The House on Honeysuckle Lane (5 page)

C
HAPTER
7

I
t was well after midnight and still Emma couldn't fall asleep. She wondered how her sister was faring in the den, enjoying a deep and restful sleep or staring at the darkened ceiling like she was, her mind active and alert.

With a sigh of frustration Emma reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. She had chosen to say in her parents' room and not her childhood bedroom where she and Ian had regularly bunked down when they visited the senior Reynoldses. It was the first time she had ever slept—or tried to—in her parents' bed, and it had seemed an important thing for her to do, though she couldn't quite say why. On a different note entirely, she
did
know that she hadn't wanted to be forcibly reminded of Ian by the presence of his slippers by her old bed, and the extra razor he kept in the top drawer of her old dresser.

Now, with the light casting a soft glow across the room, Emma could see her parents' wedding portrait standing on her mother's long, low dresser. Her father, proud in a classic black tuxedo, a white rose in his lapel. Her mother, taller than her husband, looking elegant in a candlelight ivory
peau de soie
gown that had been handmade by a seamstress in Boston, the same woman who had made Martha Carlyle's dress forty years before. Caro's bouquet was a cascade of white lilies and white roses. On her head was delicately perched a small pearl crown, from which a veil of tulle netting sprung.

It truly had been love at first sight for her parents, Emma reflected. Caroline Carlyle, recently graduated from a women's academy on the outskirts of Boston and spending a few months with her aunt and uncle in an old-money area of DC, had been on her way to hear a talk on the Impressionists at the National Gallery. It was spring and she was wearing her favorite lightweight coat in rose pink; she wore pinned to her right lapel a small pearl brooch that had belonged to her maternal grandmother.

Two stops before her destination a young man got on the bus, dressed neatly but in a navy suit that had seen a lot of wear. He took the only vacant seat, diagonally across from Caroline. Caro noticed him. He noticed her. She smiled at him. “I simply couldn‘t help myself,” she would later tell her children. “And he smiled back.”

When the bus arrived at her stop, Caroline once again met the man's eyes, stood, and got off. The doors of the bus had barely closed behind her when a voice said, “My name is Clifford Reynolds.” Caro had turned around to find the man in the navy suit. He was a few inches shorter than her in her low-heeled pumps, but his affect was that of a much larger man, and his smile was the most perfect smile she had ever seen.

“This isn't your stop,” she said. “Is it?”

“No,” the man replied. “Well, it wasn't. But I think it is now.”

“I never dreamed he would follow me off the bus,” Caro would later say, with the sort of expression that belied her words.

Cliff had accompanied Caroline to the museum, where they had coffee in the café instead of attending the lecture. After they had spent an hour talking nonstop about everything and nothing, Cliff had risen reluctantly. “I've got a meeting with a new client,“ he told Caro. “Well, to be honest, he's my only client so far. But look, can I take you to dinner sometime? Tomorrow night perhaps? I'm afraid it won't be anything five star.”

To which Caroline had replied, “It will be perfect.”

Both of Emma's parents had loved to tell the story of their fateful meeting, and for a long time Emma had loved to hear it—until at some point in her early thirties, having failed to find the sort of love her parents had enjoyed, she began to feel a tiny bit resentful of their romantic happiness. She would never admit aloud that she felt jealous of her parents' marital bliss. But she did, especially now, alone, at the age of forty-two.

Emma sat up in the bed and plumped the pillows to better support her back. She had very much wanted to come home for Christmas, partly to be with her family, partly to get away from Ian's near proximity, partly to explore her growing feelings of dissatisfaction with her life in Annapolis, but . . . But she was afraid. She was aware that something was about to change. She was aware that she couldn't continue to live her life in the way that she had been living it, not if she was ever to be truly happy. But the idea of change scared Emma. For so long her life had been ordered and unexciting. Predictable. Safe. She had liked it that way. Maybe, she thought, that was why it had taken her so long to leave Ian for good.

Emma thought again about what Andie had said to her earlier, that her task now was to seek, find, and tear down the barriers she had erected against true love. Far easier said than done, and Andie, of course, knew that. Andie's natural empathy was one of the things that made her such a successful healer of troubled souls.
You could fake a lot of emotions,
Emma thought,
but not empathy
.

And speaking of empathy or the lack thereof . . . Emma frowned. It had been mean of Daniel to tease Andie about being a vegetarian, to dismiss her latest podcast as unimportant, to criticize her for not having been around for Rumi's birthday in June. For that matter, there had been no need for him to mention the fact that Emma had left Ian once before; it was a memory that embarrassed her.

It had been a spur of the moment thing. One of Ian's friends from architecture school had invited them to his wedding, an event that took place over a weekend in Savannah. From the moment Emma was introduced to Ted and Maggie she was struck by just how much in love they were; their feelings for each other radiated in waves of happiness and goodwill. She had been so reminded of her parents' relationship and had found it almost unbearable to witness Ted and Maggie's joy in each other's company. They were in such stark contrast to her and Ian, who were moving along the road of life with little if any real passion, their souls never quite touching. As soon as they were back in Annapolis Emma had told Ian she was leaving him. “Things don't feel right,” she'd said, and he was understandably puzzled, but as with this last time, he hadn't seemed much affected. And less than two weeks later, Emma found herself asking him to meet for lunch and they had picked up right where they left off. The loneliness she had felt without Ian around had surprised her, and she had asked herself if something wasn't better than nothing. In short, she hadn't been ready to walk away. Not like now.

Anyway, Emma thought, that wasn't the Daniel she knew, kind, good natured, ready for a laugh, willing to be teased by his older sisters. Still, time and tragedy changed people, and while she had been battling her own demons since their mother had died, who knew what Daniel had been going through—and if he had been going through it alone or if he was sharing the experience with his wife.

Emma hoped it was the latter; she admired her sister-in-law. From the start Anna Maria had held her own with the strong-willed Caro, and it couldn't have been easy. Her brother had always been their mother's favorite, and Caro could be vocal about how she felt he should be treated. Maybe having grown up in a “big, noisy, passionate” family—Anna Maria's description—had prepared her not to be cowed by a doting mother-in-law too often tempted to point out what she saw as mistakes or omissions in her daughter-in-law's housekeeping or the attention she paid to her husband.

And Daniel could be a bit full of himself, Emma thought, and that was partially her fault, and Andie's. Along with Caro they had spoiled him as a child, the adorable baby brother. Emma often wondered how Anna Maria handled Daniel when he was in a difficult mood. Probably with grace, patience, and a well-turned phrase.

In a way, Emma thought, settling more comfortably against the pillows, Daniel and Anna Maria reminded her of Cliff and Caro Reynolds; they were a good, solid team built on love, respect, and friendship. But Daniel and Anna Maria lacked the glamour that seemed to hang around Cliff and Caro like a shimmering cloak. For so many years Emma had felt in awe of her parents. Cliff and Caro Reynolds had been so good-looking, so personable and charismatic, so intelligent. In short, they had been overwhelming.

That was why when her father had approached her at the start of her last semester in graduate school with his remarkably generous offer, Emma had momentarily panicked. It would be an honor, he said, for his daughter to join him in his practice. He hoped to offer her the benefit of his years of experience. “And eventually,” he said, “when I retire, the business will be yours. And don't worry about finding a place to live,” Cliff had gone on. “Your mother and I are more than happy to have you back home with us until you've saved enough money to buy a home of your own in Oliver's Well.”

Emma had been speechless. The idea of moving back to Oliver's Well—specifically, to the house on Honeysuckle Lane—was appalling. She wanted a life of her own. She
needed
a life of her own. And to leave Oliver's Well and the immediate sphere of her parents' influence was, Emma believed, the only way to achieve full independence. She had seen what had happened with Andie and viewed her sister's predicament—an early mistaken marriage—as a warning of what might come to pass if she stayed around. Unhappiness, dissatisfaction, and an unintentional dependence on her parents, those powerful, commanding personalities.

Finally, after almost a full minute of silence, Emma admitted she simply didn't know what to say. “Think about it,” her father had said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You're bound to have questions.” Cliff had chuckled. “I pride myself on keeping accurate accounts, but after all, you're the one getting the MBA.”

It was several days before Emma told her father that while she was grateful for his generous offer of a partnership, she intended to pursue other plans. His immediate reaction had almost made her change her mind; he was so very disappointed that Emma's heart almost broke. Really, what was so wrong with staying in Oliver's Well and working alongside her father, a man she loved and respected? But deep down she knew she couldn't let guilt and a sense of duty override her intentions for a life of her own making. She knew that it would be a grave mistake to live out her adulthood in Oliver's Well, with her parents ever present and exuding such a powerful influence.

In spite of his disappointment, Cliff Reynolds had been gracious about his daughter's refusal to join him in his business and had wished her success in her ventures. “Just know,” he'd said, “that if you change your mind the offer is always open.”

But she hadn't changed her mind, and within eighteen months Joe Herbert, the young man who had once interned with her father, was firmly installed as a junior partner. She didn't feel any regret when she heard this news. She liked Joe and she knew that with her father's heart condition, it was only wise for him to share the burden of his work.

Her mother, however, had not been as gracious as her father. “It's a slap in your father's face is what it is,” she had told Emma angrily. “After all he's done for you.” Caro simply hadn't understood her daughter's need to forge her own life elsewhere. “Oliver's Well has always been good enough for your father and me,” she had said. “I don't see why it's not good enough for you.”

Their relationship had changed after that, though given the fact that neither Caro nor Emma enjoyed altercations and were not the type to provoke just for the fun of it, things had fairly quickly settled into a state of only slightly uneasy détente.

A huge yawn half convinced Emma that if she tried once again to fall asleep she would meet with success. But before she turned out the light, she picked up her iPhone from where it sat charging on the nightstand, ringer turned off for the night, and saw that Ian had left a message. She did not listen to it. And suddenly, she felt angry. That it should all have come to this . . . Emma didn't entirely regret the relationship with Ian, but she did regret all the years she had put into something that had never quite felt joyful. And joy was important.

They had met almost eleven years earlier at a party given by mutual friends. They hit it off and by the end of the evening had agreed to meet for drinks the following week. On that first date they discovered a mutual interest in history. Ian hadn't yawned when she described her career as a financial advisor. Emma had enjoyed Ian's stories about his time in architecture school. At dinner the following week they discovered a mutual passion for sushi. They took a day trip to Williamsburg. They binge-watched the first British version of
House of Cards
. They went to bed, and it was good if not great. Emma found the relationship comfortable and unchallenging, and that, she thought, was fine. She was challenged enough in her career; what she needed from Ian—from any man—was an uncomplicated companionship.

A few months after they first met, Ian had suggested they spend a weekend in Paris. He had found a cheap flight, and a friend who lived in the fourth arrondissement had offered them his apartment while he paid a visit to his sister in Amsterdam. And while a tiny part of her had wondered if going to Paris with Ian was such a wise idea—she wasn't in love with him, and Paris was the fabled city of romance; might her agreeing to go with Ian give him the wrong idea?—she accepted his suggestion. They had a fantastic time. While they strolled the Champs-Élysées one evening, Ian told Emma he was in no rush to get married. Still, he made it clear that he felt committed to her. Emma told him that she wasn't sure—and never had been—that marriage was the right thing for her. “But you're committed to me?” Ian had asked. What was there to say but yes? After all, it wasn't a lie, not really. She wasn't interested in seeing anyone else. She wasn't a cheater. It was all very civilized.