The Major And The Librarian

I hate you, Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….

Hardly a day had passed since then that Emma hadn’t wished she could recall those brutal words. But Sam hadn’t given her a chance. He had stayed for his brother’s funeral, but not in his mother’s house. And after the service, he’d vanished, never—as far as she knew—to return.

Emma couldn’t blame him. Not then, and certainly not now. Even with Margaret’s health in question, she could understand why—torn as he had to be—he might choose to stay away. All that he had to look forward to here was more grief.

Yet again, Emma cursed her impulsiveness. She could have waited, should have waited.

“But you didn’t,” she muttered as she hung the gardening tools on their hooks, then disposed of the trash bag.

Doing her best to shake off the melancholy mood that had settled over her, Emma hurried back to the front yard. She pasted a smile on her face as she joined Margaret on the porch and accepted a tall glass of tea. Then, with a murmur of thanks, she sank into the old wooden rocking chair that matched her friend’s. She took several swallows of the icy drink and sat back contentedly.

“Mmm, wonderful,” she said.

She tossed her straw hat aside, took off her gold wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the little white wicker table, then tried to finger-comb some life into her damp curls. She was in desperate need of a shower, but first she wanted to relax a while and enjoy the gentle breeze wafting across the shady porch.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Emma. The yard looks just lovely. I’m going to be the envy of all my neighbors,” Margaret stated proudly.

“Maybe not all. Mr. Bukowski looks like he’s trying to give us a run for our money.” Emma nodded toward the house across the tree-lined street where an elderly man puttered about, snipping and trimming his already well-tended rosebushes.

“That old coot would sleep with his precious American Beauties if his wife would let him,” Margaret retorted. “We won’t count him.”

“Well, then, I have to agree. Your yard definitely measures up now.”

“Thank you, Emma. I really do appreciate all your hard work.”

“Gardening never seems like work to me. Now scrubbing toilets and mopping floors—that’s my idea of work.” Emma shuddered delicately, then met her friend’s gaze with an impish grin. “I’m so glad we found Mrs. Beal to handle those nasty chores for us.”

“But you have a yard of your own to maintain,” Margaret said, a look of concern shadowing her eyes. “I feel like I’m already taking advantage of you enough as it is.”

“What nonsense.” Emma waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve been paying Mrs. Beal to clean my house, as well as yours, while I’ve been staying here with you. Aside from cooking dinner occasionally and doing a few loads of laundry, I haven’t really contributed that much until today. And, as I keep trying to convince you, I love gardening.”

“You also have the responsibility of a full-time job,” Margaret reminded her gently. “A job you love, too, but lately haven’t been able to give the attention it requires because of my needs.”

“Actually, I’ve found a solution to that,” Emma advised with studied nonchalance. “Marion Cole and I have agreed to try job sharing for the summer. She came in one day last week asking about part-time work, but I don’t have the funds to add anyone to the staff. So I’m going to let her have some of my hours. She’s an experienced librarian, she’s well liked by everyone in town and, with her husband out of work, she needs the money.”

“That’s awfully generous of you, Emma. But…” Margaret shrugged and looked away as she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her skirt.

“It’s only temporary. Marion’s fairly sure her husband will get a job offer from one of the companies he’s interviewed with in Dallas or Houston. And I like the idea of having more free time this summer. We’ll be able to drive down to Galveston for a few days before your next appointment with the doctor in Houston the way you wanted. I know how much you love the beach, and it’s been ages since I’ve been there.”

Trying to ignore the fact that Margaret was dabbing at her eyes, Emma took another long swallow of tea, then rolled the cold, wet glass over her cheek as she looked out across the lawn.

Margaret had never been the type to show her emotions, but lately even the smallest act of kindness seemed to make her weepy. Much as Emma wanted to comfort her, she said nothing. Calling attention to Margaret’s treacherous tears would only embarrass her friend unnecessarily.

Instead, she rocked quietly, allowing Margaret a few moments to gather herself. Without her glasses, everything beyond the porch railing blended pleasantly into a bright blur of colors, sometimes stable, sometimes shifting, depending on the slant of the breeze.

She didn’t realize that the dark blue blob she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye was an automobile moving slowly down the street until it pulled into Margaret’s driveway. Even then, Emma merely squinted at it lazily, sure that the driver, having made a wrong turn, intended only to back out and be on his way. The boxy sedan wasn’t one she recognized as belonging to anyone she knew. And Margaret hadn’t mentioned that she was expecting any visitors.

Unless—

“Well, who on earth could that be?” Margaret asked, her composure restored.

“I have no idea,” Emma murmured, an odd sensation unfurling in the pit of her stomach.

The car’s engine ceased its grumbling, but the driver seemed in no hurry to open the door and step out. Frowning, Emma reached for her glasses as Margaret stood, started toward the porch steps, then paused uncertainly.

“Oh, my…” she breathed, wonder in her voice. “It can’t be—”

Adjusting her glasses, Emma rose from her chair, too. She knew what Margaret only suspected. Knew with terrifying certainty who sat behind the wheel of the dark blue sedan. And she wished—oh, how she wished—she could simply slip away. Her friend wouldn’t understand, though. So she lingered in the shadows as the car door finally opened, and a breathless moment later, her heart slammed against her rib cage.

A tall, handsome man, neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white knit shirt, his short blond hair glistening in the sun, his eyes shielded by aviator sunglasses, stepped out of the car, closed the door quietly and started across the lawn.

“Sam…?” Margaret said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she added joyfully as she moved down the porch steps and opened her arms to him, “Oh, Sam, you’re home. You’re home, son….”

Emma watched as he hesitated a moment, removing his sunglasses uncertainly. His surprise at how Margaret had aged in the months since he’d seen her last was evident, but only for an instant. Flashing the cocky grin Emma remembered all too well, he strode toward his mother, his long legs eating up the distance between them, and swept her into his embrace. As he hugged her close, however, his smile faded, revealing the true depth of his distress.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he chided softly. “I’ll think you’re not happy to see me.”

“I am happy to see you, Sam Griffin, and you know it,” she retorted. Smiling through her tears as she looked up at him, she put her hand against his cheek. “Happier than you’ll ever know.”

Still standing alone on the porch, Emma wished, once again, that she could slip away without being noticed. She felt uncomfortable intruding on Margaret and Sam’s reunion. After being apart for almost a year, they deserved to have some private time together.

More disconcerting, however, was that Emma also felt afraid. Not only afraid of what Sam might say or do when he finally spied her lurking in the shadows, but also of what she might say or do. He wouldn’t be happy to see her there. That she knew for sure. But would he show his displeasure in Margaret’s presence?

She had just seen how easily he could hide his emotions when he wanted to. Yet she couldn’t trust that he’d spare her in the same way he had his mother. She hadn’t proved herself deserving of that care.

As for her… She had thought she’d buried her feelings for Sam Griffin so deeply they could never be resurrected. But she had been mistaken. Just seeing him again had set her heart pounding, her palms sweating and her tummy turning somersaults. A longing unlike any she’d ever experienced had welled up inside her, and she had wanted—more than anything—to see him turn to her with outstretched arms, as well.

Of course, after the unforgivable way she’d treated him four years ago, she was probably the last woman on earth he would ever choose to hold close. And that meant she couldn’t risk giving herself away—not by word or by deed. If he shunned her, she would be crushed.

And if he didn’t…?

Emma shivered as an altogether different kind of dread—a dread long nestled deep in her soul—reared its ugly head.

She would give herself to him without a second thought. And when boredom set in—as it surely would for a man like Sam Griffin—she would end up like her mother, grieving alone for a man who could only find happiness living dangerously close to the edge.

She couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that. She needed safety and stability in her life, the kind of safety and stability she had found here in Serenity, first with Teddy, and then, on her own—

“Emma! Can you believe it? Sam’s here,” Margaret called out, interrupting her reverie.

Swiping futilely at her hair, Emma once again pasted a smile on her face and crossed to the porch steps.

“Yes, I see,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded, then risked a glance at Sam, barely meeting his penetrating gaze. With his iron jaw and eagle eyes, he had always had a tendency to look…severe. The expression she glimpsed on his face assured her that hadn’t changed. “Hello, Sam. It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you again, too, Emma,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Well, come on up to the porch and have a seat,” Margaret urged. “How about a glass of iced tea?”

“Sounds good,” Sam agreed as he started up the steps.

“I’ll get it.” Emma made the offer gladly, eager to have a reason to retreat, at least temporarily.

“Why, thank you, dear.” Margaret patted her arm gratefully, then turned back to Sam. “You really should have given me some warning,” she scolded.

“Then you wouldn’t have been surprised…”

Relieved by Sam’s bantering tone, Emma slipped into the house. She had no idea how he planned to explain his unexpected arrival. But for the time being, he didn’t seem inclined to reveal the part she had played in it. That would mean he’d have to mention his mother’s illness, as well, and he wouldn’t spoil her happiness by doing that just yet.

Catching sight of herself in the hall mirror as she headed for the kitchen, Emma winced. The parts of her hair not plastered to her skull by the straw hat she’d been wearing stuck out in all directions. Her ratty T-shirt and shorts were sweat stained, bits of grass clung to her bare arms and her face was smudged with dirt and grime.

“Delightful,” she muttered as she continued down the hallway, then laughed ruefully.

Had she put her mind to it, she probably couldn’t have thought of a better way to put Sam off than she already had in her current state of dishevelment.

In the kitchen, she filled glasses for Margaret and Sam only, put them on a tray along with the tea pitcher and a fresh bowl of ice, then returned to the porch.

“Here you go,” she said, interrupting their murmured conversation as she bumped the screen door open with her hip.

They glanced up at her, but she avoided meeting either of their gazes. Even when Sam stood and, his fingers brushing hers, took the tray and set it on the wicker table.

“You didn’t fill a fresh glass for yourself,” Margaret noted.

“I thought I’d let you two visit on your own while I get cleaned up,” Emma replied as she turned to go back into the house. “I’ll pop that casserole in the oven, too. Unless you’d rather eat a little later tonight…”

“Oh, no, Emma. The usual time will be just fine.” Margaret touched Sam’s arm. “How does King Ranch chicken sound to you?”

“Like a slice of heaven.” He smiled at her with unabashed affection.

Feeling even more like a fifth wheel, Emma yanked the screen door open.

“Come out and join us as soon as you’ve had your shower,” Margaret called after her.

“I will,” Emma said, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

Actually, she had no intention of hanging around now that Sam was home. She would shower, dress, then pack up her belongings, make her excuses and return to her own house a few blocks away. Her presence here was no longer necessary. Sam would be available if Margaret needed anything. And Emma could always return once he’d left again.

She put the chicken casserole Margaret had prepared earlier in the oven, then scurried upstairs to the guest room she had been using for the past three weeks. Margaret’s bedroom was right next door. The bedrooms Sam and Teddy had used as children were on the opposite side of the landing, their doors closed.

Emma supposed she should take a few minutes to air out Sam’s room, but just the thought of invading what had always been his personal space made her uneasy. She could only hope Mrs. Beal had changed the linen and dusted recently. If not, Sam could do it himself.

Right now, all Emma wanted was to get away from him before she said or did something stupid. She could only pretend to be cool and calm in his presence for so long. Then anything could happen. Could, and with her luck, probably would.

Chapter 3

“I wonder what’s taking Emma so long,” Margaret said, glancing at her watch for the third time in less than fifteen minutes.

Sam had been asking himself the same question as he eyed his own watch surreptitiously, and he already had a pretty good idea of what the answer could be. He’d seen how steadfastly Emma had avoided his gaze despite her courteous manner. As if she could barely stand the sight of him. Why, then, would she go out of her way to seek out his company?

He couldn’t say as much to his mother, though. She would pretend not to understand. Just as she’d already pretended not to understand why he had expressed concern about her well-being. He couldn’t come right out and tell her Emma hated his guts any more than he could come right out and tell her how shocked he was by her frailty.

She had aged to a frightening degree since he’d seen her last. But when he’d asked outright if she had been ill, she hadn’t said anything specific about having been diagnosed with leukemia.

Instead, she had hedged, admitting only that she had been a bit under the weather the past few weeks, thus finding it necessary to ask Emma to stay with her. Then she’d also insisted—rather hurriedly—that she was feeling much better, especially now that he had finally returned to Serenity.

“It was time you came back,” she had said. “But why now?”

“Because it was time,” he’d replied, hedging in his own way.

He couldn’t admit that Emma’s letter had been the real catalyst without also revealing why she had written to him. And what would that do for his mother other than spoil the thrill of his homecoming for her?

There would be more than enough time in the days ahead to confront her about the true nature of her illness.

“Maybe I ought to check on her,” Margaret continued. “Or, better yet, you could do that while I get started on the salad.” She nodded purposefully. “Yes, that’s a better idea. You can get your bags out of the car, take them up to your room, then make sure Emma didn’t slip in the bathtub and bump her head.”

Oh, now that was something 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 gaze met his for an instant, then skittered away as she clutched what appeared to be a white sleeveless nightgown to her chest. From the expression on her face, Sam wasn’t sure whether she was more angry or embarrassed by his intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Shifting uncomfortably, he bumped against the door by accident, opening it even more. “I heard…noises in here and thought…” He hesitated uncertainly. “Actually, I’m not sure what I thought,” he admitted.

Unable to stop staring, he noted that she’d cleaned up quite nicely. Her glorious red hair curled about her face in artful disarray, making her look incredibly young and innocent. But the pale yellow sundress she wore emphasized her femininity in a way that left no doubt she was all grown up.