Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 2

  We were a little crowd who had stopped on the sidewalk to watch this minor road accident, and to my amazement, people parted to make way for this child, this frightened little dark-haired girl, running away from her fear. I shouted something and pushed the people in front of me out of my way, jutting my arm out just as she came level with me, and stopped her in her tracks, my hand on her chest.

  “Hey,” I said gently, crouching down. Her face was inches from mine, and she was still screaming, her eyes, big and desperate, boring straight into mine.

  “It’s okay, you’re okay, honey. It’s over now,” I said to her again and again, bringing her into my arms, quickly doing a visual check up and down her body to make sure that she was indeed fine, until from somewhere above us a pair of hands descended and picked her up. I looked up and watched as her mother took her away. From me.

  Afterward, Jim told me he was so impressed, but I was baffled, upset that none of the adults watching had tried to stop her; she could have run into traffic or gotten lost. “She was in shock, poor little thing,” I said to him. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

  He squeezed my shoulders with one arm as we resumed walking. “Brave, fearless Emma,” he said, to no one in particular, “throwing herself into the throng of people.”

  “Stop it!” I punched him in the shoulder.

  “Willing to risk everything to save one poor child—”

  “Cut it out!” I laughed.

  “—from danger that only she, Super-Emma, could prevent.”

  “Okay, that’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

  He turned his handsome, smiling face to me and kissed the side of my head. “Maybe you’re starting to feel a little motherly yourself ?”

  Motherly? What did that even mean? That I was thinking of having children? Of course I was—we were. We talked about it occasionally. And maybe that’s what it was, because I kept thinking about this child, the way she was looking at me with despair in her eyes, like she was screaming for me to help her, and I did, I was there. And truth be told, I was sorry when her mother took her away from me. I could have held on a little longer. It stayed with me all day, that memory.

  But then Beatrice came into the store.

  She was beautiful, radiant, elegant, and I knew exactly who she was. I was so shocked to see her that for a split second I was unsure where I was, or if I were dreaming. She smiled at me briefly, then scanned the items closest to her. A vase, I think, a large wooden chess set definitely, a set of stone coasters maybe. She ran a fingertip along a walnut cutting board, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “Could I take a closer look at this lamp?” She was pointing to a high shelf and I followed her gaze. It was part of the Celia Sherman collection, with a blue ceramic base and large blue shade, decorated with exotic birds. I was pleased, because it was one of my favorites. It made me feel validated that she had noticed it.

  “Of course.” I smiled, outwardly professional, but giddy beyond belief that she had spoken to me. I pulled my little stool from behind the counter so I could reach the lamp, and took it down from its perch and handed it to her.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, turning it in her hands with great care. God, she was even more beautiful in real life, her black hair in a loose chignon at the back, wispy strands at the front; her makeup impeccable, although more of it than I’d expected; and her outfit elegant and relaxed at the same time. She didn’t look her age, not even close. It wasn’t that she looked younger, so much as she looked timeless. She was mesmerizing. I had seen her many times on television of course, and even a couple of times in the flesh in the distance at some book signing—but this, this was incredibly special, and the little girl who had been in my mind all day long vanished quietly.

  “If you don’t mind my saying . . .” I started.

  “Yes?” Her eyebrows rose, the beginning of a smile on her lips.

  “I’m a great admirer of your work. I just love your writing. All of it,” I blurted. I felt myself blushing, wishing it to stop, which made me blush even more.

  “Thank you so much.” She beamed, looking genuinely delighted by my comments. She put a warm hand on my arm. “You’re so sweet to say so. It means a lot to me.”

  It made my skin tingle slightly, the feel of her skin on mine, the touch of her hand, and I really fell in love with her. She looked kindly at me, and I found myself thinking that she liked me.

  She handed me the Sherman lamp. “I’ll take it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you gift-wrap it, please? It’s a gift.” She caught herself and laughed. “Obviously.”

  “Certainly.” I set out to perform the most accomplished wrapping I’d ever done, but slowly, deliberately, to keep her there as long as I could, as I frantically searched my mind for things to say, things that would spur on a conversation. But she spoke first, looking around.

  “I walk past this store sometimes. I’ve often wanted to stop and browse, but I’m always in a rush.”

  “Thank you. Do—do you live around here?” I stammered, even though I knew exactly where she lived. In fact, I’d read about it just the other day, in a magazine interview, and it wasn’t even close to this neighborhood.

  “Oh no, but my editor does. Right around the corner.”

  She’ll go away. I had to say something smart—anything—quickly. “Well, I’m very glad you had the time to stop in today.”

  She was lightly fingering a candleholder on the counter. “So am I,” she replied. “You have such interesting things here.”

  And I did. I loved my store. When I first started out, I was selling a mixture of French provincial and contemporary furniture, but then I moved on to mostly handcrafted, reclaimed materials: lots of wood, iron, glass, vintage leather; mostly small furniture pieces and objects, all beautifully made. It was my passion back then, beautiful things for the home. That, and books.

  “Are you working on a new novel?” I wanted to tell her what her work meant to me, to explain that I thought her writing was wonderful. I wanted to tell her how her phrases often surprised me when they took a turn for the unexpected; that she had a gift for expressing sentiment; that I reread her when I needed cheering up, because the recognition I found in her words made me feel that I wasn’t alone and that I wasn’t crazy. I was rehearsing all this inwardly when I caught her looking at her watch, and she made a small, frustrated sound between pursed lips. I felt silly for wasting her time, and my hands moved faster on the wrapping.

  “Almost done,” I said as I cut and folded paper and made curls from ribbons. I was missing her already, knowing that she’d be gone soon.

  She pulled her wallet from a surprisingly large handbag and gave me a credit card. “Do you deliver?”

  “Of course.” I was about to tell her I’d happily waive the usual charge.

  “Now? Could you do it this afternoon?”

  “Now?” It was almost four o’clock. “Not now, I’m afraid: I won’t be able to get a delivery guy on such short notice. I’m sorry. But tomorrow morning, certainly.”

  “Oh no, it can’t wait until tomorrow morning. It’s a gift for my mother-in-law, you see, for her birthday today. I mean her birthday is today. I’d take it to her myself but I have to be somewhere else.”

  She looked at me with pleading eyes and put that warm hand of hers on mine.

  “Would you do it for me? Could you deliver the lamp? It’s not very far from here.” Then she rushed to say, “I’m very sorry to be asking such a thing. But I’m in a bit of a bind, you see. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  I also had to be somewhere. Jim was expecting me to be at a charity function, the fundraiser for his research consortium, and it was a big deal for him. Anyway, I couldn’t just arbitrarily close the store early—it was just me that day. Jackie, my assistant—well, she was my friend too—wasn’t there. Normally there were two of us. But she was off that day.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t just close up. I have c
ustomers.” I pointed my chin in the direction of a young couple who had just walked in and were browsing. “But definitely first thing tomorrow. Definitely. Absolutely.”

  “After closing then? I’d be so very grateful.” She said it as if I hadn’t spoken that last part. Her pleading eyes again.

  Who was I kidding? I’d go to the moon and back if she asked me.

  “Of course,” I said finally. “I’d be glad to help.”

  She looked so relieved, and I felt a tinge of pride that I had brought that on.

  “Thank you so much. You really are so kind.” She lifted the hand that was still resting on top of mine and held it out to me. I noticed an almost-imperceptible tremor that made me feel disappointed. That’s how much I wanted her to be perfect.

  “I’m Beatrice, by the way,” she said.

  I know you are.

  I shook her hand. “I’m Emma.” The inconvenience suddenly didn’t matter one bit. I was on a first-name basis with Beatrice Johnson Greene.

  4

  As it turned out, Margaret Greene did not live close by, and I found myself in a taxi negotiating city traffic smack in the middle of rush hour, wondering yet again why anyone would call it that.

  I was peering out of the window to read the numbers on the front gates of the elegant houses, although by then it was too dark for me to appreciate the architecture or the landscaping. I should have been at the fundraiser by now.

  The package was quite large and awkward to carry from the car to the porch, and having instructed the driver to wait, I was fumbling around reaching for the bell when the door opened before I could ring.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” a very thin, very attractive, rather haughty older woman said coldly, in the tone you’d use with someone who might have been picking your lock.

  I introduced myself and explained the purpose of my visit. If she was at all pleased to receive a birthday present, she wasn’t letting on.

  The hallway was magnificently furnished and made me gasp. It was much grander than I had expected, and even though I couldn’t see any farther inside, I could tell the lamp wasn’t going to fit in with the decor, which was far too classic. Exquisite, expensive, and very, very classic.

  “Is there a card somewhere?” she asked. I had put the package on a narrow hall table, and Margaret Greene was peering inside the layers of tissue paper.

  “A card? No, I don’t think so,” I replied, which was a stupid thing to say since I’d wrapped this gift myself. “Beatrice didn’t give me a card.” Was I supposed to write a card? I tried to remember.

  She turned to look at me for the first time, from head to toe, literally sizing me up. I found myself admiring the chandelier above her head.

  “Are you a friend of Beatrice’s?”

  “Oh no. I’m just delivering the package.”

  “I see.”

  She turned around and started walking away from me, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. “One moment. I’ll fetch my purse,” she said over her shoulder.

  I was confused. Did she mean to pay for the lamp? Then it dawned on me that she was going to give me a tip.

  “Oh no!” I raised my hand to stop her, feeling crimson patches rising up my throat, hoping to recover before the telltale signs of embarrassment reached my face. “There’s no need for that. I delivered it as a favor to Beat—your daughter-in-law. She purchased it from my store, you see. She wanted you to receive it today.”

  “Really?” She turned back and faced me. “And she couldn’t come herself ?”

  What, because you’d have liked to see her, you old hag? I don’t think so. There was no warmth in her tone, just pure reprimand. “She said she had to be somewhere.” Anywhere but here, I thought.

  Margaret Greene did a quick shake of her head, closing her eyes. A disparaging gesture, one used on a regular basis, probably.

  “Well, I need to get going,” I said. I was annoyed now that I’d let myself be dragged into this errand. I walked toward the door, which had remained open the entire time. “Goodbye, Mrs. Greene.”

  She moved in front of me, placed one hand on the door handle, her body half facing the other way, waiting for me to leave so she could put this interruption behind her. She said goodbye dismissively, and shut the door as soon as I crossed the threshold.

  I glanced over my shoulder, and through the frosted, decorated glass pane I watched Margaret Greene walk back into the house without so much as a glance toward her gift, which was still sitting on the table.

  It was my turn to shake my head disparagingly before walking back to the waiting taxi.

  “You missed all the speeches.”

  I was standing on my tiptoes to kiss him, my Jim, but he drew slightly away from me.

  “Which is to say you haven’t missed much,” Carol said, jumping in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  God bless Carol; she was always nice to me. Jim was lucky to have her as a colleague, and I was lucky too.

  “Did you get my texts?” I asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  I leaned closer to him. “The most incredible thing happened this afternoon,” I whispered conspiratorially. “You will never believe who I met!”

  I’d been looking forward to telling Jim about meeting Beatrice ever since it happened, but it was coming out all wrong. The excitement I was feeling sounded forced, and anyway, this was not the time.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour, Em,” he whispered back. “Can we talk about something other than you now? You think you can manage that?”

  “What’s wrong?” We must have looked ridiculous, leaning in, whispering to each other.

  “What do you think, Em? Hello? Fundraiser? Very important occasion for me. Months in the planning—ring any bells?”

  He was about to say something else when a distinguished-looking man tapped him on the shoulder, sparing me a lecture.

  “Well done, Jim, this is brilliant. Fascinating.” They shook hands, and engaged in conversation. Oh Lord, I chided myself, you really screwed up, Emma. Jim had put so much work into this; he and his research team, Carol and Terry especially. He had talked of nothing else for weeks. I was so proud of him, and I wanted to be by his side, to be part of the team as we all worked together to make this night a success, except I’d screwed up, because I got star-struck, and I wanted Beatrice Johnson Greene to like me. What an idiot! Of course he was angry with me; he had every right to be.

  I took the glass of champagne that was offered, and chatted to Carol for a while. She must have picked up on our tiff, but she didn’t show it. Her eyes were darting left and right.

  “Go,” I said. “Don’t stand here talking to me, you have things to do.” I had a hand on her arm in a gesture that reminded me of Beatrice.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course. You won’t get a big fat check from me! Your talents are wasted here.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, Emma. I should, really.”

  “That’s right, you should, so go already!”

  I stood there awhile, sipping my champagne, checking out the room. I picked up one of the canapés off a tray that glided past me. This event was great; the room was packed. I recognized a few of the guests, but not many, which wasn’t surprising: they were mostly politicians or the people who worked for them.

  I saw Jim make his way toward me. He touched my elbow as he reached me.

  “What do you think?” he asked, looking around the room.

  Thank God. I was so relieved he had forgiven me already. How lucky was I to be with this wonderful man? I wanted to grab his face and kiss him full on the mouth.

  “Great turnout, Jim, really. Hey, why don’t you introduce me to some people?” I said, determined to help. I was going to do everything I could to make this night a success. “That’s what we’re here for, right? I’m ready for duty.” He smiled at me briefly, just as Carol walked past and he quickly reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Carol, come talk to Alan Bu
nting with me. It’s going to take two of us to tackle his questions,” he chuckled.

  He turned back to me quickly and shot me a small smile, and I nodded. You two go, I wanted to say; go forth and prosper. But they’d already gone.

  I watched him laughing at something this Alan Bunting guy said, my heart filled with love, and no small amount of pride. I knew most people would not consider Jim an especially good-looking man on first meeting him, and he was carrying more weight than he should have, which blurred his features somewhat, but his physical appeal was something that crept up on you. One moment you thought he was just ordinary-looking, and then boom! You couldn’t take your eyes off him. It had to do with the power he projected, his self-assurance, his intelligence. Everyone admired him, everyone wanted to be liked by him, and that made him very sexy.

  “Don’t look so bored.” Terry materialized at my side. “You’ll put off the donors.”

  “Bored? Certainly not! Just, you know, choosing my prey,” I replied.

  I adored Terry. Jim and Terry knew each other from working together at NYU, so when Jim was invited to lead the Millennium Forum, he’d asked Terry to join him.

  “All right. This man here, we need him on our side, and he’s hardly spoken to anyone yet.” He pointed his chin toward a man in a grey suit, but tried to look nonchalant at the same time, which made me ask, looking from person to person, “Who? You mean him? Oh, him? No?” until he picked up on my teasing and shook his head, eyes heavenward.

  And then, said man in the grey suit appeared in front of us and extended a hand to Terry.

  “Hello, I’m—”

  “Professor McCann,” Terry said before he got to finish his sentence.

  “Michael, please.”

  Terry introduced me. “It’s good of you to come, Michael.”

  “Not at all. To be honest I thought I might poach some of your donors before you get every last cent out of them,” he replied, which made Terry guffaw. Michael turned to me. “I’m in politics. Senate. I’m not one of them, but I advise them.”

  “In what area?”

  “Economics.”