Lost and Found Family (17 page)

Assuming she could
find one.

In her driveway she made a quick call to Frankie to let her know she wouldn't be there for dinner tonight. Then she started lugging things inside.

All the while the bag from the pharmacy stayed uppermost in her mind. Finally, she went into the bathroom, took out the test kit she'd bought and steeled herself for the answer.

Positive!

Emma stared at the result on the test stick. She couldn't believe it. But the display didn't change, and what else had the queasy episodes, the occasional dizziness, meant? She should have known right away. Days, even weeks, ago.

It couldn't be.

Yet it was.

All the signs were there. She'd even had trouble sleeping—until the fire. Then she couldn't seem to sleep enough and, always drowsy, had been tempted more than once to put her head down on her desk at work. She'd blamed all that on stress, on having to live in Frankie's home rather than her own. She'd blamed it on the strain of not finding new office space. And on her troubled marriage. Then, a day or so ago, she'd wondered why her body felt tender in certain places. Now she knew.

Her hands shook. And still, she took the test once more, as if hoping for a different outcome. It didn't change.

She was pregnant again.

Oh, Owen. She'd been so happy to share that news with everyone. Now she wondered how to even tell her husband.

Emma left the test stick in the bathroom and, giving herself time, tried to focus on her other task.

After stacking boxes in the center of the playroom—and getting overheated—she opened samples and began to paint.

Less than an hour later, she was still looking at color chips, searching for the perfect shade. The samples in the small open containers hadn't been helpful after all.

She heard footsteps—Christian coming up the stairs. Emma froze, a paintbrush still in her hand. She hadn't expected him to get back this soon. She wasn't ready.

In the doorway, he stood and gaped at her.

“Now what?” he asked, his mouth already hard. “Mom told me you'd be here. Emma, I thought we had agreed—”

She followed his gaze to the boxes piled between them. “I told you. I can't push everything to the end of the year. Tomorrow we'll be caught up in Thanksgiving, then Christmas. I haven't even started to shop.” Not that Emma looked forward to that, either. “And believe me, my landlord won't be generous about an extension, even for a few days. I got the official letter about the lease cancellation this afternoon.” She blew stray hair off her forehead. “I have to move what I can now.”

“But not here,” he murmured.

She waved the brush, spattering paint on herself. “Christian, he was at the store today. He hand-delivered that letter with a potential client, who seemed to like my space.”

She put the lid back on another paint sample. Emma had already brushed a swathe of the grayed taupe over one wall. Next to it a lighter beige didn't look good enough. And beside those was a broad stripe of true gray, which seemed too dark. “I can have my office here at least. If Grace and I need extra room, I'll have to expand into Owen's room.”

He shook his head. “Not going to happen, Em.”

She pushed the paint can aside and set the small brush on top. And put her hands on her hips.

“Then maybe I should move everything to Mallory Trucking—into your office. You're not there now. You're on the road almost every day—”

“Trying to earn enough money to keep us afloat!”

She sighed. He was working hard, and she had to admit that his leasing the General had helped, but...

“Nothing Nicole showed me has worked out. I know I won't have space here for display purposes...”

“Unless you take over the garage, too,” he said.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked just before she realized she shouldn't have said that. “Oh, I know. I'll say it for you. I should put No More Clutter up for sale.”

For a few more moments, Christian paced the room, skirting file boxes and then stopping at the far wall to study the swathes of fresh paint.

“At least I asked you about the foundation first. You just went ahead and did this. How did you expect me to react?”

“I'm sorry. That was wrong—but maybe I knew exactly what you'd say.”

“This isn't your decision to make alone, Emma. This is my home, too. And to use this playroom,
his
bedroom, to keep the business going that caused that accident in the first place—” He looked at the floor between them.

“I see. So that's how you really feel—”

“Okay. Forget all that right now. Let me remind you of something before you start painting this whole room. We have a homeowners' association in this neighborhood. You can't run a commercial operation from our house. There are probably local zoning restrictions.” He raised his eyebrows. “How do you think our neighbors would like having this driveway filled with your clients' cars every day, maybe even spilling out onto the street? People rushing in and out through our garage or coming in the front door?” He added, “I know how I feel.”

“I can check the zoning laws,” she said.

“Go ahead. It won't do you any good.” He turned, then walked past her. “Fair warning. If you keep on with this, Emma—you'll be living here by yourself. I won't have No More Clutter right here in my house. In my face.”

Emma gave a choked cry. It was as if a dam had broken; in a single second the long months of holding everything inside shattered into pieces. It didn't matter now if she was ready.

Christian turned. “What
is it? You're as white as paper.”

Emma took a deep breath, covered her uneasy stomach with one hand, then marched into the en suite bathroom. Clutching the plastic stick in her hand, she came back to Christian. “Brace yourself,” she said.

When Christian's eyes met hers, she knew how wild her eyes must look, as they had in the bathroom mirror.

For another few seconds, Emma didn't know what to say. Then she simply blurted it out. “I'm pregnant.”

She was still holding the stick, and he snatched it from her to read for himself. He studied the display, then frowned. “We're
pregnant
?” he said in a low voice as if someone else might hear. “How did that happen...?”

“The usual way,” she murmured. “I know, it's the worst thing.” Except for last December.

Looking stunned, Christian shook his head. She couldn't blame him.

“I bought the kit on my way home,” she said. During lunch her stomach had lurched again. Worse, this time. She'd run for the bathroom, already guessing, fearing the reason even when her monthly schedule had been off. “I've been nauseated now and then—the way I was with Owen.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“I didn't want to worry you.” She glanced up. “I can't have another
baby
,” she said in a thickened tone. It still didn't seem real. “I can't.”

His face went pale. “You're not actually thinking we should—”

“I would never do that, but, Christian, I'm not...ready. Maybe I never will be. I shouldn't be.”

His voice hardened. “Well, apparently this baby is.”

She looked away. “But how
wrong
is that? Grace and Rafe should be having a child, not us.” Not me, she added silently.

His scathing tone startled her. “Well, here's the reality. We are pregnant.” He set the test stick on a file box. “What's so awful about this? Yes, it was a shock at first but I don't think I'm being unreasonable. I'm disappointed in you, Emma. Sad,” he added.

“But how can I feel happy when not even a year ago—”

She couldn't go on. What would it be like, months from now, when the baby arrived? When she and Christian were in their house again, the nursery that had become Owen's room would be transformed once more by a crib and changing table? When she had to pretend every day that everything was normal when it wasn't—and she and Christian would try to raise another child together when he couldn't possibly still love her? He'd only be doing that for an innocent baby's sake.

Nevertheless, he slipped his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest and felt the strong, steady beat of his heart under her cheek. “We have to work this out,” he said. For a long moment he held her, then eased back to study her face. He tipped her chin up. “We will,” he said.

And then, he only made things worse.

“Let's tell my parents. Right now.”

Emma tore from his embrace.

“No!” she said, knowing she was only putting off the inevitable. Her shoulders slumped with the guilt she lived with every day, and that, unlike her pregnancy, didn't include Christian.

“All right, maybe that's too soon. Let's wait until tomorrow. We can tell everyone on Thanksgiving. That'll give us time to get used to the idea.”

“
How
can we tell them?” she said, her voice hoarse from unshed tears. “They lost their grandchild—Grace lost her little brother—and it was my fault!”

In those last moments in the barn, she'd neglected Owen, and she'd let him die.
Baby killer
.

Christian pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her...but he didn't contradict her.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

S
TANDING
IN
HIS
mother's kitchen, Christian watched Emma work, her still-slim form graceful as she carried out his mother's newest order.

As she did each Thanksgiving, Frankie directed traffic all around her like a cop in a busy intersection, telling Rafe to place the bowl of sweet potatoes on the dining room table, reminding Grace of how to fold the napkins. She turned to her husband. “Lanier, you're carving that turkey, not hacking it to pieces. Thinner slices, please.”

No one dared to counter her. The electric knife whizzed through the turkey's golden breast again and Christian decided to disappear. In the dining room he helped Emma polish a few spots off the wineglasses, then check the ice in the bucket before chilling a bottle of his father's favorite oaked chardonnay. Christian suppressed a shudder. Like hunting, his dad's choice of wine wasn't appealing to him. But he was determined to get through this holiday meal—even when his shoulder bumped Emma's and she moved away.

The whole house, which was already partially decked out for Christmas, had an air of forced gaiety. The big tree would go up tomorrow, and everyone would be expected to help with the decorations. His mother always held a family party then, in part so everyone could enjoy her leftover turkey-with-all-the-trimmings casserole.

The traditional wreath hung on the front door, tastefully lit at night for all to see. On the table sat the centerpiece, its leaves of silk in orange and gold and russet brown glowing in the light from ivory tapers. However, the lush foliage and the candles, shining in crystal hurricane lanterns, blocked his view of Grace and Rafe.

As they did each Thanksgiving, Christian's parents sat at either end of the long walnut table. Its many extension leaves weren't needed today, but years ago there'd been grandparents, aunts and uncles present, and lots of cousins. They were grown-up now and had their own families. Or they were much older, no longer able to come for the holiday, or they were gone.

Today there was another place that shouldn't have been empty. Last year Owen had sat between him and Emma while grace was being said. It was his daughter's turn for the prayer this year, but Christian didn't hear the words.

As conversation resumed, piled-high platters and overflowing bowls were passed around, yet it was as if everyone had vowed not to mention last Thanksgiving. Silver serving spoons clanked against china. His father uncorked the wine and began pouring. This year he didn't need to make a Shirley Temple for Owen, which was really too much sugar that had kept him awake all night. Outside, someone roared past on a motorcycle, its throaty engine shattering the should-have-been festive moment.

Christian frowned at his full plate. Maybe, like last Christmas, and his and Emma's anniversary, they should have let this holiday pass. He wasn't sure he could manage to eat a bite of his mother's succulent turkey.

All Christian could envision now was Owen, sitting on a cushion at the table beside him, trying to practice his manners as his grandmother had instructed. Last year he'd been old enough to eat with the grown-ups, she'd told him, as long as he behaved like a gentleman. She'd said the same thing to Christian more times than he could remember. Then she'd reprimanded Owen for chewing with his mouth open—it had only been for an instant—and Owen had started to cry. Christian had gathered him close, a hand on his silky hair, while Emma murmured to him, but he'd only picked at his food after that and avoided looking at his grandmother.

I didn't do anything
, he'd said, his voice clogged with tears.

Shh, it's all right
. The words Emma always used.

His eyes met hers for a moment. But to his relief another small buzz of conversation had picked up. His mother provided cheerful, or poignant, updates of other relatives who couldn't be here. Then, still oblivious to Christian's growing tension, she brought up the foundation's launch event.

“Those brochures will turn out well, don't you think, Emma?”

Before she could answer, Christian chimed in. If he didn't say something, sooner or later his mother would realize how quiet he'd been. “We wanted to set the right tone. The foundation is hopeful, forward-looking, and...well, youthful.”

The last word killed the subject as quickly as it had come up. Christian focused on his plate. So did the others with more clanking of sterling silverware that his mother's “cleaning girls” had polished to a high sheen.

Rafe glanced around the table. “As long as we're all together, Grace and I have something to tell you. We've sold my condo—as of a few days ago—and last night we bought ourselves a house, assuming the paperwork goes through.”

“Your bid was accepted? Hear, hear,” his father said, raising his glass. “A toast to Grace and Rafael. Happy new home.”

Except for Emma, who took a single sip, everyone drank. Grace had been allowed one glass, even though she was still underage, for Thanksgiving. Her eyes were shining, and she seemed to like Lanier's favorite chardonnay. She grinned at Christian, as if to say,
See? I'm an adult now with a home of my own
.
With my husband
.

Christian set his glass down. Should he make the announcement about the baby, too? Right now? But Emma laid a hand on his arm, as if in warning.

Unable to sit still any longer, he rose to his feet. The family's silence on this subject had gone on long enough. He lifted his glass.

“Today,” he said at last, “I—Emma and I—want to congratulate our daughter and her husband.” He actually liked the way Rafe treated her, the way he kept her close and seemed to have eyes only for her. He respected the way he treated the General, the way he did his job. Christian had been wrong about him. “This is Rafe's first Thanksgiving with us. Welcome to the family, Rafe.” But when everyone had sipped their wine again, he didn't sit down. “We have many blessings to celebrate today but for three years before this, there was laughter and teasing at this table. Last year...we all had Owen to fill any empty spaces.”

“Christian,” Emma said. Every person at the table had gone rigid.

He shrugged off her touch. “I need to say this. Because for eleven months now we've all tried to go on with our lives when we really can't. This isn't just any Thanksgiving.” He looked at Emma. “It's the first Thanksgiving without our son.” He glanced at his parents. “Without your grandson, whose picture is missing from your gallery just as he's missing today from this table.” He met Grace's gaze. “It's the first year without your half brother. To Owen...” His tone thickened. “My son. I love you with all my heart. I always will.”

His father coughed. Eyes cast down, he lifted his glass again.

“To Owen,” he murmured.

Christian's mother looked rigid. Without a sound, she set her fork beside her plate, but down the length of the table his father's gaze was steely. “No, Frankie,” he said, as if she might rise from the table, then leave the room.

Grace was weeping into her hands. At first Christian couldn't understand what she was saying. “He's not here,” she choked, “because of me.”

* * *

E
MMA
FELT
AS
if the words “oh, no” were written on her forehead. She'd been trying so hard to pretend that today was like any other holiday. Yes, she'd struggled that morning with another bout of nausea, but in the kitchen she'd fought that down to put the finishing touches on the relish tray Frankie had assigned her.

Her mother-in-law had produced a feast to rival Martha Stewart—until Christian had upset everyone's careful balance.

Thank goodness he hadn't said,
we're pregnant
. She pushed back her chair, dropping her damask napkin on the table beside her plate. Her meal half finished, she left the dining room. Emma marched across the broad front hall and up the stairs, bent upon finding a moment alone in the guest room. She went in and shut the door.

A second later it opened.

“You left Grace crying,” Christian said.

Emma sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “I didn't know what to say. I'm sorry she blames herself.”

Christian leaned against the closed door.

“Why can't she see that was
my
fault—mine to deal with. I learned very early in life to take care of myself because no one else would.” She heard the break in her own voice. “Sometimes, when my mother left, she didn't come home for days. How could I not deal with what happened to Owen on my own?”

“Emma.”

She knew she'd hurt him; he should've been the one she relied on, as Grace had with Rafe downstairs, like Frankie and Lanier. But it was Emma who'd taken Christian's son, their son, from them. “I'm the one who broke things. I'm the one who has to fix them...if they can be fixed.”

“You think that's what Owen would want? For his
mama
to lock all of this up inside, for us to block each other out—without ever talking through the loss we've felt for almost a year?”

She could barely speak. Every vestige of hope was gone. “I was his mother! It was my job—my responsibility—to give him a
normal
life, to keep him safe.” She swallowed. “Because of me, he got that stool, climbed up to unlatch the stall door, then slipped inside. He only wanted to feed his gummy bears to the General—but because of a stupid phone call, I left that barn and let him... He...” She couldn't go on.

“Sometimes life isn't normal. You just said so. You learned that as a kid when your mother abandoned you over and over again. She cared more for her own pleasure than she did for you, and I despise her for that. If she were still alive, I'd tell her so. But she's not and she's not
you
, and you know what I hate even more?”

Emma couldn't answer. She stood in the center of the room like a defendant on trial, already knowing the verdict. She saw it in Christian's eyes.

“I hate that we haven't been able to help each other—”

“Because there isn't any help! We wanted him so much and I took that away from you,” she said. “How can I bring another child into this world? As if anyone could replace Owen.”

“This baby is not a replacement.”

“Of course not, but any social worker would take it from me as they should have taken me from my mother.” She wrung her hands. “I can't face that—the same way you quit your job to get away from everything, from us...but even behind the wheel of your truck, the memories go with you, don't they, Christian? At seventy miles an hour, you're still standing still. You're in Neutral.”

His jaw had tightened. “If that's so, all your attempts to make life ‘normal' again are only another way of running from yourself, Emma.” His voice rose. “Yes. You did take that phone call. You did leave Owen in the barn by himself. And—yes—I did blame you. I still do!”

She sagged onto the bed. “Is this what we've come to, then?” She buried her face in her hands. “This terrible impasse?”

Emma squared her shoulders, then stood again. She couldn't look at Christian, though she could hear him breathing, sense him still leaning against the closed door. But she didn't know how to change what had happened and there was nothing left to say. She started for the door.

Before she got there, he straightened. “Stay. Tell yourself whatever makes you feel ‘normal,' Em. Even pretend—all over again—that you're not pregnant. I'm taking Bob out of that kennel and going home. I don't care if I have to make coffee tomorrow morning over an open fire in the backyard. I can't stay here.”