early carvers in the Philadelphia style—mostly natural, realistic horses. Menagerie animals, too,” he said and pointed. “I especially like that big cat over there.”
Her throat tightened but Emma forced herself to look at the magnificent lion with his neck arched, his mane tipped in gold leaf that shimmered in the moonlight. She studied the rest in turn, her gaze stopping here and there but always avoiding one in particular. “Did Dentzel carve these horses, too?”
The subject seemed safe as long as it didn’t become personal again. She needed to catch her breath.
“No,” Max said, “he died in 1909. These horses are new. They are wooden, though, just like Dentzel’s.” He pointed again. “See that one? Looks like—”
“Christian’s horse,” Emma said around a lump in her throat.
No longer able to avoid it, she finally glanced at the black-and-white horse on the outer row. Its painted saddle blanket was red edged in gilt. “That was always...whenever we came here...my son’s first choice.”
Mama, look. I’m going up and down and all around.
Hold on tight, Owen. Don’t let go.
My horse is higher than yours! See? I can reach the brass ring—
Always the daredevil.
Careful, sweetie! You’ll fall.
No. I’m the best rider. Like Daddy. Unable to stop herself, Emma had smiled then. Uh-huh, he’d insisted. When I’m bigger I can ride General by myself and he can be my horse, too.
With a strangled sound, she turned away from the rail. That night at the barn he’d wanted to ride. Christian would have put him up, as he sometimes did, then led the horse around the indoor ring where Grace and Rafe had been.
“Emma?” Max touched her arm.
“Just feeling a little off balance tonight...”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. What an idiot I am for showing you these horses, bringing up the pony at my shop—”
“No, I came out here first. Maybe I had to.”
She drew away, hoping to regain her composure. Certainly she could never go to the barn again. When I’m bigger...
“Emma,” he murmured, “I do understand. Really.”
Something in his voice made her turn around. She gazed into his eyes, a clear brown that showed his past sorrow.
“Odd, isn’t it,” she said, “how every word seems to take on different meaning. No one knows how to talk to me.” Unless, like the women at the pavilion, they were hinting at her guilt. “Or I to them.”
“I was the same way after my wife died.”
“I’m sorry, Max. How long ago?”
“Five years.” He patted her shoulder. “I know it’s a cliché but it does take time. Lots of it, in my experience, and I’ve heard losing a child is even worse.”
“So they say.”
“It will get better,” he insisted. “Not all at once, and not every day, but you’ll see.” He paused. “Not—to be honest—that it ever really goes away. You just toughen up and learn to live with the loss.”
Emma wasn’t that sure. But why say so? For her, it was different and she had treated Max shamefully, something she would never have done a year ago. Nothing was his fault. That was all on Emma.
She took a breath. “About those messages you left...I apologize. I should come get his...no, I’m sorry, but I can’t take the pony.”
“Now, don’t be hasty. Until you’re ready to decide, I’ll find a spot for him somewhere.” He spoke as if the carousel horse was real. Like the General. “He’s gorgeous, by the way, or he will be. Great advertising for my shop. Sure, why didn’t I think of this before? No rush,” he added. “None at all. We’ll let other people enjoy him for a while.”
Emma couldn’t imagine having any use for the pony that only reminded her of loss, but she didn’t get to say so. Footsteps sounded behind them on the walk.
“Emma.”
When Christian drew near, he nodded at Max, his eyes on her. “Our hour’s up. Check’s written. I already told Mom we’re leaving.”
Emma tensed. “You go on home. I brought my car, remember?”
“Leave it. I’ll drop you here in the morning before work.”
Max didn’t speak. Emma gave the black-and-white horse, his large eyes shining like ebony, a last look. Then she blindly turned from the merry-go-round. In daylight there would be that familiar music again, the clanging of the bell, the laughter...
She could hardly speak. “Good night, Max.”
“’Night, Emma. Christian.” But then, before she took a step, his voice stopped her. “Do you know what they say about these carousel horses?”
Emma didn’t know. She couldn’t think at all, just then.
“There’s an old saying among carvers,” he said. His tone gentled, as if he wasn’t sure she would like the story. “In the winter the ponies go to sleep—all winter long—but when spring finally arrives, they come back to life again.”
Emma blinked. He was telling her to hope. That life could be good once more, if different, that she might even be forgiven.
But for Emma her guilt was now, and ever-present.
And spring seemed very far away.
BY THE NEXT DAY, Emma had pulled herself together enough to meet with Melanie Simmons. She wanted this new client as much as Melanie wanted her help, and like Frankie, Melanie had connections. They met at the Simmons’s house for a walk-through, then drove to Bluewater Grille, a favorite local restaurant.
Once they’d ordered, Melanie leaned forward, clasping her hands and resting her forearms on the table. “I’m told no one does exactly what you do,” she said, and Emma felt her competitive spirit kick in.
“Actually, I’m part household organizer, part shrink. It’s a matter of my asking the right questions rather than answering them.”
“More than one person has told me how well you get to the heart of things.” Melanie’s eyes sparkled. “You remember Anna Carstairs’s garage? Edie Van Kamp’s family room?”
“Yes, of course.” Both had been hard-to-please clients—like Mrs. Belkin. Edie was another friend of Frankie’s, and she suspected curiosity had brought Anna to her. “I hope they were satisfied with my work.”
To her surprise Melanie said, “That’s why I’m here.”
Emma leaned back as their food was put on the table.
“I’m so glad we were able to meet this morning. You were right. Your storage needs are out of control.”
“Four growing children keep me busy.”
Two boys—eight and six—and twin girls, who, for Emma, would be the hardest part of the job because of their age.
“Your boys’ rooms have adequate storage,” she said, “for their action figures, trucks and cars and books.” Optimus Prime. The Vindicator. “But the girls need cabinets and bins so everything isn’t scattered around or lost.”
“Three-year-olds drop toys everywhere,” Melanie agreed. “They leave clothes wherever they land.”
Yes. I know. Emma took a bite of the shrimp she’d ordered. She wanted to enjoy her meal, not envy Melanie her healthy, happy children.