In Your Dreams. Kristan Higgins
“Hi, Jack,” she said again. He jerked, then looked at her.
“Hey, Emmaline,” he said, forcing a smile.
“How you doing?”
“Great.”
He was so not great that her heart ached, looking at him stalled there, dead in the water.
Poor choice of words.
But he was clearly not great.
“You going in?” he asked, aware perhaps that too long a pause had elapsed.
“No. I’m headed home. I just got a puppy. Sarge. He’s a German shepherd. Very cute. Hopefully he hasn’t pooped on the floor.”
Oh, yeah, the babbling thing. See, in addition to all the above, Jack Holland was ridiculously gorgeous. As in, Hi, I’ve just dropped down from Mount Olympus. How you doin’? Tall and blond with eyes that were so clear and perfect and pure that they made a person think of all sorts of ridiculous synonyms for blue—azure and cerulean and aqua. His smile stopped traffic and made trees burst into flower and all that crap.
So yes, he rendered women stupid. Even women who were slightly prejudiced against very, very good-looking men. But everyone, including Emmaline, also knew that Jack was a tremendously nice guy.
“Jack? You okay?”
“Yeah!” he said too quickly. “Sorry. Just a little tired. You take care, Emma.”
No one called her that. More than likely, Jack Holland had just forgotten her name. He opened the door to the pub. There was a roar of “Jack!” and “Hey! The hero!” and general cheering. The iron bell behind the bar clanged; the O’Rourke twins rang it in times of celebration.
Poor guy.
Emmaline knew that the good folks of Manningsport—and America—had been quite dazzled with what Jack Holland had done. So had she. How many people could have done what he did, after all? It was dazzling.
Which didn’t explain the look on Jack’s face.
Well. He had a big family and a lot of friends. Everyone loved the Hollands. He’d be well taken care of.
With a deep breath of the frigid air, Emmaline went around the corner to her house, a little bungalow. She’d left a couple of lights on for the puppy, and her little house fairly glowed with welcome.
Emmaline wasn’t a Manningsport native, but she’d gone to high school here, living with her grandmother in this very house. Nana had died four years ago and left the house to Em and her sister, Angela, who lived in California. But to Em, the bungalow meant more than just home—it was where she’d found refuge and normalcy back in the day...and again when she’d moved here three years ago. She’d kept a lot of Nana’s furniture, bought some of her own, painted here and there, and the result was a pleasing mix of old and new, no real style per se, but comfortable and cheery, and it never failed to make her smile.
She scooped her mail from the little brass mailbox, unlocked the door and got down on all fours. “Mommy’s home,” she said.
The scrabbling of paws and yips of joy were happy music of the soul.
Sarge ran to her, Squeaky Chicken, his favorite toy, in his jaws as an offering.
Emmaline gathered the puppy into her arms and kissed his furry head. “Hello, puppy,” she said. She resisted the strong urge to indulge in baby talk to the dog to preserve his dignity and her own, but she couldn’t help laughing as he licked her face, wriggling like a little otter.
She stood up, did a few twirls, since he loved that, then encouraged him to go outside before he peed on the floor from excitement. He galloped out, chasing a leaf across the small, fenced-in backyard.
Em flipped through her mail. A flyer for a discount on heart-shaped cookies and cupcakes at Lorelei’s Sunrise Bakery—Valentine’s Day preorders now accepted. No need to save that, unless she wanted to buy herself some goodies (which she did, though her uniform pants seemed a little hostile these days). A bill from the cable company. A postcard from her sister. Saluti da Milano! Right. Flawless Angela had been in Italy at, yes, an astrophysicists’ convention.
Em flipped the card over. “Hello, sis! Hope you’re doing well. I haven’t been able to see much of Milan yet, but I hope to squeeze a few days of holiday after the convention. Hope to catch up soon! Love and kisses, Angela.”
That was nice. Her sister, younger by four years, was incredibly thoughtful. She was Daughter 2.0, adopted from Ethiopia when Em went away to high school. The kind of daughter Dr. and Dr. Neal hoped to have, though they never said anything like that. Angela was brilliant, kind, cheerful and also stunningly beautiful with her glowing brown skin and enormous, expressive eyes. She’d modeled in college, even. If Emmaline didn’t love her so much, it’d be really easy to hate her.
Sarge came back in through his doggy door, a clot of snow right on his nose. Ridiculously cute. She gave him his supper, then poured herself a Blue Point Toasted Lager. Yeah, yeah, the Finger Lakes were known for their vineyards, but there were plenty of great microbreweries, too.
Oops. There was one more piece of mail on the kitchen floor. She leaped for it, snatching it up just before Sarge pounced. He loved paper.
It was a wedding invitation, from the look of it. Thick ivory envelope, red calligraphy, a flower stamp.
It was postmarked “Malibu, CA,” her hometown.
Her knees gave a warning tingle.
She sat down at the little enamel-topped kitchen table. Opened the envelope to find another envelope inside. “Miss Emmaline Neal & Guest,” it said. She opened that, as well.
“Together with their parents, Naomi Norman and Kevin Bates joyfully request the honor of your company at their marriage ceremony.”
Sarge put his paws against her knee, and she scooped him onto her lap. “So,” she said to her dog, her mouth dry. “Looks like my fiancé is getting married.”
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Jack Holland drove from the hospital in Corning back to Blue Heron, the vineyard owned and run by his family. The radio was tuned to a talk show, though what the topic was, Jack didn’t quite know. Still, the voices were comforting.
It occurred to him that he was probably alone too much these days. That a battered cat was insufficient company. That he should be with people. But last night at O’Rourke’s had been a circle of hell, all those people clapping him on the back and offering to buy him beers. Asking how he was doing. How Josh was doing. Thanking him. Telling him he was one brave son of a bitch and the town wouldn’t stop talking about this for years, which made Jack’s hands sweaty.
Still, he’d smiled and thanked people for whatever it was they were saying, because he knew in one corner of his mind that they were saying nice things, or what they thought were nice things, and he knew that the longer he stayed away from regular things, the harder it would be. He was fine. It was all fine. It was okay.
He’d stayed as long as he could take it. Colleen O’Rourke, who was like yet another sister in addition to the three Jack already had, gave him a hug, and so far as he could tell, he’d returned it. But once he’d gotten home, he just sat on the couch, Lazarus next to him, not touching but still there.
So being with his family, doing normal things, that was a good thing. He loved his family. They weren’t a circle of hell. Well, not completely.
He put on his turn signal even though he was alone on the country road. Ever the cautious driver.
If only he could see Josh. Go when the parents weren’t around. Just to see him.
Shit. He might have to pull over.
Once,