Czytaj książkę: «Lost And Found Family»

For our horse, Windsor Castle, the inspiration for the General in this story. When he passed, the owner of the barn where he’d lived wrote: “He was a noble old guy and will be greatly missed. Goodbye, old friend.”

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

December...

I’M LATE, Emma Mallory thought, feeling like the White Rabbit. I’m so late.

She had a million things left on the day’s to-do list. When did she not?

With a sigh of frustration, she glanced down the main aisle of the barn. She’d already tried walking toward the doors that led to the parking area, but Owen hadn’t followed her.

Her three-year-old still stood on his tiptoes, trying to look through the bars of a stall at his father’s horse. She didn’t know who loved that horse more, her little boy or her husband.

And where was Christian? He’d promised to meet them here after work. She’d had barely any time to stop tonight, and now none at all.

She couldn’t wait any longer. She hated to break Owen’s heart but, really, an hour here had turned into two.

“Owen,” she called.

“One more minute,” he said, reaching up to run his fingers over the brass nameplate that read General Robert E. Lee.

And Emma’s heart turned over. She always had a hard time saying no to him. “We’ll visit the General another day,” she said. “I promise.”

He shook his head, blond hair flying, and pulled a plastic bag from his miniature jeans’ pocket. “Daddy promised I could ride. And I have gummy bears, too. I share them with General.”

“No, say goodbye,” Emma said, “then come get in your car seat.”

She started back down the aisle to the wide-open doors. The last rays of sunlight slanted through them, and motes of dust danced in the air. The barn smelled of hay and horseflesh, neither of them Emma’s favorite, but she hadn’t wanted to deny Owen this treat. At almost four now—how time did fly—he was her darling boy. She even smiled to herself. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, Owen would be asking for his own pony. And Emma already had a surprise planned for Christmas.

She was at the doors to the barn when her cell phone rang. Emma checked the display and inwardly groaned. Wouldn’t you know? She glanced toward the indoor arena, where her nineteen-year-old stepdaughter was probably still gazing into the eyes of her boyfriend, the barn’s new trainer. She’d give Grace a chance to make her goodbyes, too, while she answered this call. Emma stepped into the tack room. It would only take a minute.

Actually, it took five.

By the time she’d finished arguing with one of her troublesome clients, the aisle was empty. Maybe Grace had herded Owen out to the car.

Emma took a few steps, then halted.

The raw chill in the air outside penetrated her wool pants and even her coat, making her shiver. She was already multitasking, thinking about what she needed from the market on her way home. And she’d have a few choice words for Christian, who hadn’t shown up yet.

Emma checked the parking area but saw no one in the car. She turned—and heard a shrill whinny, then a thud. The sounds had come from farther along the aisle, and all at once, with fear rising in the back of her throat, Emma was running. The General’s stall door stood half open. A small footstool used for mounting horses lay on its side nearby.

Emma cried out, “Owen!”

Her voice echoed through the barn.

And all their lives changed forever.

CHAPTER ONE

Late October, the next year...

IT WAS THE silence that bothered Emma most.

She couldn’t get used to the lack of everyday noise: doors slamming, the TV blaring, Owen giggling while Christian tickled him. Daddy, more! Owen calling from his room for one last drink of water before he went to sleep. If only...now, even the dog had stopped barking to greet her at the end of the day.

With a familiar sense of dread, Emma set her bulging tote bag on the desk next to the kitchen counter. A place for everything and everything in its place were the words she’d lived by since she was a child.

Until last December, her life had often seemed—for the first time—normal. The way she liked it. The feeling was even more important now—but much harder to come by.

Emma headed for the great room to find Bob, their Gordon setter, but as she’d expected the dog didn’t move. Its dark, plumy tail thumped once against the forbidden sofa cushion, then flopped back again.

“That dog is depressed,” Grace had said the last time she came to visit.

“Dogs don’t get depressed.”

“Yes they do. Of course they do. Just look at her face.”

“Bob has never adjusted, that’s all,” Emma had said, trying to lighten the moment. “Her name should have been Roberta or at least Bobbie.”

Owen had named the female setter, a gift from his grandfather, after SpongeBob Squarepants, his favorite cartoon character. “My puppy is a boy, like me,” he’d insisted. Finally Christian had convinced him otherwise, but by then, of course, Bob was already Bob.

“It’s not about her name,” Grace had murmured.

And that was true. Life was different now.

Back in the kitchen, Emma took a moment to line up the items that someone—it had to be Christian—had moved: dishwashing detergent, hand cream, the yellow-and-blue ceramic container they’d bought in Greece two years ago, which held a bright nylon scrubby. The beechwood knife block beside it looked a bit off to Emma. There. That was better.

She didn’t kid herself. Emma had compulsive tendencies. But the habit had served her well as a professional organizer. Now such tiny routines held her together.

Emma reached for the detergent again, then stopped herself. She’d have to tell Christian what had happened at work.

When she heard his pickup in the driveway, she tensed. Before she could collect herself, he strode in, bringing the sharp, clean scent of outdoors and the smokier aroma of a neighbor’s fireplace burning sweet applewood.

Emma barely glanced at him. His dark hair, those gray-green eyes she’d fallen for the day they’d met...even the sight of him made her heart hurt. Months ago he would have come up behind her, nuzzled her neck and kissed her nape in greeting.

Slipping past her, looking tall and handsome in his pinstriped suit, he almost brushed Emma’s shoulder reaching around her for a glass in the cupboard. Not seeming to notice that she avoided his touch, he took a container of sweet tea from the fridge. “How was your day, Em?”

“Long. Frustrating,” she admitted.

“Mine, too.” He took a swallow of tea. “And I’ve got a gruesome meeting tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. Why does Dad have to be such an early riser? As if Mallory Trucking—and my monthly report—wouldn’t keep until nine o’clock. One more hour and I could make the drive into Chattanooga behind the rush.”

Another meeting, she thought, like the one he’d chosen to attend that day when he should have been at the barn.

“I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, either,” she said, knowing she was stalling. “Today Mrs. Belkin took one look at the walk-in closet we’ve done for her and changed the entire design.” Emma formed a pair of air quotes. “She’s not sure now that she should have chosen No More Clutter, after all.” Which, lately, was nothing new for Emma.

He toasted her with his glass. “Can’t be worth the money.”

“Not when I may have to eat the cost of redoing everything. But I need her business. I’ve already lost two more clients this month. And since I hired Grace I have to meet her salary, too.” Ever since the painful stories in the paper about the accident at the barn she’d been scrambling to keep her head above water. The local community had branded Emma then and people here didn’t forget.

He made a low sound of apparent empathy, then went into the great room to see Bob. “Hey, girl,” he murmured. “You know you’re not supposed to be on this sofa.” Thump, thump. The sound of tail wagging grew heavier. “I swear this dog understands English,” he said loud enough for Emma to hear.

“Of course she does,” Emma said, sighing when she realized she’d echoed Grace’s sentiment.

Emma might be a bit compulsive, but Christian was a creature of habit, too. She knew he was about to come back into the kitchen and stop by the built-in desk to punch Play on the answering machine, which she’d pointedly ignored on her way in.

Taking a breath, she opened the refrigerator door, putting up a barrier so the messages were only a soft rumble in her ears. Months ago, soon after the accident, she’d gotten some ugly threats.

“Emma.” Christian’s tone was soft but scolding. “Did you listen to this? Max Barrett called again.”

Her pulse leaped. Something else she’d dreaded about coming home tonight. It was a good thing Christian didn’t know about the other messages Max had left on her cell phone.

“Obviously you haven’t called him back,” he said.

Taking a package of chicken from the fridge, she shut the door in time to hear Max’s warm voice all too clearly.

Emma, it’s me—and there it was, that voice—again. Have a heart. You know how small my shop is and why I keep calling. Listen. I’ve been holding your beautiful carousel pony far too long. I need the space. I understand how you must feel but...

Emma sagged against the counter. Last December she would have welcomed his call. The day of the accident she’d hardly been able to keep the surprise to herself.

But the carousel pony, modeled after Christian’s horse, had turned out to be a terrible mistake. And heartbreaking. Emma wanted nothing to do with horses now, real ones or painted wooden models. She couldn’t bring herself to pick up the miniature version of the General and she might never be ready. Max Barrett could wait.

But his voice, with a hint of humor, went on. I don’t know what else to do except start charging that poor pony rent. You need to make some decision. Give me a call. Please.

The machine clicked off and the silence expanded.

Max’s calls unnerved her, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about them. At first they’d been infrequent, then, over the months, they’d become more regular. Waiting for Christian to say something more, she followed his glance toward the ceiling and the abandoned playroom. The pony was to have been the final touch—a Christmas gift for Owen—but there was no way she could bring it home now.

The click of the dog’s nails on the floor sounded like rescue on the way. At six o’clock each night Bob left the living room, where she’d slept all afternoon, and ambled into the kitchen to sit by her dish.

Putting the chicken package by the sink, Emma washed her hands, then bent down to pat Bob’s dark, silky head as if to say, for both of them, It will be all right. But Max’s latest call and her day at work made that seem impossible. Straightening, she opened a cabinet and dipped a plastic measuring cup into the bag of kibble. She poured the food into Bob’s bowl and heard, Let me do it, Mama.

Aware of Christian standing behind her, she briefly closed her eyes. She couldn’t turn to look at him. That direct, steady gaze, the implied strength in it, had drawn her to him at first. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she eased out from under them.

After long moments, he said simply, “Em,” in that weary tone she heard too often now. “What’s wrong? I know there’s something else.”

Emma had been dreading this moment most of all. “I had some bad news today.” She took a big breath. “My landlord won’t renew my lease for the shop. Or rather, he’s raising my rent and I’ve had a hard enough time meeting the rent this year. I was late last month—and the month before that.”

He frowned. “Then what will you do?”

“Look for space elsewhere, I guess,” she said with a shrug. “The rents are impossible downtown anyway.” She paused. “And frankly, business isn’t very good. I might try for something near the Hamilton Place mall. There’s more customer traffic there.”

“Maybe instead, it’s time to sell.”

“Are you serious? After the years I’ve invested in No More Clutter?”

“The business isn’t growing any longer, and there are several other places in town that do household organization. One of them may want to expand.”

“I want to expand,” she said, finally turning to face him.

“Apparently that’s not happening, Emma.”

She glanced away. He’d never shared her enthusiasm for the store, especially after Owen was born. They had a young child who needed her attention—he’d said that how many times? Why be surprised that he wouldn’t support her need to keep on with her business? After all, the accident had happened while Emma was on a call with a client.

Still, Christian was partly to blame, too. “You expect me to sell my business—when you won’t even discuss selling the General? And that horse is just standing around in his stall, eating up money every single day—after what he did to my family? No, Christian.”

His mouth tightened, but it seemed he knew better than to pursue that subject.

“In any case, while I look for new space,” she said, “I may have to start packing up downtown, bringing a few files home—”

“No.”

Her tone hardened to match his. “What do you mean, no?”

But he’d already turned his back and was leaving the room.

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT, Christian gazed out the bedroom window and thought—as he did, over and over—of the accident that had taken his son’s life. He could only guess how that loss had affected Emma.

He shouldn’t blame her for wanting to repair her business, but he did. Just as he resented her for that remark about the General. He shouldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk about anything more meaningful than the day’s happenings—which, today, had been critical for her.

With an arm braced against the window frame, he envisioned Emma months ago when everything had still been good between them. In his mind he saw her rushing around after work to fix dinner. He watched her hand Owen another green pepper stick so he wouldn’t get too hungry before their meal was ready. He saw her face light up as it used to do whenever he’d walked in the door to find her waiting for his light kiss.

But he’d had plenty of practice in reading her new body language. He saw her back stiffen every time he used the shortened version of her name, as if they were now two different people—which he guessed they were—and he had no right to even that small, familiar intimacy. Em. He was the only one who’d ever called her that.

He hated the rift between them. It had become as deep and wide as the Chesney Rim, which, farther up their road, carved Sequoia Mountain into two distinct halves.

You’d think by now he would have developed better tools to cope, as their once-upon-a-time counselor had advised. He’d tried. But, always, there was the memory of Owen.

He felt helpless, unable to understand that loss or how to reach Emma. He kept wanting to do something, make something good, or at least better, come from their tragedy so it wouldn’t seem so senseless. But what had he done tonight? He’d made her feel worse than she already did.

“Christian,” she said into the darkness, as if they hadn’t quarreled earlier and this was just like any other night. “Come to bed.”

He didn’t answer. How did she manage to shut out the remembered sounds of baby steps, a first complete sentence, the joyous shout of a toddler’s laughter?

His mother never hesitated to move on. She still managed her life as she always had—with crisp efficiency. She’d promptly packed away every sign of her only grandson, or for all Christian knew she’d donated everything to one of her charities. Not a picture remained on the mantel in her home in Lookout Mountain. Where the oil painting of Owen had once hung in the hall—his mother called it the gallery—there was only a glaring white rectangle. He’d grown up in that house, where only pleasant conversation was allowed, and he didn’t want that in his own marriage.

“Be right there,” he told Emma. Bob was already on the bed, lightly snoring on top of the covers. Like the sofa, their bed had once been strictly taboo. But that rule was from the days when the dog slept with Owen, the two of them tangled together in the covers.

“I’m falling asleep,” Emma murmured. “Before I do, a couple of things—first, don’t forget we have that reception tomorrow night at Coolidge Park.”

He wanted to groan. Tomorrow was shaping up to be just too much fun. And there it was, the subject he’d hoped to avoid, another slot in a schedule. Another lockstep appearance he didn’t want to make, like going in to work every morning.

“We have to go?” He didn’t wait for the answer he knew would come. “Let me guess. My mother is the chairperson. It’s not one of those monkey-suit things, is it?”

“You’ll be fine. Or wear your charcoal-gray suit instead.”

“I didn’t know I owned a charcoal-gray suit.”

“And a black one.” He knew exactly when he’d worn that one. Her voice trembled so he guessed Emma didn’t need the reminder, either. “If you keep moving, Frankie might not notice it isn’t a tuxedo.”

Like that would ever happen. His mother had eyes like an eagle. He turned to see Emma propped on an elbow in bed. In the dim light of the moon her blond hair looked darker and so did her ocean-blue eyes, almost black. She seemed like a total stranger.

Christian sent her a grim smile. “I’ll give Mom one hour. Write a check for the cause, whatever. Make conversation with all those ‘important people’ she hangs out with—even take part in another of those endless silent auctions—then we’re out of there.”

Her tone was light. “You sound like an eighth grader at a grown-up party.”

“Thanks,” Christian said drily.

He allowed himself a brief moment of pretending this was just any night, not even a year ago, their quiet time together at the end of a busy day. Maybe Emma was pretending, too.

“You’re already squirming,” she said with a little smile in her voice, “but you know we have to do this.”

“My mother...”

But that was tomorrow. He’d have time to prepare himself for the usual prying questions, the intolerable sympathy from people he barely knew. And, somehow worse, from those he did. The words never sounded genuine.

“...speaking of Frankie,” Emma murmured. “My second issue. Christian, I had a call today from your father. It’s their anniversary soon and he’d like to throw a big party. He wants me to do the planning—”

“Trust me. Mom doesn’t want a party.” Neither did he.

“Could you talk to her?”

For another few seconds he peered into the darkness, at the patch of driveway in front of the garage doors. “I can try,” he finally said when what he really wanted was for the whole world to stop.

No, he wanted time to move backward like a videotape running in reverse until the accident hadn’t happened at all. Until they were still a happy family with a grown daughter and a sweet little boy. The child Christian had yearned for yet, after his divorce, never expected to have until he met Emma.

At last he crossed the room to slip between the sheets. Bob was twitching in her sleep and one rear leg jabbed him in his side, but Emma had said no more and neither would he. Instead, he lay there thinking about tomorrow’s fund-raiser at Coolidge Park. The certain run-in with his mother about the anniversary party. The shattered moments of his and Emma’s lives.