Читать книгу Flamingo Diner - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 9

4

Emma was stunned by her mother’s appearance. No matter the time of day or the occasion, Rosa had always taken such pride in herself.

“No one wants to be greeted by someone looking haggard and disheveled when they come in the door for breakfast,” she’d told Emma more than once, when Emma would have settled for a hastily combed ponytail, a pair of jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt to work at the diner. It didn’t matter to her mother that grease and spills were likely to ruin clothes faster than playing outside in the dirt.

Rosa always wore bright colors, skillfully applied makeup and a ready smile, even at 6:00 a.m. And even after a tiring, ten-hour shift at Flamingo Diner, she usually looked as energetic and tidy as she had when she’d greeted the first customer in the morning. Somehow she never spilled anything on herself.

Tonight, though, her thick, dark hair was in disarray, her cheeks were pale and she was wearing the rattiest old robe in her closet, the one she usually wore when she scrubbed the floors. Emma was as shocked and dismayed by that as she was by the lost look in her mother’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, Mama, I can’t believe it,” Emma whispered, crossing the room to take her mother in her arms. Rosa, whose figure she herself had always referred to as pleasingly plump, felt fragile to Emma, as if all the familiar strength had drained out of her overnight.

“Neither can I,” her mother said, clasping her hand. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I should have been the one to call you, but I couldn’t find the words. I didn’t want to believe it had happened. I still don’t.”

“Neither do I, Mama.”

Rosa’s gaze drifted away, as if she were looking at something Emma couldn’t see. “I keep waiting for him to come home,” she murmured, half to herself. Her gaze once again sought Emma’s. “He should be here by now. Don’t you think so?”

Alarmed by her mother’s refusal to accept reality, Emma squeezed her hands. “Mama, he’s not coming back. You know that.”

Her mother regarded her with a bewildered expression. “But that can’t be. He had an appointment after we closed and he said he’d be home right afterward. I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

“Daddy’s gone,” Emma said quietly but firmly. “He’s dead.”

The unexpected sharp slap of her mother’s hand against her cheek shocked her.

“Don’t say that,” her mother said furiously. “He’s not dead.”

Emma was too shaken to respond. Her mother had never hit her before, had never really lost her temper. As kids, they’d always known when Rosa was angry. Patches of color would flare in her cheeks and her eyes would flash, but her words were always cool and reasoned. There had been times when Emma had wished that she would simply yell at them, because that icy disappointment in her tone had been devastating.

Touching her cheek gingerly, Emma stood up and moved away, wanting to cry, but terrified that once she started, she’d never be able to stop. Obviously her safe, secure world was never going to be the same again, not with her father dead and her mother so distraught that she would actually slap one of her own children.

“Emma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Rosa said, sounding as shaken as Emma felt.

“It’s okay, Mama. You’re not yourself right now. None of us are.”

“It is not okay. I just…” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “I can’t think straight. I don’t want to think at all. Could you get me another one of the pills the doctor left? They’re in the bathroom.”

Emma retrieved the bottle and read the label. She had no idea what sort of medicine it was. “What are these?” she asked as she brought them into the bedroom.

“Sleeping pills,” her mother said. “They’re good. They keep me from remembering.”

“I thought you hated taking pills,” Emma said, worried by the eagerness with which her mother was reaching for the plastic bottle.

Her mother frowned at her. “I’ve never been in this situation before. The doctor prescribed them. It won’t hurt to take them for a few days, just to get through this.” She swallowed two and drank some water.

“You mean the funeral?” Emma asked.

“All of it,” her mother replied. “I want to sleep through all of it. I don’t want to wake up until the nightmare ends.”

Alarmed, Emma reached for the bottle, but her mother held fast. “You can’t hide from this, Mama. None of us can. There are decisions to be made.”

“Then you make them,” her mother told her, sliding beneath the covers and turning her back. It was like watching a turtle slowly retreat into its protective shell.

“What about Jeff and Andy? They’re going to need you. I need you.”

“You’re strong, Emma. You’ll do just fine. Maybe Kim can fly down and help you.”

“Kim has to work, Mama.”

“Then you’ll manage. I know you will.”

This was the second time someone had told Emma she was going to have to handle things. She wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility. Panicked by the prospect, she said urgently, “No, Mama. You’re the strong one. We’re counting on you.”

“Don’t,” her mother said flatly.

Emma stood where she was and stared at her mother’s back, feeling more shut out and alone than she ever had in her life. Her mother was overcome with grief, totally in shock. That’s what it was. It had to be. Rosa Killian wasn’t the kind of woman to turn her back on her family, on her responsibilities. All her life she had taught her children to be caring and generous with their support for friends in need. This retreat from reality wasn’t like her at all.

Was it possible that her mother had guessed it hadn’t been an accident? Was that what she really couldn’t face? Sooner or later, they would have to talk about it, all of it, but obviously not tonight.

Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to her mother’s damp cheek. “I love you, Mama.”

She waited for her mother to say, as she always did, “I love you back,” but there was only silence.

Outside the door to her mother’s room, Emma leaned against the wall and let the tears flow unchecked down her cheeks. She was beginning to fear that when her father’s car had gone into the lake, she’d lost not only him, but both of her parents.

Matt couldn’t make up his mind whether to go or stay. After Andy had charged past him, he’d considered leaving, but something told him that Emma was going to need him after she saw her mother. Rosa wasn’t herself. Not that anyone could blame her, but she was deliberately shutting everyone out, her kids included. Jeff and Andy had never needed her more, but she hadn’t reached out for them after Matt had delivered the news about Don. When Matt had refused to deny the news of Don’s death, she’d simply gone into her room and closed the door behind her. He doubted it would be any different with Emma. His heart ached for her, for all of them.

He’d been ready for the tears when he’d met Emma at the airport, but not the underlying vulnerability. The Emma he remembered had been strong, resilient, like her mother. She’d had a biting wit and a confidence that came from knowing that she was well loved. He’d figured the years would only solidify those traits. But if confidence had failed Rosa at a time like this, it was only reasonable that it would have failed Emma, too.

After all, this was hardly a normal circumstance. For all he knew, Emma could take on the world under most conditions.

He found the coffee in the kitchen cupboard and started to brew a pot, then decided tea would be better. Hadn’t he heard somewhere that tea was supposed to be soothing? Or was that just herbal tea? God, why didn’t he know these things? Why wasn’t he better prepared to help this family he loved get through this crisis? In his years on the police force, he’d somehow mustered the courage to deliver bad news, but he’d rarely been left to deal with its aftermath. With friends involved, however, he couldn’t walk away. He felt like he owed it to Don to stay and cope with the fallout from his passing.

He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, boxes of tea spread out on the table, when Emma walked in. Her face was streaked with tears, her expression shattered. Matt would have reached for her as he had at the airport, but there was something about her rigid stance that told him she wouldn’t welcome his embrace a second time. In fact, she looked as if she were holding herself together by a thread. He didn’t want to do anything to shatter what was left of her composure.

“I was going to make…” He hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly and gestured at the boxes of tea and coffee he’d dragged from the cupboard. “Something.”

Her lips curved into a fleeting smile. “Couldn’t make up your mind?”

“It’s a little late to be drinking coffee. I thought tea would be better, but I don’t drink the stuff, so I wasn’t sure what kind to make. So, can I get you a cup of something? You tell me.”

“Chamomile tea would be wonderful,” she said, slipping into a chair at the table.

Matt noted the exhaustion in her eyes. “Would you rather go to bed? You’ve had a tough day. You don’t have to entertain me. I can take off.”

“No, stay, please,” she said urgently. “I don’t want to be alone just yet. I won’t be able to get to sleep.”

“Okay, then,” he said, pouring hot water over the tea bag, then setting the cup in front of her.

He pulled out a chair across from her. “How’d it go with your mother?”

“She’s in bad shape. She doesn’t want to deal with any of this. She says I should do whatever I want.” She regarded him with despair. “How can I make the kinds of decisions that need to be made? I have no idea what sort of funeral to arrange. She’s our mother. He was her husband. These are her choices to make. I don’t know if they have burial plots, a particular funeral home they prefer. How could I know that? I thought it would be years and years before I needed to know details like that.”

“She’s still in shock,” Matt said. “She’ll be better in the morning. Then you can all make the decisions together. You need to include Jeff and Andy in this, too. They’re feeling lost right now, too.”

“I’m sure they are, but they have each other at least. I was the one who always relied on Mama. She was my role model.” Emma looked at him, a mix of hope and doubt on her face. “Do you really think she’ll be better in the morning?”

Matt wanted to believe it. He knew Emma needed to believe it, so he reminded her, “Your mother’s a strong woman.”

Emma shook her head. “I always thought so, but she’s retreated to someplace I can’t reach her.” She touched her cheek. “She slapped me.”

Matt stared, spotting the faint trace of pink in Emma’s pale complexion. “Why on earth would she do that?” he asked, genuinely shocked.

“I told her that Dad was dead, that he wasn’t coming back. I insisted that she face the truth and she slapped me.”

He reached for her hand. “I’m sorry. I really am. You know she’s distraught. She’ll feel awful tomorrow.”

“She apologized. As for tomorrow, I’m not sure she’ll feel anything. She seems determined to sleep through everything.” She regarded him with a look filled with hurt and confusion. “What do I do if she’s not better? Do I make the decisions without her?”

“Nothing has to be decided right away,” Matt reassured her. “If she’s not up to it in the morning, you, Jeff and Andy can talk things over and decide what you want. I’ll help in any way I can, too. I can talk to the funeral home, make the arrangements, whatever’s necessary.”

“It’s not your responsibility,” Emma said.

Matt met her gaze evenly, refusing to be shut out. “I loved him, too, you know.”

Her expression instantly apologetic, she squeezed his hand. “I know you did.” She sighed heavily, then glanced around. “Where are Andy and Jeff? Have you seen them?”

“Andy’s in his room. Jeff’s outside, unless he decided to take off after I came back in.”

“He’s in the old tree house, I imagine. They used to love that place. I was barred from ever going up there.” She gave him a faint smile. “I used to sneak up when they weren’t around. In fact, I had my first kiss up there.”

“Oh, really?” Matt said, feeling an unmistakable trace of envy for the lucky boy. “Who was it?”

“Owen Davis,” she announced, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, shocked. “You had a thing with Owen Davis? Did your father know about it?”

Emma chuckled at his reaction. “Of course not. He would have been appalled. Owen was not only two years older than me, he rode a motorcycle. He was every girl’s fantasy of a very dangerous guy.”

“More than me?” Matt inquired, wondering just where he’d shown up on her personal radar.

“You weren’t dangerous,” she said as if the idea were ludicrous.

“Your father thought I was.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were one of the family.”

Matt wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that he’d been so readily accepted in her view or insulted by her complete lack of appreciation for the qualities he’d shared with Owen Davis. If he’d had any idea she was drawn to dangerous boys, maybe he would have made his move back then despite Don’s disapproval. He decided to leave that particular discussion for another day. It wasn’t possible to change the past, anyway.

“So,” he began, forcing a teasing challenge into his voice, “was Owen a good kisser?”

Her expression turned nostalgic. “At the time I thought he was a fantastic kisser,” she admitted.

Matt barely contained a curse at the response. He was being ridiculous. Here he was jealous of a boy Emma had kissed more than a decade ago. Obviously it had never led to anything. He doubted they’d even been in touch in years.

“Have you seen him lately?” he asked anyway.

She stared at him blankly. “Why would I have seen him?”

“You said yourself he was a fantastic kisser.”

“A short-lived opinion. I grew up and discovered that really good kissing involves more than some guy sticking his tongue down your throat,” she said, chuckling. “Owen would not even make my list of top ten kissers today. Probably not even my top hundred.”

Top hundred? What the hell had she been doing up in D.C.? More important, he wondered if he would make the cut. Under other circumstances, he would be tempted to find out. He would be tempted to sweep her into his arms and demonstrate the many nuances of a great kiss. He’d had a lot of years to practice just in case an occasion like this ever arose. He looked up and caught her staring at him curiously.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice vaguely breathless, as if she had a very good idea where his thoughts had wandered.

“You don’t want to know,” he said grimly, deciding to make that coffee after all. If he was going to sit here discussing Emma’s past escapades with the hundred greatest kissers in her life, he was going to need something a whole lot stronger than tea. Liquor was out of the question, given his exhaustion and the fact that he’d have to drive home soon.

“Matt?”

“What?”

“Did I say something to upset you?”

“Of course not. You can say anything you want to me.”

“I always thought I could,” she said, sounding suddenly uncertain.

“You still can,” he insisted, even if listening killed him. He would go through the tortures of hell, if it would distract her for a while from the reality of her father’s death.

“You’re a good guy,” she said.

She said it the way she might say it to an older brother. It grated on Matt’s nerves. He’d worked damn hard to become a good guy, and now he didn’t want to hear it. How ironic was that?

“That’s me, all right.” He poured himself a cup of strong coffee, then sat back down. “Tell me about your life in Washington. You work in an antiques store?”

“Fashionable Memories,” she said at once, her eyes brightening. “It’s a great place.”

As she began to talk, the years fell away and Matt could remember sitting in the backyard by the pool, listening to her spin her dreams for the future. He was pretty sure that back then there had been more talk of Hollywood or piloting a jetliner than selling antiques.

“When did you develop this fondness for old things?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to be an actress or maybe a pilot.”

She laughed. “How on earth did you remember that? I’d almost forgotten. I guess by my senior year in high school I’d figured out I wasn’t cut out for the silver screen, since I never once got chosen for the school play. As for being a pilot, once I understood how much technology was involved, I realized I was more interested in seeing the world than in actually flying a plane.”

“It’s still a big leap from either of those careers to selling antiques,” Matt said.

“While I was in college, I used to wander around Georgetown when I had some free time. There was this great thrift shop next door to a coffee shop I liked. I started poking around in there, looking for things to decorate my dorm room. One day I found a piece of porcelain. Even under all the grime, something about it made me think it might be valuable. I paid a few bucks for it, cleaned it up, then took it up the street to Fashionable Memories. Marcel bought it from me for a hundred dollars, then sold it for twice that. He told me he’d buy any other treasures I stumbled across. Next thing I knew, I was haunting thrift stores and going to flea markets and garage sales all over town. He suggested I start taking some appraisal courses. When I graduated, he offered me a job.”

She grinned at him. “Believe it or not, that’s the short version.”

“And the long version?”

“You don’t want to hear it. I go on and on about the thrill of the hunt, about trying to discover the history behind a particular piece, about feeling connected to the past. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

Matt gazed into her shining eyes and felt that familiar spark of desire, that tug of longing to know everything that went on in her head. She had the kind of enthusiasm that was contagious. “I can’t imagine anything you have to say ever being boring,” he said honestly.

“Then one of these days before I go back to Washington, I’ll take you with me to explore a few thrift shops around this area. I guarantee I’ll have you pleading for mercy by lunchtime,” she promised, barely stifling a yawn.

Matt laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.” He stood up. “I really do need to get out of here and let you get some sleep.” He searched her face. “Think you can now?”

She nodded slowly, looking vaguely surprised. “Actually, yes. Thank you.”

“For what? Making you sleepy?”

She stood up and touched his cheek. “No, for distracting me for a little while.”

“My pleasure. I’ll be back in the morning. If you need anything in the meantime, my home number’s on the back of this card.” He handed it to her, noting the beginnings of a smile tugging on her lips. “What?”

“Matt Atkins, Chief of Police,” she said with a shake of her head. “I guess we really are all grown-up now.”

He shrugged. “So they say.” For the last few hours, he’d felt like a teenager again, awkward and uncertain in the presence of a girl on which he’d had a secret crush forever.

When she reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek, he turned so that her lips brushed his. It was just a fleeting, unexpected caress, but it was enough to send fire shooting through his veins.

When he looked into Emma’s eyes, he saw by her startled reaction that the kiss had done something to her, too. Then her gaze turned shuttered, as if she’d suddenly remembered that her father had just died, and Matt cursed himself for being a jerk. The woman was in mourning and he was sneaking kisses just to prove something to himself.

And what had he proved? That he could coax a reaction from her? That he still felt a powerful pull where Emma Killian was concerned? Or simply that he was about as sensitive as a sledgehammer?

He considered apologizing, then decided that would make way too much of what had been little more than a friendly peck on the lips.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered brusquely instead.

“You, too. You must be exhausted.”

He had been, but then he’d met Emma at the airport and he’d caught a second wind. “I’m used to long hours.”

“But not to finding a friend drowned in the lake, I imagine,” she said quietly, a quaver in her voice as if the haunting image had lodged in her head.

“No, not to that,” he agreed. “Don’t focus on that, Emma. It doesn’t do any good.”

“How can I not?” she asked wistfully. “I’m afraid when I close my eyes that’s what I’ll see. It’s just been words up till now, but I’m afraid if I try to sleep, I’ll see what you saw.”

To be honest, Matt shared the same fear. The scene was indelibly inscribed in his head. Even without having been the one to pull Don from that car, he’d seen him in the murky water, still and lifeless. If it had been horrifying for him, how much worse would it be for Emma? Thank God he’d been the one to discover Don, and not someone in the family who would be haunted by the image forever.

“Come on, then,” he said, making a decision.

Swearing to himself that this was not a totally self-serving act, he led the way into the living room and pulled Emma down on the sofa beside him.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, but she didn’t resist. “Matt, you don’t need to stay. You need to go home and get some sleep.”

“I can pretty much sleep in any position, especially after being up more than twenty-four hours straight,” he said, gently tugging her until her head was resting against his shoulder. “Now, go to sleep. I’ll be right here, if you start to have nightmares.”

“I can’t let you do this,” she protested sleepily, but her eyes were already drifting closed.

Eventually he felt her relax against him, heard her breathing ease. Then, and only then, did he turn off the light and let himself fall asleep.