fixing breakfast. She would have, too. Even after their quarrel about the playroom, Emma would bustle about the kitchen making eggs and toast, pouring fresh orange juice, slipping a piece of bacon to Bob. She’d act as if everything was normal when it wasn’t. He might wish for that, but he knew it wasn’t possible. If they couldn’t work through this...
Christian tossed his pen onto the pile of forms. Another day, another dozen files. He’d become a paper pusher. Sometimes he wished he was on the road, putting in his time again like a trainee behind the wheel of one of his father’s trucks. Instead, he was here looking out the window, woolgathering.
Or what if he’d stuck to his guns in college, stayed in Fine Arts rather than switching to Business to please his parents? What if he’d taken better care with Melanie so they hadn’t ended up married with a baby when they were both barely nineteen? Not that he didn’t love Grace with all his heart.
She worried him. She’d quit college and gotten married at the same age he had. At least she wasn’t expecting a baby.
One of the pictures on his desk drew his gaze—Emma with Owen when he was two years old, his eyes bright and clear with a hint of the imp he’d always been. Emma looking down at him with such obvious love. They’d thought they had all the time in the world then.
Emma had been his second chance at happiness. The day he’d walked into No More Clutter and seen her for the first time, he’d been lost. It wasn’t only her blond hair and blue eyes and her smile. Christian had seen something more in her, an insecurity she tried to hide that made him want to protect her. He’d hired her on the spot to redo his apartment’s walk-in closet, but a month later he’d moved into Emma’s town house. A few months after that, they’d married. Fast, he thought, like him and Melanie. Like Grace with Rafe.
“Christian.” His administrative assistant stood in the doorway with another stack of papers in her hand. “Lanier wants you to see these, too.”
“Bring it on,” he said, and swiped a hand down his face.
“The coffee wagon’s here,” she said, apparently knowing better than to ask him if he was okay. “You want anything?”
Escape.
The thought came out of nowhere. But he was the heir apparent to the Mallory throne, his father’s only son, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Other men, especially Chet Berglund, would give an arm to be in his position. Why feel so trapped?
“A coffee, maybe,” he said.
“You’ve looked off-kilter all day.”
“Bad night,” he murmured, wanting to say bad year. “I’ve got a headache that won’t quit.”
She turned toward the door. “I’ll get you some aspirin.”
“Becky. No, but thanks,” he said.
She circled back. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ll tell Lanier you’ll go over these tomorrow.”
He sighed. “He probably needs them today. An hour ago,” he said.
Her frown deepened. “I’m worried about you.”
“I appreciate that but I’m just bleary-eyed from looking at all these purchase orders.”
“Those are a good thing,” she said with a quick smile. “Business is great.”
That only reminded him of Emma and her concerns about No More Clutter. He glanced again at the photo, then at the phone.
“Would you get me the O’Leary office in Cincinnati? I need to change their mind about how much they want to pay us to haul freight.”
Without a word she disappeared into the anteroom. A minute later he heard her on the phone. Christian added the papers she’d given him to the stack on his desk, then straightened his tie. Ready for business.
At least, that’s what he needed everyone to think.
* * *
EMMA WAS HAVING a very bad day. Yes, she’d loved the space at Hamilton Place and hoped Nicole could negotiate a more affordable rent, but she wasn’t that confident. Since her return to the shop, she and Grace were barely speaking to each other, and every phone call proved to be another disaster in the making.
To make matters worse, neither of the customers she’d expected yesterday had shown up. Emma had stayed until the last minute waiting for them. At least that had given her time to work up her estimate for Melanie.
“Grace,” she said. “Have you reached Mrs. Belkin yet?”
“I’ve tried. If you want to know the truth, I think she’s screening you out.”
“We promised to redo her closet. That’s all I can offer.”
“She’s probably told everyone in town she’s not happy by now.”
“How could you possibly know?”
“I hear things,” Grace murmured.
“What things?”
She made a scoffing sound. “You were at Coolidge Park. Didn’t you notice? Every time someone came up to me, they were like ‘oh, Grace. It must be hard to come to a party like this...’” Her gaze snapped up to meet Emma’s. “They’re all so sympathetic when what they’re really thinking—saying—is we’re outcasts in this community.”
All the blood seemed to leach from Emma’s limbs and for an instant the world around her spun. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.”
Emma didn’t want to talk about that. We, Grace had said.
“You never want to deal with this,” Grace said. “The morning after Owen’s funeral you were right here at your desk. You didn’t even miss a day of work after the accident.” She swiped at her eyes. “And why do people call it that, when it wasn’t an accident? We were both there,” she reminded Emma. “So how could it be an accident?”
Oh, no. Emma rose from her desk. She walked toward Grace and tried to take her in her arms but Grace shrank from her touch. “How long have you felt like this?” As if she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment.
“Ever since I saw Rafe running toward the stalls. Then I was running, too,” Grace went on. “I saw Owen lying there, so still. And you and I were both screaming.”
And there, on the ground all around him, lay the scattered gummy bears.
Despite Grace’s resistance, Emma managed to pull her close but of course the words didn’t help. “I’m sorry, Grace.”
“You must blame me,” Grace said, her voice trembling. “I know I blame you.”
Emma could hardly argue with that. But her heart hurt anyway.
She’d have to find some way to atone. With Grace now, too.
* * *
EMMA HAD ONCE looked forward to Sunday afternoons, when her family gathered to share dinner and any news of the week. This time she didn’t know what to expect. She checked the lasagna, then shut the oven door.
There was no predicting anything. As soon as Grace had said those words the other day, the phone on Emma’s desk had rung. Mrs. Belkin had decided to hire another firm to remake her closet. No surprise.
Emma tried to put this newest disappointment out of her mind. But if she didn’t succeed with Melanie’s project, there would certainly be more. Besides, Emma really wanted to help her.
Maybe today she could even make amends with Grace.
Emma turned from the stove. Bob’s tail had started to wag full speed. She must have heard a car in the drive. The dog’s ears pricked and now Emma could hear the sounds of doors closing, voices murmuring. By the time Grace and Rafe walked in, Bob’s