The Major And The Librarian. Nikki Benjamin
Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….
Hardly a day had passed since then that Emma hadn’t wished she could recall those brutal words. But Sam hadn’t given her a chance. He had stayed for his brother’s funeral, but not in his mother’s house. And after the service, he’d vanished, never—as far as she knew—to return.
Emma couldn’t blame him. Not then, and certainly not now. Even with Margaret’s health in question, she could understand why—torn as he had to be—he might choose to stay away. All that he had to look forward to here was more grief.
Yet again, Emma cursed her impulsiveness. She could have waited, should have waited.
“But you didn’t,” she muttered as she hung the gardening tools on their hooks, then disposed of the trash bag.
Doing her best to shake off the melancholy mood that had settled over her, Emma hurried back to the front yard. She pasted a smile on her face as she joined Margaret on the porch and accepted a tall glass of tea. Then, with a murmur of thanks, she sank into the old wooden rocking chair that matched her friend’s. She took several swallows of the icy drink and sat back contentedly.
“Mmm, wonderful,” she said.
She tossed her straw hat aside, took off her gold wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the little white wicker table, then tried to finger-comb some life into her damp curls. She was in desperate need of a shower, but first she wanted to relax a while and enjoy the gentle breeze wafting across the shady porch.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Emma. The yard looks just lovely. I’m going to be the envy of all my neighbors,” Margaret stated proudly.
“Maybe not all. Mr. Bukowski looks like he’s trying to give us a run for our money.” Emma nodded toward the house across the tree-lined street where an elderly man puttered about, snipping and trimming his already well-tended rosebushes.
“That old coot would sleep with his precious American Beauties if his wife would let him,” Margaret retorted. “We won’t count him.”
“Well, then, I have to agree. Your yard definitely measures up now.”
“Thank you, Emma. I really do appreciate all your hard work.”
“Gardening never seems like work to me. Now scrubbing toilets and mopping floors—that’s my idea of work.” Emma shuddered delicately, then met her friend’s gaze with an impish grin. “I’m so glad we found Mrs. Beal to handle those nasty chores for us.”
“But you have a yard of your own to maintain,” Margaret said, a look of concern shadowing her eyes. “I feel like I’m already taking advantage of you enough as it is.”
“What nonsense.” Emma waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve been paying Mrs. Beal to clean my house, as well as yours, while I’ve been staying here with you. Aside from cooking dinner occasionally and doing a few loads of laundry, I haven’t really contributed that much until today. And, as I keep trying to convince you, I love gardening.”
“You also have the responsibility of a full-time job,” Margaret reminded her gently. “A job you love, too, but lately haven’t been able to give the attention it requires because of my needs.”
“Actually, I’ve found a solution to that,” Emma advised with studied nonchalance. “Marion Cole and I have agreed to try job sharing for the summer. She came in one day last week asking about part-time work, but I don’t have the funds to add anyone to the staff. So I’m going to let her have some of my hours. She’s an experienced librarian, she’s well liked by everyone in town and, with her husband out of work, she needs the money.”
“That’s awfully generous of you, Emma. But…” Margaret shrugged and looked away as she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her skirt.
“It’s only temporary. Marion’s fairly sure her husband will get a job offer from one of the companies he’s interviewed with in Dallas or Houston. And I like the idea of having more free time this summer. We’ll be able to drive down to Galveston for a few days before your next appointment with the doctor in Houston the way you wanted. I know how much you love the beach, and it’s been ages since I’ve been there.”
Trying to ignore the fact that Margaret was dabbing at her eyes, Emma took another long swallow of tea, then rolled the cold, wet glass over her cheek as she looked out across the lawn.
Margaret had never been the type to show her emotions, but lately even the smallest act of kindness seemed to make her weepy. Much as Emma wanted to comfort her, she said nothing. Calling attention to Margaret’s treacherous tears would only embarrass her friend unnecessarily.
Instead, she rocked quietly, allowing Margaret a few moments to gather herself. Without her glasses, everything beyond the porch railing blended pleasantly into a bright blur of colors, sometimes stable, sometimes shifting, depending on the slant of the breeze.
She didn’t realize that the dark blue blob she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye was an automobile moving slowly down the street until it pulled into Margaret’s driveway. Even then, Emma merely squinted at it lazily, sure that the driver, having made a wrong turn, intended only to back out and be on his way. The boxy sedan wasn’t one she recognized as belonging to anyone she knew. And Margaret hadn’t mentioned that she was expecting any visitors.
Unless—
“Well, who on earth could that be?” Margaret asked, her composure restored.
“I have no idea,” Emma murmured, an odd sensation unfurling in the pit of her stomach.
The car’s engine ceased its grumbling, but the driver seemed in no hurry to open the door and step out. Frowning, Emma reached for her glasses as Margaret stood, started toward the porch steps, then paused uncertainly.
“Oh, my…” she breathed, wonder in her voice. “It can’t be—”
Adjusting her glasses, Emma rose from her chair, too. She knew what Margaret only suspected. Knew with terrifying certainty who sat behind the wheel of the dark blue sedan. And she wished—oh, how she wished—she could simply slip away. Her friend wouldn’t understand, though. So she lingered in the shadows as the car door finally opened, and a breathless moment later, her heart slammed against her rib cage.
A tall, handsome man, neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white knit shirt, his short blond hair glistening in the sun, his eyes shielded by aviator sunglasses, stepped out of the car, closed the door quietly and started across the lawn.
“Sam…?” Margaret said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she added joyfully as she moved down the porch steps and opened her arms to him, “Oh, Sam, you’re home. You’re home, son….”
Emma watched as he hesitated a moment, removing his sunglasses uncertainly. His surprise at how Margaret had aged in the months since he’d seen her last was evident, but only for an instant. Flashing the cocky grin Emma remembered all too well, he strode toward his mother, his long legs eating up the distance between them, and swept her into his embrace. As he hugged her close, however, his smile faded, revealing the true depth of his distress.
“Hey, don’t cry,” he chided softly. “I’ll think you’re not happy to see me.”
“I am happy to see you, Sam Griffin, and you know it,” she retorted. Smiling through her tears as she looked up at him, she put her hand against his cheek. “Happier than you’ll ever know.”
Still standing alone on the porch, Emma wished, once again, that she could slip away without being noticed. She felt uncomfortable intruding on Margaret and Sam’s reunion. After being apart for almost a year, they deserved to have some private time together.
More disconcerting, however, was that Emma also felt afraid. Not only afraid of what Sam might say or do when he finally spied her lurking in the shadows, but also of what she might say or do. He wouldn’t be happy to see her there. That she knew for sure. But would he show his displeasure in Margaret’s presence?
She