd completely lost his
train of thought.

“We have now.
 
We can make up for lost time, can't we?”
 
She turned in his arms, until she was
stretched across his lap, her head nestled against his shoulder.
 
“What a wonderful day this has been.
 
And now we have the whole evening, all to
ourselves.”
 
Another of those long, sweet
kisses, and he felt the way opening to move forward.
 
Now he would tell her, now that he knew so
much more and believed she would understand.

The telephone rang, jarring
every nerve in his body.

Emily jumped up, dropping a
little kiss on his lips.
 
“Be right
back.”

While trying to still the
pounding of his heart, he listened to her talking softly to the party at the
other end of the line.
 
When the
conversation ended with her saying, “Sure, I understand.
 
It's really not a problem,” he had the
sinking feeling he was on hold again.

Emily sat down beside him,
taking his hand.
 
“I'm sorry.
 
I have to go to work.”

“What?
 
Where?”
 
That possibility had never occurred to him.

“At the local hospital.
 
I put myself on call to cover during the
holidays since I didn't think I’d be doing anything special.
 
That was the charge nurse.
 
One of the nurses has a sick child, and they
need me to work the ER.
 
I hate to leave
you, but I can't very well turn them down.
 
Besides, it's the eleven-to-seven shift.
 
I'll be back in the morning, and we still have most of this
evening.
 
I will need to take a little
nap, but you won't mind so much, will you?”
 
Turning to him, she slipped back into his arms, tucking her hand inside
his shirtfront.

With a long sigh, he kissed
her forehead.
 
“No, of course not.
 
Should I just go back to Jack's now so you
can rest?
 
He can bring me back tomorrow.”

Her head lifted just slightly
from his shoulder.
 
“Why do you have to
go at all?
 
You can stay tonight and be
here when I come home in the morning.
 
Besides, Jack's on his big date, remember?
 
He said he'd call before he came out to get
you, but I have it on good authority that they went to dinner and a movie over
in Baxter, so it'll be late when he gets in.”

Stani started to protest, but
the best he could do was point out that his things were at Jack's.

He could feel her grin against
his shoulder.
 
“You need clothes to
sleep?”
 
Her fingertips were again playing
gently on his chest, and he groaned inwardly.

“I suppose not.
 
As long as I'm here alone.
 
You're sure it wouldn't be inappropriate?”

“I'm sure.
 
So you'll stay?
 
We can have breakfast again.”
 
She yawned delicately, snuggling closer.
 
Curling her legs up on the couch, she pulled
the quilt over herself and settled deeper into his arms.

“Very well, but if you get us
into trouble, I'll plead insanity.”
 
Her
eyes opened questioningly.
 
“You are
rapidly driving me mad, my love.
 
What
is
so fascinating inside my shirt?”

She giggled softly, but her
hand remained in place.
 
“Do you really
object?”

He threw back his head with a
laugh.
 
“Would it matter if I did?”

Emily slept in his arms for a
time, until finally he eased out from beneath her, gently resting her head on a
cushion and tucking the quilt around her.
 
In response, she smiled in her sleep and made a sweet little humming sound
that he found incredibly musical.
 
Gazing
down at her profile, he gave himself an inward shake.
 
He had once again lost an opportunity.
 
Time was growing shorter; the five days had
narrowed to two now.
 
Would there ever be
a moment when he could tell her, or would he be forced to leave her and pour
his heart out later in a letter?
 
No.
 
He would press the issue
tomorrow, after she had rested, after he had met with Pastor Mike, once they
were finally alone together again.
 
He
toyed with the idea of asking Jack to post a guard at the bottom of the hill,
to keep any uninvited visitors from interrupting.
 
Somehow, he had to get the job done.

By the time Emily woke, the
sun had set.
 
Together they made dinner,
soup and sandwiches, and she went upstairs to shower and dress for work.
 
When she came down the stairs, pinning the
little circle of white cap to her hair, Stani was caught completely off guard
by the transformation.
 
In her crisp
white uniform, a tailored tunic and trousers, with her hair twisted into a
smooth roll at the back of her head, Emily was the picture of every man's
fantasy nurse.
 
He grinned, holding out
his hands to frame her image.

“You're gorgeous.
 
How do you fend off all the dying men who
want the memory of your kiss to take to their graves?”

She giggled, a sound he was
coming to love, and took the last hairpin from between her teeth.
 
“Loaded syringes usually do the trick.
 
I forgot you'd never seen me in uniform.”

When she came into his arms,
he was again caught by surprise.
 
She had
grown suddenly taller.
 
As she bent her
head slightly for his kiss, she apologized.
 
“It's the shoes.
 
I'm sorry.
 
I'm just too tall.”

“No, love, I'm just not tall
enough.
 
Does it bother you?”

“Of course not.
 
What about you?
 
Do you mind?”
 
Her arms had wound around his neck and her fingers were twining in his
hair.
 
Every nerve was singing in
response to her touch.

“Mind?
 
Kiss me again.
 
I want to be absolutely sure of my
answer.”
 
She pulled back, her brows
arching skeptically.
 
“All right, I'm
sure.
 
I love you just the way you are,
too tall and all.
 
How's that?”

She laid her head on his
shoulder.
 
“And I love you.
 
Oh, Stani, I love being in love with you.”

Afraid to wrinkle her pristine
uniform, he held her very gently.
 
“Shouldn't you be going?
 
It's
getting late.”

“I know.
 
I just wanted to be sure you have everything
you need for the night.
 
There's a new
toothbrush in the bathroom.
 
And I turned
down the bed for you.
 
If you get hungry,
there's food in the fridge.
 
Oh, and
don't worry about the fire, it'll burn itself out.”

He helped her into her coat,
turning the collar up around her ears.
 
“You'll be careful?
 
Is it a long
drive?”

“Twenty miles.
 
Not bad.
 
I'll be home before eight.
 
Will
you be up by then?”
 
Her hand was on the
knob, and she turned back with a twinkle in her eyes.
 
“Or will I need to wake you?”

“Go!
 
For an angel of mercy, you have a
frighteningly devilish gleam in your eye.”

She went out laughing.
 
Through the heavy door, he heard her voice,
calling in a sweet sing-song, “I love you, Stani.
 
Sleep tight.”

Chapter Forty-seven

The house was a living
thing.
 
It creaked and groaned, rattled
and sighed.
 
As Stani tried to read,
every sound stirred him until he decided to put on a record to cover the
noise.
 
Outside, the wind blew through
the trees, moving the shadows across the lawn and setting the porch swing
swaying.
 
He closed the drapes, set the
turntable spinning and tried to settle down again.
 
It was past midnight, he should go to bed,
but the thought held little appeal.
 
When
Jack had called, just after Emily's departure, he had wished him a good night,
saying if he needed anything, just call.
 
He needed Emily, he mused, and calling Jack would not solve his problem.

The book he had chosen turned
dry and impossible to follow.
 
Searching
the shelves, his eye fell on a large leather album, its spine bearing the
simple title, “Emily.”
 
Now here was
something to keep him entertained, he decided.

It began with a grainy
photograph of a tiny, dark-haired infant, her fists clenched on either side of
her face.
 
“Jiliand Emily Haynes, age two
days.”
 
The caption was written in a
graceful hand, its fountain-penned curves seeming to express a wealth of
emotion.
 
And the name; he made a note to
ask for that explanation someday.

As Stani turned the pages, he
realized her mother had been the official keeper of this record.
 
Each entry was labeled in the fine
handwriting, each photograph marking some milestone in her daughter's life.
 
“Emily's first Christmas.”
 
“Emily's first birthday.”
 
“Emily and J.D. on her first day of
school.”
 
The little girl was growing,
from the laughing toddler to the grinning child on her first bicycle.
 
“Emily, age six, with her prize-winning
pumpkin” showed her standing proudly over the pumpkin, her smile displaying the
gap of two missing teeth.
 
The snapshot
of a seriously smiling Emily wearing a frilly dress, flanked by two young boys,
was labeled “Emily, age eight, with James and Peter McConnell on Easter
Sunday.”

She was beautiful even then,
he thought, her sweet, expressive little face showing every sign of the woman
to come.
 
In every picture, she was
smiling, projecting a joy that seemed to leap off the page.
 
With her hand in her father's, she appeared
confident as they made their way up the steps to the front door of the
school.
 
Standing next to an abundantly
blooming bush, she was beaming as she proudly presented her mother with a rose.

As he turned further in the
book, a subtle change became apparent.
 
The smile was still there, but it had taken on a brave quality.
 
By age twelve, the girl with long, dark
braids over her shoulders wore a look of defiant cheerfulness.
 
Her pale eyes reflected a growing wisdom, as
though her knowledge of life were rapidly advancing beyond her years.
 
One particular photograph brought the change
into focus with startling clarity.
 
Emily
was standing with her father at the edge of the garden.
 
In a nearby chair, her mother sat watching
the two, and the look in her own pale eyes spoke volumes.
 
She was painfully thin, and her lovely face
was now marred with suffering.
 
The
expression on the sweet face of the girl was one of fierce determination, as if
it cost her no end of effort to achieve that sad little smile.
 
Her father’s face was slightly out of focus,
as if he had just turned to his wife at the moment the shutter clicked.
 
The caption, in the same fine hand, now
showing a distinct unsteadiness, read simply, “Emily, age fourteen, Summer
1964.”