Then Elizabeth Parrish dies before I have the answers, and I feel as if I’ve disappointed Emily. She asked only one thing of me—to fix the radio for her grandmother.
She looks shattered as I hover on the periphery of the funeral luncheon, and there is nothing I can do about it. How do you help someone you hardly know? Yet isn’t that what Emily did with Katie? She came up with the sign language suggestion and then sat with me to introduce the possibility to my daughter. Even though I’ve decided to use the electronic picture-communication program, it all sparked from Emily’s desire to help.
She was a stranger to us only two weeks ago. Now, I’m not certain how I’ll let her go.
I watch as Emily greets funeral attendees she doesn’t know but who know of her. Her grandmother was so proud of her, and I’ve learned I misjudged their relationship. While Emily hadn’t been physically involved in her grandmother’s life for the past few years, she’s been very present. People wish her well on her writing career and her big city life, but I notice she flinches every time someone mentions either. Is she not proud of herself? From the way the people here recall their conversations with Elizabeth, it seems as though Emily is quite successful, and it’s all a reminder she’s temporary. She’ll leave once she settles her grandmother’s affairs, and for some reason, that unsettles me.
Then what would you suggest?
The question is a riddle to me. I have nothing. I live with my mother. I am a single father, and I work two jobs.
I glance up to find her looking at me from across the room. Her eyes are empty, but I smile and wink.
Maybe efficient and pushy are the wrong words to describe her. Maybe determined and strong are better adjectives. She’s holding her own among these well-wishers, but it’s wearing on her. As one set of decisions needing to be made disappears—regarding what she was going to do about her grandmother—a new set of decisions appears. What will she do with what remains? Will she sell that old house? Will she rent it? Will she ever come back to visit this place once she leaves?
My shoulders fall at the possibility she’ll have no reason to return, and then I watch Sue Carpenter approach her, encouraging her to stop trying to pick up dishes and serve people. Yep, efficient. Emily nods as Sue takes a stack of teacups from her hands, and Emily steps into the Carpenter’s kitchen.
I hate being in this house. I hate thinking of Gabe Carpenter, who is lingering somewhere around here. Out of respect for Joe, Gabe’s dad, I’ve never aired the dirty laundry about his son and my wife. Tom says I’m a fool for not skywriting it and exposing him for the cheat he is, but I don’t want to destroy another family just because Gabe destroyed mine.
Then again, it was really Debbie who did the damage.
When Emily doesn’t return after a few minutes, I go in search of her just as I’ve been doing the past couple of hours.
“I sent her home for bit,” Sue tells me as she stands at her kitchen sink. She’s really taken care of everything today. The service. The luncheon. She was a good neighbor to Elizabeth, and she’s equally kind to Emily. The Carpenters are good people, despite their son.
I kiss Sue’s cheek and watch her flush pink before I thank her for all she’s done today. Then I excuse myself. Once I’m at Elizabeth’s, I let myself in through the screened porch and then lock the door behind me.
Quietly, I climb the stairs and find Emily curled on her side on a double bed. From her position, she can see straight out the back window toward the Mueller’s home. Was it only two weeks ago that I was fixing that roof and staring down at her every few seconds in her backyard? So much has happened so quickly, but then again, I know firsthand how everything can change in the blink of an eye.
Emily shifts on the bed, looking up at me over her shoulder. She’s wearing a black dress with thin straps and a sweater. The sweater’s old, definitely something a grandmother would wear, and I imagine it’s Elizabeth’s. In the heat of July, she hardly needs the covering, but she wears it out of respect and perhaps longing for her nana.
“What are you doing in here?” she whispers as her voice cracks before rolling back to her position and continuing to stare out the window.
“I wanted to see how you are,” I say, still standing next to her bed. My hands slip into the pockets of my black pants. I’m wearing a white dress shirt that’s too tight, as I’ve gained a little weight since moving home. The slim tie around my neck feels out of place. I haven’t worn one in a while. That was another lifetime ago.
“I don’t need anything today,” she says. Because she’s efficient, she leaves off as her voice trembles, and she swipes at her cheek.
Could she need me? Sure, we might have started out fighting for no known reason, and that blame is on me. She struck something in me I didn’t want struck. She’s lit something I didn’t want lit, but now that the flicker of a flame is there, I can no longer deny it. Because it’s not just about me. It’s also about Katie.
I don’t reply to her, and while she remains staring out the window, her back to me, she weakly voices, “Please leave me alone.”
Fuck. That.
Kicking off my shoes, I then loosen and remove my tie. I unbutton a few buttons from this damn tight shirt and untuck it. Then I kneel on the edge of the bed. She shifts, peering up at me over her shoulder once again.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice raspy and wet with unshed tears.
“I’m not leaving,” I tell her, climbing up behind her and curling around her. Without her permission, I bend my knees beneath hers and stroke a hand up her spine and into her hair. The tension in her body radiates into my palm as my hand massages the base of her neck. Eventually she gives in to my fingertips, and my fingers move lower, working at her shoulder.
“Take this off,” I tell her, my voice low as I tug at the collar of her sweater.
She spins, staring at me over her shoulder, but then she sits up and removes it. I take the material and drape it over her like a blanket once she lies back on her side. I have better access to her skin now, and I continue my massage, willing her to relax under my touch.
Finally, I write on her skin with a rough fingertip, tracing the capital letter I along her back between her shoulder blades. Next, I form an L. Another I. Then a K, and an E. I pause after each letter, and Emily remains still. I have no idea if she has read the pressure of the letters, but I finish with Y, O, and U. Flattening my palm against her back, I think she’s asleep when I hear her whisper, “I like you, too.”
My arm wraps over her waist, and I draw her to me, feeling her shudder, knowing her tears fall. I press a kiss to her shoulder and hold her tighter.
“Sleep, baby,” I say, and eventually, she does.
+ + +
I wake to a delicate hand on my belly. I’ve been dozing under Emily’s warmth. She rolled in her sleep and ended up with her head in the crook of my arm. I’m on my back, and she’d eventually wrapped a leg over mine, nestled in closer and slipped her hand under my shirt, rubbing it over my abs and stopping mid-stomach. I’m hoping she finds comfort in me. I don’t mind her touch. I’m just fighting the desire for her to touch me in other places. My dick strains in my dress pants, and there is no disguising I’m freaking turned on like I haven’t been in years.