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Sam had been asking himself the same question as he eyed his own watch surreptitiously, and he already had a pretty good idea of what the answer could be. He’d seen how steadfastly Emma had avoided his gaze despite her courteous manner. As if she could barely stand the sight of him. Why, then, would she go out of her way to seek out his company?
He couldn’t say as much to his mother, though. She would pretend not to understand. Just as she’d already pretended not to understand why he had expressed concern about her well-being. He couldn’t come right out and tell her Emma hated his guts any more than he could come right out and tell her how shocked he was by her frailty.
She had aged to a frightening degree since he’d seen her last. But when he’d asked outright if she had been ill, she hadn’t said anything specific about having been diagnosed with leukemia.
Instead, she had hedged, admitting only that she had been a bit under the weather the past few weeks, thus finding it necessary to ask Emma to stay with her. Then she’d also insisted—rather hurriedly—that she was feeling much better, especially now that he had finally returned to Serenity.
“It was time you came back,” she had said. “But why now?”
“Because it was time,” he’d replied, hedging in his own way.
He couldn’t admit that Emma’s letter had been the real catalyst without also revealing why she had written to him. And what would that do for his mother other than spoil the thrill of his homecoming for her?
There would be more than enough time in the days ahead to confront her about the true nature of her illness.
“Maybe I ought to check on her,” Margaret continued. “Or, better yet, you could do that while I get started on the salad.” She nodded purposefully. “Yes, that’s a better idea. You can get your bags out of the car, take them up to your room, then make sure Emma didn’t slip in the bathtub and bump her head.”
Oh, now that was something he really wanted to do—intrude on Emma Dalton while she was taking care of her personal needs.
“She’s probably just drying her hair,” Sam said, the heat of a blush warming his face.
“Probably. But it would set my mind at ease to know that nothing’s happened to her. Of course, if you’re going to be shy about it, I can climb the stairs myself.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he muttered, smiling ruefully as he glimpsed the merry twinkle in her faded blue eyes. “As you pointed out, I have to take my stuff up anyway. I might as well check on her while I’m there.”
Margaret Griffin had always been much too good at getting her own way, and obviously, she still was. Though what she hoped to accomplish by sending him chasing after Emma he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Or perhaps, more accurately, he could, but chose not to.
“Thank you, son.” She smiled brightly as she retrieved the tray from the wicker table.
“You’re welcome,” Sam replied.
He held the screen door for her, then walked slowly down the porch steps and crossed the lawn to the car he had rented at the airport in San Antonio.
Had he honestly believed Emma had been delayed because of some mishap, he would have been more inclined to hurry. But likely as not, she had simply bypassed the front porch, going on to the kitchen instead.
No doubt Margaret would find her there, and the two of them would finish putting together the meal he’d been promised, leaving him to try to make himself at home in the one place he no longer felt he belonged.
The drive from San Antonio had been pleasant enough, but then he’d been away so long that the city itself, as well as the sprawling countryside on the outskirts, had seemed only vaguely familiar. As he’d entered Serenity, however, he had been bombarded by memories. Surprisingly, not all of them had been bad. And those that were… Well, they were also distant enough to have lost their edge.
Still, he had driven more slowly, prolonging the moment when he would have no choice but to pull into the driveway of the aging, two-story Victorian house on Holly Street.
Sam had told himself he was simply reacquainting himself with his hometown, taking in the various changes that had occurred during his four-year absence—the refurbishing of many older homes and the building of new ones, as well as the revitalizing addition of shops and restaurants to the downtown area.
Yet he had known what he’d really been doing. In a roundabout way, he had been putting off what he had long believed would be the ultimate test of his fortitude.
Eventually, he was going to have to walk inside his mother’s house, climb the steps to the second floor and face, once and for all, the emptiness—made even more awful by its permanence—of his brother’s bedroom.
As Sam had drawn closer and closer, he had found himself wondering how his mother had faced the void Teddy’s death had left day after day, year after year. And then, in a sudden flash of realization, he had mentally cursed himself for allowing her to do so all alone.
He had been so damned intent on distancing himself from his pain that, for the most part, he had blocked out all thought of hers.
Some son he had been, he’d thought as he finally turned into his mother’s driveway.
And yet, she had never held his disregard against him. Not once in the four years he had stayed away. She had waited patiently for him to come to his senses—something he hadn’t really done on his own, but rather, thanks to Emma’s none too gentle nudging.
Hell, in her own subtle way, Margaret Griffin had even given him time to adjust to actually being home again before suggesting, at last, that they ought to go inside.
“So stop dragging your feet,” Sam growled, grabbing his bags, then slamming the trunk lid and turning back to the house.
The place looked exactly the same as he remembered, at least on the outside. It also seemed to have held up fairly well. His mother had had the white clapboard and the dark red gingerbread trim painted within the past couple of years, and the yard appeared to be well tended—thanks to Emma, his mother had said.
He imagined little had changed on the inside, either. Which, while understandable, wasn’t wholly heartening. Growing up there hadn’t been a totally disagreeable experience. He and Teddy hadn’t suffered for lack of love and affection from their parents or each other.
But Sam had suffered his most tragic losses while living within those four walls. And now the possibility of another equally life-shattering loss had brought him back again. Was it any wonder he had to force himself to mount the porch steps, open the screen door and enter the shadowed hallway?
“I’ve switched on the air-conditioning, so shut the front door, will you, please?” his mother requested from the door to the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, displaying the manners she had worked so hard to drill into him.
“Oh, go on.” She waved a hand at him dismissively. “Don’t be so fresh.”
“I’m not,” he protested, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.
“You are,” she retorted, a smile of her own belying her grumpy tone.
“All right, I am,” he conceded as he started up the staircase.
“Don’t forget to check on Emma.”
“She hasn’t come down yet?”
Sam paused a moment, his brow furrowing. He didn’t think Emma had come to any harm, and he doubted his mother did, either. She seemed much too placid for that. But then, what had she been doing up there for almost an hour? While she might have needed a little time to reconcile herself to his arrival, to his knowledge she had never been the type to hide from anyone, including him.
“Not yet, and she must know dinner’s almost ready. See if you can hurry her along,” Margaret instructed. “And don’t dawdle yourself.”
“I won’t,” Sam promised as he continued up the stairs.
From the little he had seen of the first floor, he had been right to assume most everything in the house had stayed the same. The sofa and chairs in the formal living room and dining room had been reupholstered, and the heavy velvet draperies on the windows had been replaced by curtains in a lighter, lacier fabric. Otherwise, the pieces of dark wood furniture stood in their respective places as stolidly as ever.
Yet Sam hadn’t felt quite as uncomfortable as he had feared he would. Instead, he’d experienced a surprisingly strong sense of warmth and welcoming.
Probably due to the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of the kitchen, he told himself. But no matter. He was grateful for anything that eased his homecoming.
He paused again on the second-floor landing, his gaze drawn first to the hall bathroom straight ahead of him. Thankfully, the door was open and the light was off, indicating that Emma had finished in there. He didn’t have to worry about finding her lying in a naked heap.
From the bathroom, his gaze swept farther down the hallway, taking in the closed doors of his and Teddy’s bedrooms. With relief, Sam realized he wouldn’t have to look inside his brother’s room unless he chose—
A muffled thump brought his attention to the bedrooms on his left. The one with the door wide open was his mother’s. The other, with the door partially closed, was the guest room where Emma must be staying.
Another thump, followed by a screech that sounded like a drawer opening, then an unintelligible mutter of words, almost made him smile. What on earth was she doing in there? Surely not rearranging things.
Drawn by his curiosity, Sam acted without really thinking. He dropped his bags on the floor, walked over to the guest room and nudged the door open a few inches.
The slight movement caught Emma’s eye, and she looked up, obviously startled. Her gaze met his for an instant, then skittered away as she clutched what appeared to be a white sleeveless nightgown to her chest. From the expression on her face, Sam wasn’t sure whether she was more angry or embarrassed by his intrusion.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Shifting uncomfortably, he bumped against the door by accident, opening it even more. “I heard…noises in here and thought…” He hesitated uncertainly. “Actually, I’m not sure what I thought,” he admitted.
Unable to stop staring, he noted that she’d cleaned up quite nicely. Her glorious red hair curled about her face in artful disarray, making her look incredibly young and innocent. But the pale yellow sundress she wore emphasized her femininity in a way that left no doubt she was all grown up.
“That’s all right,” she murmured, glancing at him, then away again.
As she lowered her gaze, Sam spied the open suitcase on her bed, and frowned.
“What are you doing?” he asked, though the neatly folded clothing already packed inside the bag made his question rather redundant.
“Now that you’re here…” She paused, then tipped up her chin, her gaze finally meeting his head-on as she continued, “I thought maybe I ought to go back to my house.”
So she had chosen to cut and run after all. Sam knew he should consider that a lucky break. If she went home, he wouldn’t have to deal with her dislike on a full-time basis as he had been dreading he would. But oddly enough, what he felt was disappointment—deep disappointment.
While Emma hadn’t greeted his arrival with any great joy, she hadn’t gone out of her way to show any animosity toward him, either. Obviously he made her uncomfortable. Hell, she made him uncomfortable. But that didn’t mean there was no hope for them.
Hope for what, he wasn’t quite sure. Reconciliation, perhaps? He wasn’t sure about Emma, but he wanted that, he realized. Wanted it and needed it. Only he couldn’t come right out and say as much. At least not yet.
“Going back to your house?” He eyed her questioningly, trying to buy the time he needed to come up with a good reason for her to stay put. “Why?”
“Because you’re here now,” she repeated in a slightly exasperated tone.
“What difference does that make?” he asked, intentionally acting obtuse.
“With you around, Margaret’s not going to need me anymore.”
“I don’t know about that,” Sam countered, finally hitting upon a fairly good excuse for her to stay. “From what she said after you left us, she loves having you here. But she’s afraid she’s been taking advantage of you. If you rush off, she’s going to think she was right, and she’s going to be really upset.”
“I’ve tried to tell her that wasn’t so,” Emma insisted, her brow furrowing.
“For her sake, I wish you’d stick around. And for mine,” he admitted honestly.
“Yours?” She eyed him uncertainly, her confusion evident.
“My mother hasn’t said anything about the leukemia yet. When I casually asked about her health, she mentioned—just as casually—that she’d been ill, but not how seriously. I didn’t want to press her my first day home, so I didn’t say anything about your letter. I know we’re going to have to talk about it eventually, and we will. But until then…” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m afraid she won’t ask for my help if she has a bad spell. And if I’m the only one here…” Again he allowed his words to trail away before adding, “At least she would have you to turn to if you stayed a while longer.”
“How long are you planning to be here?” Emma asked, her frown deepening.
“A minimum of four weeks, longer if necessary.”
“She has an appointment a week from Monday with her doctor in Houston. Since she won’t be able to keep that a secret, I suppose I could wait until then to go home,” she conceded, albeit reluctantly.
“I’d really appreciate it,” Sam said.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset Margaret.”
With a look of resignation on her face, Emma tossed the nightgown on the bed, gathered an armful of clothes from the suitcase and turned back to the open dresser drawer.
Feeling as if he’d been summarily dismissed, Sam said nothing more as he backed out of her bedroom doorway and collected his bags.
“What’s going on up there, you two?” Margaret called from the foot of the staircase. “Dinner’s been ready for almost twenty minutes now.”
“We’ll be right down,” Sam assured her.
“You said that once already.”
“This time I mean it.”
“What about Emma?”
“I’m on my way now,” she replied.
Stepping out of her bedroom, she paused to exchange a wary glance with him, then started down the steps.
Sam eyed her thoughtfully a moment longer, then crossed to his bedroom, opened the door and dumped his things on the floor. He noted that his mother had changed the bed linens and curtains since his last visit home. But much to his dismay, the room still had the look of a shrine about it—a shrine to his boyhood. Fortunately, that could be remedied in the time it would take him to pack everything away in a couple of cardboard boxes.
By the time he reached the kitchen, Margaret was ready to serve. Since they were all hungry—or at least seemed to be if the way they filled their plates and set to eating was any indication—they managed to get through most of the meal without having to exchange more than the minimum of polite conversation.
Sam relished every bite of his mother’s old-fashioned home cooking, helping himself to another serving of both the salad and the casserole. Emma ate heartily, as well, though she declined seconds. And though Margaret’s appetite seemed somewhat diminished, she, too, finished everything on her plate.
“Sure you’ve had enough?” she asked when he finally sat back and pushed his empty plate away.
“More than enough,” he replied, smiling gratefully.
“I hope you saved room for a slice of fresh peach pie.” As his mother stood, she picked up his plate. “Emma baked it yesterday—homemade from scratch.”
“There’s vanilla ice cream, too,” Emma added, helping Margaret clear the table.
“Sounds tempting, but I really stuffed myself with the King Ranch chicken.”
“Then I’ll make it a small slice,” Margaret said.
“All right, but no ice cream…please.”
“Coffee?” Emma appeared at his side, holding out a steaming mug. “It’s decaf.”
“Thanks.”
Sam took the mug from her, but she turned away before he had the chance to add a smile.
“You know, I’ve been thinking…” Margaret began as she returned to the table with his pie.
“About what?” Sam asked, eyeing with chagrin the slice she had cut for him.
