he really wanted to do—intrude on Emma Dalton while she was taking care of her personal needs.
“She’s probably just drying her hair,” Sam said, the heat of a blush warming his face.
“Probably. But it would set my mind at ease to know that nothing’s happened to her. Of course, if you’re going to be shy about it, I can climb the stairs myself.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he muttered, smiling ruefully as he glimpsed the merry twinkle in her faded blue eyes. “As you pointed out, I have to take my stuff up anyway. I might as well check on her while I’m there.”
Margaret Griffin had always been much too good at getting her own way, and obviously, she still was. Though what she hoped to accomplish by sending him chasing after Emma he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Or perhaps, more accurately, he could, but chose not to.
“Thank you, son.” She smiled brightly as she retrieved the tray from the wicker table.
“You’re welcome,” Sam replied.
He held the screen door for her, then walked slowly down the porch steps and crossed the lawn to the car he had rented at the airport in San Antonio.
Had he honestly believed Emma had been delayed because of some mishap, he would have been more inclined to hurry. But likely as not, she had simply bypassed the front porch, going on to the kitchen instead.
No doubt Margaret would find her there, and the two of them would finish putting together the meal he’d been promised, leaving him to try to make himself at home in the one place he no longer felt he belonged.
The drive from San Antonio had been pleasant enough, but then he’d been away so long that the city itself, as well as the sprawling countryside on the outskirts, had seemed only vaguely familiar. As he’d entered Serenity, however, he had been bombarded by memories. Surprisingly, not all of them had been bad. And those that were… Well, they were also distant enough to have lost their edge.
Still, he had driven more slowly, prolonging the moment when he would have no choice but to pull into the driveway of the aging, two-story Victorian house on Holly Street.
Sam had told himself he was simply reacquainting himself with his hometown, taking in the various changes that had occurred during his four-year absence—the refurbishing of many older homes and the building of new ones, as well as the revitalizing addition of shops and restaurants to the downtown area.
Yet he had known what he’d really been doing. In a roundabout way, he had been putting off what he had long believed would be the ultimate test of his fortitude.
Eventually, he was going to have to walk inside his mother’s house, climb the steps to the second floor and face, once and for all, the emptiness—made even more awful by its permanence—of his brother’s bedroom.
As Sam had drawn closer and closer, he had found himself wondering how his mother had faced the void Teddy’s death had left day after day, year after year. And then, in a sudden flash of realization, he had mentally cursed himself for allowing her to do so all alone.
He had been so damned intent on distancing himself from his pain that, for the most part, he had blocked out all thought of hers.
Some son he had been, he’d thought as he finally turned into his mother’s driveway.
And yet, she had never held his disregard against him. Not once in the four years he had stayed away. She had waited patiently for him to come to his senses—something he hadn’t really done on his own, but rather, thanks to Emma’s none too gentle nudging.
Hell, in her own subtle way, Margaret Griffin had even given him time to adjust to actually being home again before suggesting, at last, that they ought to go inside.
“So stop dragging your feet,” Sam growled, grabbing his bags, then slamming the trunk lid and turning back to the house.
The place looked exactly the same as he remembered, at least on the outside. It also seemed to have held up fairly well. His mother had had the white clapboard and the dark red gingerbread trim painted within the past couple of years, and the yard appeared to be well tended—thanks to Emma, his mother had said.
He imagined little had changed on the inside, either. Which, while understandable, wasn’t wholly heartening. Growing up there hadn’t been a totally disagreeable experience. He and Teddy hadn’t suffered for lack of love and affection from their parents or each other.
But Sam had suffered his most tragic losses while living within those four walls. And now the possibility of another equally life-shattering loss had brought him back again. Was it any wonder he had to force himself to mount the porch steps, open the screen door and enter the shadowed hallway?
“I’ve switched on the air-conditioning, so shut the front door, will you, please?” his mother requested from the door to the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, displaying the manners she had worked so hard to drill into him.
“Oh, go on.” She waved a hand at him dismissively. “Don’t be so fresh.”
“I’m not,” he protested, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.
“You are,” she retorted, a smile of her own belying her grumpy tone.
“All right, I am,” he conceded as he started up the staircase.
“Don’t forget to check on Emma.”
“She hasn’t come down yet?”
Sam paused a moment, his brow furrowing. He didn’t think Emma had come to any harm, and he doubted his mother did, either. She seemed much too placid for that. But then, what had she been doing up there for almost an hour? While she might have needed a little time to reconcile herself to his arrival, to his knowledge she had never been the type to hide from anyone, including him.
“Not yet, and she must know dinner’s almost ready. See if you can hurry her along,” Margaret instructed. “And don’t dawdle yourself.”
“I won’t,” Sam promised as he continued up the stairs.
From the little he had seen of the first floor, he had been right to assume most everything in the house had stayed the same. The sofa and chairs in the formal living room and dining room had been reupholstered, and the heavy velvet draperies on the windows had been replaced by curtains in a lighter, lacier fabric. Otherwise, the pieces of dark wood furniture stood in their respective places as stolidly as ever.
Yet Sam hadn’t felt quite as uncomfortable as he had feared he would. Instead, he’d experienced a surprisingly strong sense of warmth and welcoming.
Probably due to the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of the kitchen, he told himself. But no matter. He was grateful for anything that eased his homecoming.
He paused again on the second-floor landing, his gaze drawn first to the hall bathroom straight ahead of him. Thankfully, the door was open and the light was off, indicating that Emma had finished in there. He didn’t have to worry about finding her lying in a naked heap.
From the bathroom, his gaze swept farther down the hallway, taking in the closed doors of his and Teddy’s bedrooms. With relief, Sam realized he wouldn’t have to look inside his brother’s room unless he chose—
A muffled thump brought his attention to the bedrooms on his left. The one with the door wide open was his mother’s. The other, with the door partially closed, was the guest room where Emma must be staying.
Another thump, followed by a screech that sounded like a drawer opening, then an unintelligible mutter of words, almost made him smile. What on earth was she doing in there? Surely not rearranging things.
Drawn by his curiosity, Sam acted without really thinking. He dropped his bags on the floor, walked over to the guest room and nudged the door open a few inches.
The slight movement caught Emma’s eye, and she looked up, obviously startled. Her