Читать книгу The Perfect Mum - Janice Johnson Kay - Страница 9

KATHLEEN SAT ON THE LIVING room couch two days later, gazing blankly at the opposite wall. A woman who detested inactivity, she much preferred having a purpose. Tonight she was too tired to even think about Emma, Ian or the myriad of household tasks that needed accomplishing.

Thank heavens for Helen and Jo! Even small Ginny had passed a few minutes ago, gamely carrying a full basket of laundry up from the basement in order to fold it.

Earlier Helen had wanted to discuss business. A shopkeeper had asked for a larger discount. Helen still wasn’t satisfied with the label—maybe they needed stronger colors? She was sensitive enough not to say, You should be making soap, we need a huge inventory for the craft fairs. Kathleen had only shaken her head and said, “I can’t think right now. I’m sorry,” and Helen had backed off.

Kathleen felt useless. Inept. Inadequate. Incompetent. Unlovable. She could think of a million other words, but those pretty much covered the bleak, gray sensation that swamped her.

She, who had never failed at anything she set out to do, had now failed at everything really important: marriage and parenting. She—once a society hostess, gourmet cook and mother to a delightful, bright and cheerful child—was scraping for a living, cooking in a kitchen with a peeling linoleum floor and a chipped, stained sink and banned for a week from visiting her daughter in treatment for a behavioral disorder that was killing her and seemed to be rooted in anger at her parents.

Yup. Right this minute, Kathleen couldn’t think of a single reason to feel positive.

The doorbell rang, and she winced. The cabinetmaker had called earlier to schedule an appointment to present his bid. The timing sucked, if Kathleen could borrow one of Emma’s favorite words.

She sighed and dragged herself to her feet. From upstairs, Jo called, “Do you want me to get that?”

“No, I’m expecting someone,” Kathleen called back.

When she opened the door, she experienced the same odd jolt she had the first time she saw Logan Carr on her doorstep. Frowning slightly, she dismissed her reaction; he just wasn’t the kind of man she usually associated with. He looked so…blue-collar. He undoubtedly went home, opened a beer, belched and spent his evenings watching baseball on the boob tube.

A stereotype even she knew was snobbish. After all, Ryan was a contractor, but was also a well-read man who owned a beautiful, restored home and cleaned up nicely.

“Mr. Carr,” she said, by long practice summoning a smile. “Please come in.”

He nodded and stepped over the threshold, increasing her peculiar feeling of tension. He was too close. She backed a step away, using the excuse of shutting the door behind him. He was so big, even though she was sure he wasn’t any taller than Ian. But Ian was lean and graceful, with long fingers and shoulders just broad enough to make his custom-tailored suits hang beautifully. Ian projected intelligence, impatience, charm, not sweaty masculinity.

“Unfortunately, Helen can’t be here. She was asked to work this evening. Nordstrom is having a sale.”

He blinked at what must have seemed a non sequitur. “She’s a salesclerk?”

“Children’s department.”

“Ah.” He nodded.

“Come on into the kitchen.” She led the way. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks, if it isn’t too much trouble.” He did have a nice voice, low and gruff but somehow…soothing. Like a loofah.

“Jo just brewed some. She’s a fantatic.” Kathleen opened the cupboard and reached for two mugs. “Personally, I’d settle for instant, but she shudders at the very idea.”

As if he cared what kind of coffee she’d choose, Kathleen chided herself. She was babbling, filling the silence, because he made her nervous.

“You’re not crying tonight.”

Mug in hand, she turned to look at him. He wasn’t laughing at her. Rather, his expression was serious, even…concerned.

“No,” she agreed. “I’m not crying.” Just depressed. “I’m awfully sorry to have flung myself at you that way. I must have made your day. Nothing like having your shirt soaked with tears.”

“I invited it,” Logan reminded her. “You looked like you needed a shoulder to cry on.”

She hadn’t known it, but that was exactly what she had needed. Now, she felt uncomfortable about the whole thing. He was a complete stranger, but he had held her and she’d gripped his shirt and laid her head on his chest and sobbed. The memory lay between them, weirdly intimate.

“I guess I did,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Faint amusement showed in his eyes. The next second, Kathleen wasn’t sure, because he continued, “Your daughter, is she all right?”

“Emma’s fine,” Kathleen said brightly, lying through her teeth, as she’d spent the past several years lying. Heaven forbid she admit to anyone else that her daughter hated her so much, she was starving herself to death.

“Is she…” the cabinetmaker said noncommittally.

Had Ryan told him something of Emma’s troubles? Kathleen wondered, her eyes narrowing. She’d kill her brother if he was spouting her personal problems to casual acquaintances.

“She’s, um, not home.” As if he’d asked to meet Emma.

“Teenagers rarely are.”

Darn him. His easygoing, I-understand tone made her want to spill her guts. Maybe even cry again, so he’d pull her into his arms.

Shocked at herself, Kathleen stiffened her spine. What was she thinking? He was absolutely not her type, even assuming she had any interest whatsoever in getting involved with a man right now! Which she didn’t.

Didn’t dare. Emma had reacted with hurt and anger the couple of times Kathleen had dated after the divorce. Right now was definitely not the time to upset the applecart as far as her daughter went.

“Sugar? Creamer?” she asked, in her best hostess voice.

“Black is fine.”

She stirred sugar into her own and then carried both mugs to the table.

He’d set that gray metal clipboard, identical to her brother’s, on the table. Kathleen nodded at it as she sat down. “Okay, I’ve braced myself. How much will this cost?”

Logan Carr reached for the clipboard. “I’ve figured out ways to cut some corners and still give you what you want,” he said mildly. “I hope my figures are in the ballpark.”

The baseball analogy steadied her, reminded her of the beer, the belching and the nonstop din of the television. When he slid a neatly typed sheet of paper across the table, she took it, hardly noticing that their fingers briefly touched.

When she saw the figure at the bottom, however, she gaped. “I was expecting twice that much!”

He smiled at her surprise. “Your brother wasn’t kidding when he said you wouldn’t pay much more for custom. Maybe even less, in this case, because I gave some thought to how I could deliver what you need without adding any unnecessary frills.”

She wondered what kind of frills he was talking about, but in her rush of relief didn’t really care. She could manage this.

“The amount doesn’t include the additional peninsula, does it?” she asked.

“No, I made up a second bid.” He slid that one to her as well. The bottom line was less than a thousand dollars more.

“Show me the details again,” she asked. There had to be a catch. An unacceptable short-cut. An eliminated frill that was really an essential. “You’ll use solid maple, right?”

He patiently got out his notebook and scooted his chair around so that they sat shoulder to shoulder, looking as he flipped pages. He’d drawn a couple of simple sketches of the project, one a crude blueprint, the other three-dimensional, showing slots and cubbies and open shelves.

“The fan will be right above, the switch over here.” He indicated the wall by the pantry door with the tip of his pencil. “I can pick one up if you want, or if you’d prefer you can buy your own.”

She shook her head. “You do it, please.”

Nodding, he made a note. “I’ll leave all of this information so that you can discuss it with Ms. Schaeffer.”

“That isn’t necessary.” Feeling more decisive than she had in a long while, Kathleen said firmly, “You’re hired.”

“Good.” He smiled again, turning a face that was almost homely into one that was likable and sexy.

She found herself smiling back, her heart fluttering. Her internal alarms went off, but she silenced them. So what if she felt…oh, just a little spark of attraction. It didn’t mean anything. He’d never know. Heck, she probably wouldn’t even feel the spark the next time she saw him. It was having cried on him that made her aware of him, she guessed. Knowing what it felt like to have his arms around her. Wasn’t it natural to stretch that into a small crush?

“Do you have a contract for me to sign?” she asked.

He produced that, too, and went over it line by line. Satisfied, Kathleen signed, and hoped Ryan wouldn’t have recommended Logan Carr if he weren’t reliable.

“I can’t start for a week,” he was telling her. “I’m finishing up a project in West Seattle, but I can be on it a week from tomorrow, if that works for you.”

“So soon?” she said in surprise. Wasn’t spring a busy season for construction? Why wasn’t he booked way in advance, if he was so good?

As if reading her mind, he said, “I had a cancellation, and my next job is new construction. They won’t be ready for me for a few weeks. This is good timing for me.”

She flushed, as embarrassed as if she’d spoken her doubts aloud. “Oh. Well.” She forced a smile. “It’s good luck for me, too.”

He nodded absently and sipped his coffee, instead of standing to leave. “Nice house. Lots of potential.”

Her mood lifted. “Do you think so?”

He was looking around, his gaze taking in the original moldings and high ceilings. “Your brother grumbled one time that you’d dropped your money into a sinkhole. I think he’s wrong. This could be a beauty.”

“I think so, too.” She had this vision no one else seemed to share, but she could see on his face that he saw something similar. “We’ve actually remodeled a couple of rooms already.” She tried to sound casual. “Do you want a grand tour before you go?”

He set down the mug. “Love one.”

“You can finish your coffee.”

“It’ll keep me awake anyway.” He gave another of those crooked, devastating smiles. “Lead on.”

Pulse bouncing, Kathleen stood, too. “You’ve seen the pantry.”

“You’re lucky to have one. They’re a smart addition to a kitchen.”

She smiled wryly. “Of course, we’re back to storing baking supplies in cupboards too high to reach without teetering on a chair, thanks to the soap.”

“But what would you do if you didn’t have the pantry?” Logan pointed out.

Kathleen made a face. “How true. I’d probably be stepping over bars of soap to go to bed.”

He laughed, a low, rough sound, as well-worn as the calluses on his hands.

She showed him the living room, and he admired the arched entry and the built-in, leaded glass-fronted bookcases to each side of the brick fireplace.

“You planning to refinish the floor?”

“Ryan is itching to tackle it, but I’ve held him off so far. Where would we live while fumes fill the house?”

“That’s always a problem,” the cabinetmaker conceded. “But without a finish this floor is going to get scratched and stained.”

She sighed. “You sound like my brother.”

“We both value fine woods.”

Ian had valued fine wines, she thought irrelevantly. Their house had been a showplace in Magnolia, but it was no more than an appropriate and deserved backdrop, as far as he was concerned. The house had given her pleasure. These days, she tried not to think about the gleaming inlaid floors, stained-glass sidelights and granite kitchen counters.

If she ever had a beautiful house again, she would have earned it herself, and that had come to mean more than the possessing. In his eagerness to help her, Ryan refused to understand that. She had the odd feeling that Logan would.

She led him to the downstairs bathroom, really more of a powder room in the traditional sense.

He stepped past her and, filling the opening, contemplated the tiny room. “Nice,” he said finally.

Feeling a glow, she said, “Thank you. We did it ourselves.”

He glanced at her, surprise in his raised brows. “We?”

“Jo, Helen and I did the work. Especially Jo,” she admitted. “Except for the plumbing. We called Ryan for that.”

He took another look. “You did a hell of a job.”

They had, if she did say so herself—although she felt a little immodest even thinking as much, given how little she’d contributed compared to Jo. Still…

The floor and walls, up to the wainscoting, were covered with two-inch tiles the color of milky coffee, with darker grout. The sink was a graceful free-standing one, the medicine cabinet an antique Jo had discovered at a garage sale. They’d splurged on a reproduction toilet with an old-fashioned oak tank. A cream, rose and spring-green paisley paper covered the upper walls. Just stepping in here made Kathleen happy. At least they’d accomplished something, even if the floors in the rest of the house were still scuffed, the plaster peeling in the stairwell, the kitchen a 1940s nightmare.

“We’ll skip our home office,” she nodded down the hall. “It’s a disaster. That door leads to the basement, which at the moment is our construction workshop, such as it is, and has the washer and dryer. We’ve all got piles of boxes stored down there, too.”

As she climbed the stairs, Kathleen was very conscious of him behind her. She wondered if he was at all aware of her as a woman. Or—she didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her—was he married? She glanced back and made a point of noticing his left hand—no ring. Which didn’t necessarily mean a thing. Not all men liked wearing a wedding ring. For one who worked with power tools, wearing a ring might be dangerous.

He hadn’t mentioned children of his own, she remembered.

It wouldn’t hurt to make conversation, she decided.

“Do you have kids?” she asked casually, as they reached the hallway above.

“Afraid not.”

Frustrated, she nodded at the first bedroom door, shut. “Jo’s room. Then Helen’s.”

This door stood half open, and without stopping he glanced in at the high-ceilinged room. “No closets?”

“A couple of the bedrooms have them, but small ones. What would be wonderful, down the line, is to eliminate one of the four bedrooms and create big walk-in closets for the other rooms.” She laughed ruefully. “Wa-ay down the line.”

“You have to have a plan,” he said matter-of-factly.

He believed in dreaming. She liked that about him. Maybe he didn’t actually swill beer and belch.

But maybe he had a wife at home, washing up their dinner dishes, wondering why he was taking so long to present a bid for a small job.

She opened the door on the other side of the hall with a flourish. “And the other bathroom.”

Every time she stepped in here now, she had a flash of memory—Emma sprawled, unconscious and bleached-white, on the tiled floor. Death was an all too real possibility for Emma, but that morning, it had hit Kathleen like a punch in the stomach.

Emma is dead. I’ve failed her.

She crossed her arms and squeezed, momentarily chilly. Logan gave her a sharp look but didn’t comment. Instead he examined this larger bathroom and gave another nod of approval.

“I could have done a better job on the cabinets, but it looks great.”

“They’re ready-made,” she admitted.

“I know.” He propped one shoulder on the door-jamb and smiled. “Sorry. I think I just crossed over from confidence to cockiness.”

She found herself smiling back, probably foolishly. “No, no. I’m sure I heard nothing but confidence.”

His eyes seemed to darken, his voice to deepen. “Thank you for that.”

Cheeks warming, she backed away. “Um…my bedroom is the last,” she flapped a hand toward the end of the hall, “but I haven’t done anything except cover the floor with a rug and the peeling wallpaper with pictures.”

He glanced that way thoughtfully, then nodded, accepting her unspoken reluctance to show him her private sanctum. Her bedroom. Ryan was the only man to have stepped foot into it, and that was on moving day when he’d helped carry in the garage sale and thrift store furniture.

She found the idea of this man in her bedroom disturbing. It wasn’t so much the notion of him studying her bed with that contemplative gaze as the fact that he would be out of place. Ridiculously so. She imagined his bedroom as spare, with white walls and beautiful wood pieces and perhaps a simple print hung above the bed. Maybe not even blinds or curtains at the window.

Unless, of course, his wife had decorated their house.

Ian had liked their master bedroom luxurious but modern, the deep plush of the charcoal-gray carpet unadorned, the vast bed the centerpiece of the room, the only other focal point the wall of windows looking out at Puget Sound and passing ferries.

To please herself, and because she couldn’t afford luxurious anyway since she’d refused alimony and a split of the possessions she had realized were really his, Kathleen had indulged in a very feminine bedroom for herself, in this house that was her own. Dried hydrangeas and roses filled cream-colored pitchers and vases. The cherry bed frame needed refinishing, but she never noticed, so heaped was the bed with lacy pillows and quilts and a crocheted spread she’d bought for peanuts at the Salvation Army because it had been stained. Armed with a book on caring for old fabrics, she had resuscitated it as well as the pink and white pinwheel quilt the mover had been using as padding, and the lace that edged several of the pillows. Whenever she saw an unusual old picture frame for a price she could afford, she bought it, and had covered the walls with family photos dating back to the 1840s and ending with a laughing Emma, caught only a few months back in an unwary moment. Kathleen’s dresser top was cluttered with her collection of ceramic and wood boxes. A caned Lincoln rocker that had been handed down in her mother’s family gave her a place to sit and read by the light of a Tiffany-imitation lamp that sat on a carved end table, its battered top hidden beneath a tatted doily.

Emma, of course, sneered at the room. “It’s old stuff. Dad would say it was all junk and throw it away.”

So he would—which was very likely the reason she’d decorated the room the way she had.

Kathleen had managed to keep her voice mild. “Old stuff is all I can afford. You know that.”

Emma, dear Emma, had flared, “And it’s all my fault that we’re poor! Of course! I didn’t ask you to leave Daddy!”

She hadn’t had to ask, not after the horrific scene when Ian had lost his temper, held her down and shoved food into her mouth.

“Look at it this way,” Logan Carr said now. “Not a penny spent on this house is wasted. You’ll get it all back if you re-sell. These old houses can’t do anything but gain value.”

“Even Ryan concedes as much.”

Logan gave her a quizzical glance. “I take it you and your brother aren’t close?”

“Actually, we are.” She smiled at his surprise. “Jo says we squabble like a couple of kids on a family vacation. Insulting, but accurate.”

He laughed again, which pleased her. She liked his laugh.

“Well, I’d best get out of your hair,” he said, pushing away from the door frame. “You must have a million things to do.”

Like climb into bed, pull the covers over her head and pretend all her troubles would go away. Or cry. She hadn’t decided which.

“Well, not a million, I hope,” she said with a practiced chuckle. “You probably have plenty waiting for you at home, too.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. She saw the impulse to say something and the instant when he thought better of it.

“Unfortunately,” he agreed.

She couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been going to say. Nobody and nothing is waiting for me at home? Or, Yeah, the wife insists I fix the leak under the kitchen sink tonight?

She saw him to the door, chattering about nothing in particular, another skill acquired from the years of entertaining Ian’s business associates.

There, she said, “We’ll look forward to seeing you a week from Monday.”

“Actually, you’ll only see me if I need additional measurements. I’ll build the cabinets at home and call you when I’m ready to install them.”

“Oh.” She was embarrassed not to have realized as much, and inexplicably disappointed. “Yes. Of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

With a shrug, he said, “You figured they weren’t ready-made, they got built here. That’s reasonable.” He paused, his gaze intent. “Ms. Monroe…”

“Kathleen. Please.” Her heart seemed to be pounding.

The cabinetmaker nodded. “Kathleen. I don’t suppose…” He stopped, frowned fiercely, and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What?” She wanted to stomp her foot.

“No.” His expression was stolid again. “It was just a passing thought. Nothing important.” He held out a hand. “I look forward to doing some work for you.”

What could she do but hold out her hand in turn? His was big, warm and rough-textured. It seemed to her that he released her hand reluctantly before nodding one more time and heading down the porch steps.

Tempted to watch him go, Kathleen made herself shut the front door. She was too old for delusions of passion and romance.

EMMA SAT AT THE TABLE in the dining hall and stared at her dinner tray. They could not possibly expect her to eat all that!

She sneaked a glance around and saw that a few of the other women and girls—right now, there wasn’t a single guy here—had matter-of-factly picked up silverware and started to eat. Maybe they had figured out some way to get away from their captors long enough to puke up all this food. Or maybe they had decided eating was the only way out of here. It wasn’t like they couldn’t lose the weight again.

Emma just didn’t want to. Gaining ten or twenty pounds, just so she could go home… She shivered at the thought. She’d be fat!

Reluctantly she picked up her fork and stabbed a few peas. Okay. She guessed she could eat them. They were starchy, but still a vegetable. Then maybe if she stirred some of the other food, made it look like she’d eaten some, they’d let her go.

The peas seemed to stick in her throat. She reached for her milk and gagged when she tasted it.

“It’s whole milk,” the girl beside her said. “Or maybe two percent. I’m not sure.”

“Even my mom buys nonfat!”

“Yeah, but this has more calories.”

Beads of sweat stood out on Emma’s brow. “I can’t eat this.”

“You have to. They make you sit here until you do.”

“All of it?”

“Didn’t they tell you?” The girl was really pretty, with shiny thick black hair, and so slim, lots slimmer than Emma was.

“They said I had to eat what they served, but I didn’t figure they meant, like, every bite.” She stared again in dismay at the pork chop, mashed potatoes and gravy and peas.

“I sat here for four hours my first day. The meat was even grosser when it was cold.”

Emma took a tentative bite of mashed potato. It slipped down easier than the peas had. “What’s your name?”

“Summer Chan. What’s yours?”

“Emma Monroe.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Seventy-six pounds.” Emma was embarrassed. “I wish I looked like you do.”

“But I’m only five-two.” She took a dainty bite and swallowed. “You look great. I’m the one who’s still fat. No matter what they say.”

Emma didn’t ask what she weighed. She’d end up being totally humiliated.

“Do they ever get so they trust you, and you can go to the bathroom and stuff alone?”

“No.” She took another bite. “I’ve been here before. If you want out, you have to cooperate.”

Emma poked at the pork chop. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“You had to tell them you were when you checked in. Now it’s too late. They’ll think you’re lying.”

Emma hadn’t been a vegetarian until she decided meat had too much fat in it. Now…her stomach quivered at the thought. It was almost like being hungry, but more like she needed to throw up.

Summer took a bite of hers and murmured out of the corner of her mouth, “You’d better look like you’re eating. Here comes Karen.”

Karen was one of the nurses. She was stocky, with chunky arms and shoulders and a thick neck. The idea of ending up looking like her scared Emma.

She paused right behind the girls. “How are you doing, Emma? Doesn’t look like you’ve eaten much yet.”

“I had some peas. And potatoes.”

She laid a hand briefly on Emma’s shoulder. “Remember the rules. You have to eat it all. You can’t get well if you don’t eat.”

When she moved on, Emma muttered, “She means, get fat.”

“Just keep eating,” a woman across the table advised. “It’s easier if you don’t think about it. By the way,” she added, “I’m Regina Hall.”

“Nice to meet you,” Emma said automatically.

Not think about it. Right. How did you do that? She always thought about what she ate! She knew how much fat and calories every bite had, how full it would make her, whether she’d feel like a pig after she was done scarfing it down. To just eat and eat and eat…

“I won’t,” she said, and put down her fork.

“Suit yourself.” Regina, who was maybe in her early twenties, shrugged. “I’d rather watch TV than sit here all night. Even if it is reruns.”

“Everybody watches Friends,” Summer chimed in. “Monica is so-o pretty. Don’t you think?”

“I wish I looked like her,” Emma agreed. “I like to cook the way she does, too.”

Everyone at the table joined in to talk about Friends and whether Phoebe was too fat and how cool it would be to have a job as a chef as long as you didn’t have to sample anything and which was the hottest guy on the show.

Joey, most of them agreed, although Summer didn’t say anything and Emma didn’t think any of them were that hot. They were old, for one thing. Her uncle Ryan was better-looking than any of them. Her friends, back when she had some, always said he was super hot compared to their fathers or uncles or any of the teachers.

Emma guessed her dad was, too, but now when she thought of him all she could remember was his face contorted with rage and the cruelty of his hands and the terror of not being able to breathe when he shoved food into her mouth until it was smeared all over her face.

It was that moment when she knew how much he hated having a daughter who couldn’t do anything right. He’d mostly hidden it until then, but he’d finally cracked. Now she hated him, too, and dreamed about running into him by accident sometime when she was grown-up, and slim, and so beautiful she drove men crazy. And wildly successful, too—maybe a federal judge or mayor of Seattle or a movie star. She’d raise an eyebrow, just so, as if in faint surprise at his temerity in approaching her. Her expression would say, Do I know you? He’d mumble something about how much he admired her, or he’d say, “I tell all my friends you’re my daughter.” Mostly in these daydreams she was gracious, saying, “How nice,” before noticing someone more important she had to speak to. Sometimes, when she was in a bad mood, she’d imagine the scathing look she’d give him. “I have no father,” she would say icily, before moving on as if he was nobody.

Right this minute, she wished she had no mother, either. Because then she’d be living with Uncle Ryan, and he wouldn’t have committed her like a crazy person who needed twenty-four-hour guarding.

Realizing that even Summer was almost done with her dinner, Emma took another bite of mashed potatoes. Her stomach growled, startling her. Two more peas, then a tiny sip of the milk.

“Do you have to drink the milk, too?” she whispered, because Karen was strolling back her way.

Summer stole a glance toward their captor and kept her voice low, too. “Uh-huh.”

I can’t! Emma cried inside.

She hastily took another bite of potatoes.

“Try your meat,” Karen said pleasantly, with another tap on Emma’s shoulder.

Regina stood and lifted her tray to bus it. “It’s hard the first time,” she said quietly, nodded and left.

Summer left a few minutes later, too, and one by one so did just about everyone else. Only one other girl was left at another table, gazing down in dismay at her plate. Emma saw that her glass of milk was still mostly full, too.

Emma started to stand, but Karen materialized instantly.

“I’m sorry, Emma, but you’re not excused until you’ve finished.”

Bubbling with resentment, Emma said, “I was just going to sit with that other girl.”

“Oh, I don’t think either of you need to socialize when your food is getting cold.” Karen smiled, for all the world as if she’d just said something upbeat, like, You’re doing great. “Finish, and you’ll both have a chance to get acquainted.”

Three hours and thirty-four minutes later, tears in her eyes, Emma cut her cold pork chop, put a bite in her mouth and grimly began to chew.