Lost and Found Family (7 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

E
MMA
'
S
REGULAR
CREW
had started on the project for Melanie, and Emma took the first opportunity she found to visit the job site. The twins were in day care—to keep them away from the mess—and even Melanie had made herself scarce this morning.

The sound of hammers and nail guns wasn't music to most people's ears, but it was for Derek and his coworker, Stan. The two men, wearing identical bib overalls and tool belts, already had grime on their hands and looked as if they were in heaven. They'd just started tearing out an old built-in headboard.

“It's a guy thing,” Derek told her, taking care not to transfer dirt to Emma as they shook hands.

“I'd rather supervise,” she said.

The girls' twin-size comforters and sheets were piled in a corner and, needing something to do, she began to move them into the hall where Melanie had provided large plastic bins to hold them until they could be given to charity. Their colors didn't suit the new room.

The demo phase wouldn't last long, and until the room was finished the twins were already sleeping in the nearby guest room.

“The girls are thrilled by this adventure,” Melanie said, peeking into the room where chaos reigned. She was carrying a bag from Home Goods but Emma hadn't heard her come up the stairs.

“Wait until they see the new beds,” Emma murmured, peering into the bag, then giving Melanie a thumbs-up.

“You ordered the princess beds?”

“Right after we talked last time.” Emma hoped they'd be here soon. Delivery dates were always unpredictable. “What could be better than a pair of sparkly crowns on their headboards?”

“For those two, nothing,” Melanie agreed. She helped Emma move the rest of the bedding, then pack it in the bins, her brown hair swinging. “They're so excited they could hardly sleep last night.”

Emma could relate to that. After her most recent midnight stroll, she was exhausted. This morning had been one of her usual silent days with Christian. Emma had poured coffee but he'd scooted out the door before breakfast. She'd worry about him, except she guessed he'd probably stop at Greyfriars coffee shop downtown for steamed eggs and his favorite Ethiopian Harrar blend before he went to the office.

“My husband wonders if we'll get any sleep,” Melanie said, drawing Emma back to reality and reminding her that the judge was Christian's replacement. Just like Emma was for Melanie. Did Christian regret his choice?

“I need to go,” she said, realizing she'd almost forgotten. “I'm meeting Frankie for lunch. Bye, guys,” she told her crew. “Do good work.”

In the hallway Melanie's gaze softened. “Please give Frankie my love.”

“I will—and I hope that makes her more inclined to do as we ask.” Emma paused. “Lanier and I are trying to throw a big anniversary party for them. You'll be invited, of course, but so far Frankie's been putting up quite a fuss.”

“Maybe I could speak to her.” Melanie flushed. “No, you're her daughter-in-law now. I shouldn't have said that.” She walked Emma downstairs to the front door. “Frankie will probably come around. After all, she'll want her friends there—and she has a ton of friends.”

“I hope you're right. She certainly spends a lot of her time at various social functions. Why not her own forty-fifth wedding anniversary?” Emma hesitated before saying, “I hope she's not balking because of me. Frankie and I did all right until...”

Melanie gave her a sympathetic look. “Frankie can be judgmental. Just give her time. Believe me, she wasn't pleased when Christian and I showed up at her house wearing brand-new wedding bands.”

“Really?”

Melanie nodded. “We cheated her out of the biggest event of that season.” She laughed a little. “More than twenty years ago and I bet she's never forgotten. But, well, Grace's arrival helped. As soon as Frankie met her first grandchild, she was toast. I don't think she put that baby down for a minute every time she saw her.”

Emma smiled. “She was like that with Owen, too.”

To her surprise Melanie hugged her. “She has her own way of doing things—that's for sure—but never doubt how important family is to her.”

“Maybe I don't count as family,” Emma murmured.

“I understand how you might feel. A second marriage didn't suit her plans for Christian—or me. Frankie barely acknowledges my husband now. That doesn't bother him but it bothers me. Just be glad you weren't around when Frankie learned Christian and I were expecting— before we eloped—and that he'd already quit college to drive one of his father's trucks.”

“Eventually he went back to school to finish his degree,” Emma said.

“But we all had a bad time for a while before everything settled.”

“Thanks, Melanie.” Emma returned her hug. A morning that had started off badly—Nicole hadn't been able to get the Hamilton Place mall rent reduced—was looking up. “I'll tell Frankie you asked about her.”

But Melanie didn't smile. For a moment she seemed to consider whether to say something else. Then, “As long as we're talking about this, and after what happened last December, I'm wondering...you do know about Frankie's first child?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “A little girl.”

“A few years before Christian was born.”

“Frankie and Lanier lost her to an illness, but they never say what.”

“I don't know, either. But as I'm sure you've noticed, she almost never mentions her.” Melanie paused. “That doesn't mean the loss isn't still there—and with Frankie, that means deep inside.” Then, while Emma was still digesting that, Melanie brightened again. “Anyway. That's just to say, Frankie's more complicated than she may seem.”

They shared a look. “How true,” Emma said. “I'd better run.” She turned to go, then added, “If your girls are thrilled now, just wait until they see that new room.”

Melanie stood in the open doorway, grinning. “I can't wait, either.”

* * *

E
MMA
DIDN
'
T
HAVE
to wait for Frankie. Her mother-in-law might sometimes be difficult, but she was always prompt. She sailed from the parking lot onto the restaurant's stone patio seconds after Emma had arrived. The Bluff View hilltop arts district had a number of eateries, but Frankie had insisted they meet at Rembrandt's where “the food is lighter,” because, as she'd told Emma, she was playing tennis after lunch.

Frankie ordered tomato-artichoke soup and a cup of hot tea. Emma chose the chicken salad plate she always preferred and an iced coffee. All too soon the weather would turn cool and then she'd have to switch to something warmer and eat inside.

Halfway through their meal Frankie was already looking at her watch. Dressed in spotless tennis whites, she looked every inch the well-heeled matron.

Remembering what Melanie had said, Emma drew a deep breath. “I need to talk to you, but first Melanie asked me to give you her love.”

Frankie's eyes brightened. “Oh. You're redoing her twins' bedroom,” she said, as if she ever forgot anything.

“I think her girls' room is going to be spectacular.” She told Frankie about the princess beds and earned a brief smile. “You'll have to come see them.”

“Perhaps we should have a party,” Frankie murmured in a dry tone, dipping into her soup. “That is why you wanted to see me today. Isn't it?” She set aside her spoon. “I've already told Christian, then Lanier and now I'm telling you again—there will be no anniversary celebration.”

Emma had known this wouldn't be easy, even when her heart had softened being reminded of Frankie's lost daughter. She toyed with her chicken salad. “Frankie, not many people manage to stay married for forty-five years. Don't you deserve a happy occasion?”

“How can it possibly be happy?” Frankie asked.

Emma tended to agree with her, but she'd promised Lanier to do her best, and an attempt had to be made. Before the first-year anniversary of Owen's loss came in December, this would be the only get-together when the family might try to have a good time.

She drew a notebook from her bag. “I've made a few suggestions here. Take a look. I think a festive preholiday theme would work nicely.” She pointed at an item on the list. “This one, especially, appeals to me. What do you think? I love the colors and the white.”

“Like the Italian flag.” Frankie skimmed Emma's list, then pushed it back across the table.

Emma fought the urge to sigh. She was becoming as frustrated as Christian had looked after his attempt to convince Frankie. “I've already spoken with a couple of printers about invitations,” she went on, trying to inject just the right amount of enthusiasm into her voice. “Once you approve one of the designs—” She rummaged again in her bag. “Oh, I forgot to bring that catalog with me.”

“Didn't you hear me, Emma? Do you think any of us would really be happy again because of a
party
? We'll all get together, light candles on a cake—”

“That's not why we—”

“Lanier thinks we would.” Frankie checked her watch again. She eased her soup bowl to one side, folded her napkin, then rose from her chair. “I'm sorry to hurt him, but that doesn't change my mind.”

Emma set her fork on her plate, abandoning her chicken salad. She felt tempted to have it out with Frankie, but if she did, there'd never be a party for sure. Which had become something of a mission for Emma, perhaps to try to make up, in even a small way, for what she'd done.

“I hope you'll reconsider.”

But Frankie's tone turned brittle. “I hope you'll stop asking me about this.”

“Frankie, if you don't want the party for yourself, then do it for Lanier. And to keep up appearances, show people that everything's normal.”

“Normal? If you want to know the truth, a party seems highly inappropriate to me.” She turned away. “Thank you for lunch.”

“You're welcome,” Emma said, picking up the check. She'd gotten nowhere. As Frankie started for the parking lot without a parting air kiss, Emma marched back into the shop to order some of Rembrandt's hand-dipped chocolates.

She deserved that much comfort, at least.

* * *

O
N
HIS
LUNCH
HOUR
, after a fruitless series of meetings, Christian pulled into the small parking lot at Ponies on Parade. He parked and entered Max Barrett's shop.

At least a dozen carved wooden horses and a few more zoo animals in various stages of development crammed the store. A curl of sculptured mane here, the gleam of black paint there. A foreleg raised high like the General's in a show ring. He couldn't deny Max was a gifted artist. He must have heard Christian come in because almost as soon as the door closed he emerged from the rear of the shop, holding some kind of tool that must be used for carving.

“Christian. Welcome.”

“Thanks. I've never been in here before. This place is a wonderland.”

“Can't beat the working conditions.” He frowned, as if he, too, were remembering the night in Coolidge Park, and he cut straight to the chase. “What can I do for you?”

Christian's gaze landed on a smaller pony standing near the front counter. Black and white, with a bright blue bridle painted on, it had to be the horse Emma had commissioned as Owen's Christmas present.

“Looks just like the General, doesn't it?” Max asked, following his gaze.

“Exactly. Owen adored my horse.”

“I spoke to Emma at the carousel,” Max said. “We agreed that when she felt ready, she'd make some decision about this pony.”

“And I've talked to her since then. We've made it now.”

Max's dark eyebrows went up.

Christian tilted his head toward the little pony prancing in place. The miniature horse almost seemed to be smiling in the same way he thought the General did, and those sparkling dark eyes made Christian look away. Yet, as with his trip to the barn to say goodbye to the General, he wanted to do something else for Emma that might ease things between them. He knew she didn't want to come to the barn or the shop.

“You did a terrific job—but Emma and I won't be needing the pony.” He drew a checkbook from his rear pocket. “If we owe you anything more—”

“Emma already paid me in full long before the Coolidge Park reception.” He added, “Before the accident.”

“Then go ahead and sell it.”

He paced the store, unable to avoid assessing the quality of Barrett's work, the bright paint colors and exquisite detail. He walked around to the other side of the General's reproduction—and saw bare wood.

“Obviously I haven't quite finished,” Max said. “I thought I had time before Emma needed it last Christmas. Then the day I heard about...well, I thought the rest of the paint could wait.”

“Emma isn't coping very well,” he said at last, remembering Chet Berglund asking at the gym. Ever since he and Emma had walked the Walnut Street Bridge, he'd been trying to think of a way to make things right. This might be a small step. “None of us are, actually. But I can't keep watching her do what she does best—organizing the rest of us, and that house. Doesn't get the real job done.”

He'd heard Emma more than once, heading along the upstairs hall. Many nights she hadn't come back to bed, and although he'd found her in the kitchen again this morning already making breakfast, she hadn't fooled him. She'd hardly slept, if at all, and even Bob had looked bleary-eyed.

“I don't know how we'll survive if we don't talk out what happened.”

“That's always the tough part,” Max murmured, his eyes soft. “No one can do it for her—or you, for that matter. We all develop different ways of, what did you say, coping? For Emma, that may mean surrounding herself with all the normal, everyday things and trying to go on. For you—” He broke off, then tried again. “Well, that's up to you.”