Emma's Secret Page 17

  Megan bent down and gathered Emma in her arms. She wanted to cry when Emma rested her head against her shoulder but kept her eyes closed. She should have kept a better eye on her youngest daughter.

  “You just don’t trust me,” Hannah whispered before she walked away.

  Megan heard her, but instead of turning and calling out to her eldest daughter like she should have, she pretended she didn’t hear. It was hard, but she needed to concentrate on Emma at the moment. When she tucked Hannah in tonight, she’d talk to her about the whole trust issue.

  Hannah wasn’t the one she didn’t trust. It was herself.

  Jack looked at his house, at the white porch and dirty windows. He needed it to become his home again. Jack stood and straightened his back. With Emmie back in his life, he had a whole new reason for living.

  He wasn’t going to give her up again. Not this time.

  The old house creaked around Jack as he puttered around, picking up piles of things he’d long forgotten about. He’d let the housework lapse, and if he had to look deep, he knew he was reacting to all the changes in his life instead of acting.

  The loneliness was starting to get to him. Talking with Dottie today reminded him of that. And if he didn’t smarten up, he’d soon regret it. He had a lot to live for, even if his old heart didn’t want to accept that. He didn’t care what the doctor said at his last appointment. He’d live to be one hundred if he had his way. What did his doctors know? Nothing. Not the important stuff, anyway.

  He tapped his heart twice with the palm of his hand. “You’re living for Emmie now, you hear?”

  That was all that mattered anymore. Just his little girl.

  He stood at the base of the stairs from the kitchen and looked up. Maybe he could pack up some of her favorite books she’d left behind, or maybe one of the stuffed animals, and make sure he had them with him the next time he saw her. She might like that. Jack heaved his body up the stairs, his grip on the handrail firm.

  There were a few old suitcases high on a shelf in his closet. He could always use one of those to put Emmie’s things in. He should probably also use a few of them for Dottie’s things. He was running out of boxes, and he didn’t need the extra luggage anymore.

  When he stepped into his room, the amount of clutter hit him. He’d been hesitant to get rid of anything, especially when it reminded him of Dottie. Memories attached to everything in their room. The sagging bed they’d shared for so many years sat in the middle of the room between the two windows. On either side were small tables he’d built years ago. The worn paint and dents were marks of love, Dottie always said. Then they both had their own dressers on opposite walls, and one main closet. Dottie’s dresser was full of rarely used perfume bottles, a candle, a comb, and a pen, while his held only a shaving kit and a couple of receipts. Dottie loved her walk-in closet, even though only one person could stand in there at a time. Beside the closet was a small bookshelf, another project he’d labored over in his shed one year as a birthday gift for his sweetheart. Dottie’s favorite books and most of her journals were all lined up there.

  Little by little, he’d start to pack up Dottie’s things. He knew she’d want him to donate her clothes, but some things he couldn’t bear to part with. Her journals were one of those. Her clothes were another.

  Like the soft cream-colored cardigan he’d bought her one year for Christmas. He picked it up from where it lay across Dottie’s pillow and caressed it with his fingers. Some nights he just needed to not feel so alone.

  Standing in their closet, Jack looked over the items Dottie had stacked on the floor. Bags full of wool, shoe boxes, and her fancy shoes she liked to wear to church. The top shelf was jam-packed with purses. Jack’s eyes widened as he counted how many there were.

  He caught sight of a soft pink color in among the mixture of black and brown purses. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember Dottie ever having a pink purse. He grabbed a handful of the purses by their handles and dropped them on the floor by his feet. Just one more mess he’d need to clean up.

  With enough cleared away, Jack could see that it wasn’t a pink purse hidden away, but instead something like a blanket sticking out of a shoe box with a lid only half closed.

  He reached up, his arm swiping another couple of purses off the shelf, and grabbed hold of the material. Why that woman shoved it so far back he had no idea. With the edge of the blanket between his fingertips, Jack tugged, expecting it to come easily, and was a bit surprised to meet with resistance. He pulled harder until the box edged forward enough that he could grab it with both hands.

  “What did this woman think she was doing? Filling a box with—” Jack stopped when he pulled off the lid and saw a note pinned to the blanket.

  He rubbed his eyes, sure that he’d read the note wrong.

  Dear Mary,

  This blanket is for my granddaughter. One day I hope you’ll let me see her.

  Love,

  Mom

  Megan arched her back and groaned as she wiped a cool cloth over Emma’s head once again. Peter rested his hand against her shoulder blades and pressed hard. He’d just returned with a clean bowl for Emma’s vomiting. For the past hour, she had been throwing up, and they were now at the point where even the little bit of water Megan managed to get her to sip wouldn’t stay down.

  Her poor little girl probably had heat exhaustion, and it bothered Megan that there was nothing she could do. She’d given Emma a cool bath, had her drinking fluids, and knew she just needed to sleep. But if the vomiting kept up, they’d have to go into the emergency room.

  “She’s going to be okay,” Peter whispered beside her.

  Megan reached her hand up and laid it over his. “I know. I just…feel helpless.”

  Emma whimpered, and Megan’s first response was to reach for the bowl at her feet.

  “I want Papa,” Emma groaned as she grew restless beneath the covers. Megan pulled the cover down and freed Emma’s hands.

  “Shhh, it’s going to be okay, honey. Just try to go to sleep, okay?” Megan whispered as she stroked Emma’s hair.

  Since coming home, this was the first real time Emma had been sick. While it broke her heart knowing that if she’d only paid a little bit more attention, Emma would be okay, there was no place Megan would rather be than right here, stroking her daughter’s hair.

  “I want Papa, please?” Emma’s weakened voice begged.

  That hurt, knowing her daughter wanted someone else at a time when all she should want was her mommy. Anger burned in her heart once again toward the one man who’d stolen so much from her.

  “Daddy?” Emma opened her eyes.

  Peter sat down on the bed behind Megan and reached for Emma’s free hand.

  “I’m here, Em. I’m here. Just go to sleep, okay, baby?” Peter’s voice broke.

  Megan leaned back into him and relaxed. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t know what she’d do if Peter had actually left, before they found Emma.

  “Can we go see him, please? Tomorrow? Please, Daddy?” Emma’s voice grew stronger as she continued to beg Peter for something they both knew couldn’t happen.

  “Shhh, just go to sleep, Em. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” Peter released her hand and was about to stand up, but Emma reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “Promise, Daddy. Promise we’ll go on our date with Papa tomorrow. Promise.” Megan sat back, alarmed at her daughter’s persistence. Peter glanced at Megan before looking around the room. He started to pace across the floor, his nervousness apparent, as if he were unsure how to respond.

  Megan waited for Peter to correct Emma, but he didn’t. The tension in the room became unbearable.

  “As long as you’re feeling better, honey, of course you can go on your date with Daddy.”

  The smile on Emma’s face grew and her body relaxed at Megan’s words. Megan didn’t miss the quiet gasp from Peter, however, before he left the room.

  “Peter,” she called out. He halted at
the top of the stairs, just outside of Emma’s room, his back rigid as one hand rested on the railing. “Peter,” she called again, wanting him to turn and look at her. Except he didn’t. He disappeared from view.

  Megan’s lap grew damp as the dropped wet cloth soaked into her shorts. She picked it up and leaned across Emma’s body. As she gently stroked her daughter’s forehead with the cloth, she waited to see whether Emma would open her eyes again. She wanted to ask her about the dates she’d gone on with Peter. Neither one had ever given any details about those times, and she’d never thought to ask how they went. Maybe she should have.

  But Emma’s eyes remained closed and her breathing evened out. She was finally asleep. As if the promise Megan had made were all Emma needed.

  She should be thankful Emma was sleeping. So why was her stomach in knots? Why did she suddenly get the feeling that something was going on behind her back, something that was about to change her life in a way she wouldn’t like?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The creak of the porch swing joined the chorus of sounds cascading around Jack as he applied a little bit of pressure to the pad of his foot to keep the momentum of the swing going.

  Nothing better than relaxing on his front porch during a warm summer day. All he needed was a sweating glass of iced tea at his side and life would be perfect. Well, almost perfect. Jack avoided glancing down at the box beside him.

  He’d spent the last few hours tending his front yard, anything to keep him busy. The grass was all cut, the bushes trimmed, and his flower beds were looking better than ever. Dottie’s little tree in the middle of the yard was flourishing despite the heat. All was right with his world. Finally.

  With his head leaned back and his eyes closed, Jack reached for the handkerchief he’d laid on the cushion beside him and wiped the sweat from his forehead. A low buzz off to his right had him peeking his eyes open, and he caught sight of the fattest bumblebee he’d ever seen hovering over the box he’d brought outside but tried to forget.

  “Shoo, now. There’s nothing there for you.” Jack waved his hand at the bee.

  He eyed that box with misgiving. Pandora’s box, thanks to Dottie herself. If he opened it, his world was about to be altered in a way he wasn’t sure he was ready for. He had half a mind to bury the box back in Dottie’s closet and worry about it another day. Except he wouldn’t do that. He’d never run from a battle in his life, and he wasn’t about to now.

  “Oh, Dottie-mine, what have you done?”

  Jack shifted in the seat until he was upright before lifting the box onto his lap. He noticed that his hands shook as he lifted the lid, and he swore. There was nothing in here he couldn’t face. Nothing in here that would kill him. Maim him, yes, but kill him? No. Not now.

  He pulled out the blanket that haunted his nightmares. He avoided the note, folding the blanket into quarters until the note was hidden. It was possible Dottie had made this blanket for a future grandchild she prayed Mary would have. Possible. Not likely, though. He knew Dottie better than that. There was nothing extra special about this wool. In fact, he’d boxed up more than a dozen baby hats and socks his wife had knitted in the same color.

  There wasn’t much in the box after the blanket was taken out—an opened letter and a soft pink journal. Jack pulled both out and set them on his lap. He opened the journal first and tried to think whether he’d ever seen Dottie write in this one before. It wasn’t until he opened it and leafed through the empty pages that he realized he’d never seen it. There was writing on the first page and that was it.

  To my granddaughter,

  Yes, I know you’re not even born yet and that you may turn out to be a boy, but I don’t think that will happen. Daughters have always been the firstborn in our family, and there’s no reason why your mother’s child would be any different.

  This journal is for you, from me. I’m older than I’d like to admit, and I know that I might not always be around to share stories or tidbits of wisdom with you. One day, maybe when you’re older, your mother will give you this journal and can explain to you why this is my keepsake for you. I hope your mother will read it first and realize just how much I love her.

  You’ll be born into a world that is very different from the one I was born into, but we women have to stick together.

  The moment your mother told me she was going to have a baby, I knew you were a gift from God. A second chance for this old woman to maybe do things a little bit differently. Maybe even this time to do it the right way.

  Always listen to your mother, little one. While you might not always understand or agree with her decisions, trust me: She loves you more than life itself. That is the one gift all mothers can pass along—love.

  Love forever,

  Your grandmother

  Jack’s eyes smarted as he laid the book back down in his lap. So there had been a grandchild. Dottie hadn’t been mistaken. A small seed of hope sprouted in Jack’s heart. Was it possible that Emmie was really his granddaughter after all?

  He picked up the letter, noticing the sender. Mary. Offhand, he could recall only three letters coming from his daughter after she ran away, and they were all addressed to him.

  He pulled the letter out and a vise squeezed around his heart. He missed his daughter more than he thought possible. In the past, there had always been a hope that she’d come home, that they could mend whatever broke them apart as a family. He’d thought the silence for the past two years had been due to her stubbornness. Never once had he thought she’d been dead. Never once. Knowing for sure that she was dead, that he’d never see her again, never hear her voice…there was a finality about it that he couldn’t process. He should have been able to mourn her properly, with Dottie. Instead, he had to mourn both wife and daughter at the same time, and it wasn’t something he could handle. Not properly, anyway. It was no wonder his heart wasn’t doing very well. The grief, the sadness, they ate away at him day and night. The only bright spot in his day now was Emmie.

  His vision blurred as he read over the letter from Mary to Dottie. He wanted to stop, to not let the words sink in, but he couldn’t. How could Dottie not tell him this? How could Mary keep this a secret from him? How could he not have known? Surely, there would have been signs? Clues? He checked the date and struggled to remember whether he’d visited Mary around that time. But he couldn’t remember. How could he not remember?

  Dear Mom,

  I’m sorry. I know you see this blanket, and I can only imagine the thoughts going through your head.

  There’s only one way to say this. You were the one who taught me to “make it plain.” I gave birth to a beautiful little baby girl, but she came too early. Preterm is what they said. What they didn’t say was that it’s all my fault.

  Can you keep this blanket and put it away for me? One day I’ll need it, even if it’s just to remember her by.

  I named her Emily.

  Before you say it, I know this was my fault. I tried. I really tried. But I’m not strong, not like you are. I didn’t think the drugs would do this. Or maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t want her enough to stop using them. I don’t know. What I do know is that I gave in and she paid the price.

  She was tiny. The nurses let me hold her. She would have fit in Dad’s hand. She had all her fingers and toes and a tiny little nose. She was perfect. And for once, I understood a little bit of what you told me, about that love. It’s been a while since I’ve said it, but I love you, Mom.

  Please don’t be disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in myself as it is. And please, please don’t tell Dad. I know you promised not to tell him about my being pregnant until I was ready. I don’t ever want him to know now.

  Mary

  Jack read and reread the letter from his daughter to his wife. He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to break again, but he’d been wrong.

  A line had formed outside Brewster’s Bakery that snaked around the corner. It was like this every week. Everyone wanted to take h
ome Jan’s homemade cinnamon buns, and she made extra batches once a week. But once she sold out, that was it. There were always two lineups on days like this. One to order cinnamon buns only, and one for dine-in. Megan chose the dine-in line and almost stopped cold when the smell radiating from the open door hit her. She breathed in the sweet aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon buns as she made her way into the store.

  “Well, hey there, sugar,” Jan called out as Megan wove her way around the crowded tables and wedged herself in until she found the last empty barstool in the far corner. She reached for the freshly poured coffee Jan set down in front of her, buried her nose inside the cup, and breathed in deep.

  “What is this?”

  A large smile bloomed across Jan’s face.

  “Caramel pecan pie. A new shipment came in with an assortment of flavored coffees. It’s my little piece of heaven.”

  Megan glanced over her shoulder. “I think their little piece of heaven is your cinnamon buns.” She shook her head at the long line.

  “How was the party yesterday?”

  “Best day of Alexis’s life, or so she says. Emma got heatstroke, though; she’s home right now with Peter.” Megan knew worry lines creased her forehead. It was Peter’s idea that she go out for coffee this morning. She’d stayed by Emma’s side half the night. When she left her, the fever had broken and her daughter had been sleeping just fine. She glanced back at the line. “Have you thought about selling those buns in grocery stores?”

  Jan shrugged. “No. But I was thinking of opening up another store in Hanton in the fall.”

  Megan’s eyes widened as she sputtered the coffee she’d just sipped. She’d been bugging Jan for years to open another shop.

  “Thought maybe you could help me?”

  Megan thought about that for a moment before she shook her head. “I’m not sure I could handle driving to Hanton every day.” It was too far away from the girls.