The Captain's Christmas Homecoming, page 5
For a brief moment, she couldn’t help but stare at her aunt because there were true similarities to her mother. The same shade of brown hair, the same oval-shaped face and high cheekbones. Other features were also similar, except that she remembered her mother’s eyes and mouth being soft, full of tender expressions. Aunt Jill’s were firm, as if full of harsh criticism.
After her aunt had refused to give her a recommendation and told her to go back to New York, Emma had become even more determined to stay. To live the life she wanted. To no longer even think about the hatred of Aunt Jill.
She could be stubborn that way. Leastwise, that’s what she’d been told.
She’d even felt proud of herself for staying here, right up until it hit her that if her aunt ever discovered she’d written to George, Jill would take that as retaliation for Martha’s actions and react.
Emma pulled her eyes away from her aunt and pressed a hand to her mouth, covering how heavy her breathing had become. This was exactly what she’d feared knowing that the King family and the Weston family were well acquainted through their businesses.
Emma’s heart kicked in and began to race as her aunt and uncle walked toward the tables that filled the room.
She couldn’t take the chance that Aunt Jill would recognize her, and quickly pushed her chair away from the table, leaped to her feet.
Turning, about to make an escape, she bumped into something, someone. It was only a matter of seconds before she realized it was George, with a cup of punch in each hand. She tried to catch a cup, or do something to stop the punch from spilling, but it was already too late. He’d pulled the cups toward him to keep them from spilling on her and now he had red punch with orange pulp trickling down the front of his gray suit coat.
“Oh, no. No. I’m so sorry!” She looked for a napkin, or anything to wipe the punch from his coat, but there was nothing, other than the tablecloth, which she couldn’t pull off the table, so she used her hands. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
“It’s just a little punch.” He set both cups on the table and grasped her wrists. “Where were you going in such a hurry?”
Her face felt like it was on fire. “The um, um...”
“Powder room?” he asked.
Anywhere away from this table was where she’d been headed, therefore the powder room sounded like a plausible place to hide. “Yes.”
“I’ll show you where it’s at.”
She didn’t dare turn around to see how close her aunt was to the table now, and the urgency to move, go anywhere, had her shifting from foot to foot. “That’s all right, you can just tell me.”
“No, I’ll show you.” He released her wrists. “I need to wash the punch off my hands.”
Her wrists felt as if they were on fire, but she had no time to worry about that and as he took a step in the opposite direction from where her aunt was approaching, she quickly shot forward. “I’m so sorry about spilling the punch. I truly am.” She waved toward a doorway leading into a hallway and hoped that was the direction of the powder room. “Through there?”
His long strides were easily keeping up with her hurried steps. “Yes, and to the right.”
Thank goodness! The farther away from her aunt, the better, but she wouldn’t be able to hide out in the powder room all evening. Why on earth had she agreed to come here tonight? Why did nothing ever go her way?
“It appears as if we are creating a habit of running into each other,” he said.
Heat filled her cheeks.
“That was you in the hallway at the apartment building, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry about that, too.”
“Don’t be. I’m didn’t mean to startle you that day, or just now.”
She nodded but said nothing as they walked down the hallway.
“Here we are.” George gestured to a door. “I’ll wait for you.”
She shook her head. “That’s not necessary.” Not wanting to sound ungrateful, she continued, “You have guests to see to.”
He stepped closer to the door and turned the knob. “You are a guest. I’ll be here when you exit.”
She wanted to dart into the room and hide, forever, but couldn’t do that with him waiting in the hallway. “Really, I—”
“I’ll be here.”
As if it might help, she held her breath and tried to think of a likely excuse or reason for him to return to the other room without her.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Or we can stand here all evening. Arguing.”
Embarrassment heated her face, but it was mixed with something else because of the smile on his face. He made her want to smile, despite nothing about any of this being funny. Shaking her head, then nodding it because she was utterly confused, she said, “I’m not arguing, I’m just—”
“Arguing,” he said, with a chuckle.
With extremely heated cheeks, she said, “I’ll be right out.”
The slight nod he gave was charming—he was charming, but she’d already known that from his letters. She stepped around him into the powder room, where she had to take several deep breaths to make her heart stop racing. George was not only charming, but also handsome, with his hair combed neatly to one side and the collar of his white shirt pressed stiff, he was... Perfect. There was no other word. He was the perfect gentleman in so many ways.
That was the reason she was here, too. Beverly hadn’t been the only one who’d wanted to attend. She had. She’d wanted to see him, talk to him in person, not just through letters, and that had been foolish. So incredibly foolish.
After a moment of hanging her head, of badgering herself for being so stupid, she lifted her head to examine herself in the mirror. She hated this. Hated being so upset with herself. For being such a ninny. What she needed to do was stand up to her aunt. Tell her she could write to anyone she wanted to, whenever she wanted.
That’s what she’d done to Delmar. Told him she could live wherever she wanted.
She hung her head again at how well that had worked out for her.
What she needed was a miracle. A true miracle.
Something along the lines of being able to disappear into thin air would work. Or even a window to climb out of, which caused her to lift her head again and look around. There was no window available in the fancy room, with its red-and-gold wallpaper, sparkling porcelain sink and fluffy white hand towels hanging on the bar beneath the mirror.
Letting out a sigh, she quickly washed the stickiness off her hands from brushing the punch off George’s suit jacket. Then she wet one of the white hand towels and carried it into the hallway.
George was there, but no longer wearing his suit coat. The muscles of his upper arms and shoulders stretched the material of his starched white shirt, which was now covered by just his blue corduroy vest. One that made his blue eyes all the brighter. The smile was still on his face; a gentle, sweet smile. All in all, it reminded her of the only other time they’d met.
Her fingers shook, causing the wet towel to slip from her hold. She managed to catch it before it dropped to the floor as she recalled how her aunt had told her to leave and never come back, that she never wanted to see her. Ever. That’s what she’d been doing—leaving—when she’d encountered him and Martha in the hallway of her aunt’s house.
He took the towel from her hand. “Are you all right?”
She pushed the memory away and nodded. “Yes. Yes. I, uh, wet the towel to wipe off your suit coat.”
“Thank you. That was thoughtful.” He set the towel on the edge of a hall table. “But a waiter is seeing to my coat.”
“Oh, that’s very kind.” It sure would be nice if she could just disappear right now. Or maybe sprout wings, fly away. Or something similar. She shouldn’t be here, no matter how badly she’d wanted to see him.
He tilted his head slightly to the left and looked at her quizzically. “Forgive me for asking, or forgetting if that is the case, but did you and I meet before I left for the war?”
Her heart felt as if it had suddenly grown arms and crawled up into her throat. He couldn’t remember her. Their meeting had been brief. A mere passing in the hallway. Yes, she remembered him, but he was unforgettable. She wasn’t. There was nothing memorable about her.
“Something about you is familiar to me,” he said.
Not sure if her voice would work or not, because she’d never been good at lying, rarely even tried, she pressed a hand to her throat. “Perhaps I look—”
“Like someone I know?” he said, finishing for her.
She nodded, having been about to say something to that effect, with an oddly squeaky sounding voice.
“Perhaps, but...” He shook his head. “Were you in a grade, or a couple of grades, below me in school?”
She shook her head. “No.” Flustered, because she was younger than him, she tried again. “I mean—”
“You didn’t go to school in Albany?”
“Yes... I mean, no, I didn’t.”
He grinned, nodded, then lifted an eyebrow. “College?”
“No.”
After what felt like a very long stretch of silence, he gently wrapped a hand around her elbow. “Shall we return to our table?”
She had no idea if Aunt Jill and Uncle Roy would be near the table or not and wasn’t ready to find out. “Don’t you...?” She had to clear her throat because she still didn’t sound like herself. How could she with her own heart trying to strangle her? “Need to wait for your suit coat?”
“No. He’ll deliver it to the table.”
“Oh.”
He held out an elbow and, grasping her hand, hooked it beneath it. “Believe me, if there was a way to escape, I would, but, as my mother pointed out, it’s my party.”
“You don’t want to be here?” she asked as they began walking.
“It’s nice to see everyone, but I’m not the only soldier returning home. I’m no one special and shouldn’t be treated any different than anyone else.”
He was special to her. Knowing she couldn’t say that, she said, “You’re special to Beverly.”
He grinned. “She is special to me, too.”
Something inside her felt as if it was melting and her nerves were playing hopscotch beneath her skin at the way she could feel the warmth of his arm through the sleeve of his shirt.
“How about we try getting her a cup of punch again?” he asked as they entered the room.
Emma’s first glance went to the punch table, and seeing no sign of her aunt or uncle, she then glanced at the table where Beverly sat. A small amount of relief washed over her because her aunt and uncle weren’t near that table, either. She wanted to scan the rest of the room but was afraid of making eye contact with her aunt.
“Okay.”
At the punch table, he filled two cups, gave one to her and carried one for Beverly.
“This must be Emma,” a woman said as they arrived at the table where Beverly was seated.
“Yes, it is,” George replied as he set a cup of punch on the table near Beverly. “Emma, allow me to introduce you to my parents. My mother, Amy, and my father, Craig.”
“We just met Beverly.” Trim, with short blond hair and twinkling blue eyes, his mother glanced at the table. “And learned how she wrote to George the entire time he was overseas. That was so wonderful.”
Emma shot a quick glance at Beverly, who was grinning from ear to ear, before she nodded to his parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Weston. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Oh, please, call us Craig and Amy.” His father was as tall as George, and though his hair was gray, he looked like an older version of his son, except that George had clearly inherited his twinkling blue eyes from his mother. “We are delighted to meet both you and Beverly,” his father said. “And to have you join us tonight.”
“Indeed we are, and yes, dear, do call us by our given names,” his mother said. “You’ve already met the rest of the family, so let’s be seated.” With a wave of one hand, his mother turned her smile on George. “Your father will make a quick speech before the meal is served. You sit right here, and Emma, you sit right there next to him.”
Chapter Four
His father’s speech was short and to the point as he thanked everyone for joining the family in welcoming him home, the meal that was served was delicious and plentiful and the sounds filling the room told him that people were enjoying the opportunity to get together. George was fully aware of all this, even while his mind and a large portion of his attention was focused on Emma.
He had this deep gut feeling that he’d met her before. When she’d walked out of the bathroom and their gazes had locked, he’d had a distinct feeling of déjà vu. As if he’d seen those exact same thickly lashed brown eyes looking up at him before today, and before the other day in the apartment-building hallway.
Her voice wasn’t familiar, nor were her mannerisms, and he couldn’t remember ever meeting a woman named Emma, but his instincts were too strong to ignore, which made him search his mind more thoroughly.
“George?”
He turned to his left, where his mother sat. Emma was on his right.
“I said it’s really a nice turnout, don’t you think?” his mother asked.
His mother thrived on planning and executing parties and community events, and for her sake, he nodded. “Yes, it is. Thank you for all your work in planning it.”
“This? It was nothing. A few phone calls and it was all set, but you’re welcome.” She patted his arm. “I’m so glad you invited Beverly and Emma. I didn’t know you’d been exchanging letters with them.”
He almost corrected her by saying it had only been Beverly that he’d exchanged letters with, but the tingling sensation rippling over his shoulders made him question if that was true. The warm vanilla scent that had been on those letters was still filling his nose, and it was coming from Emma, not Beverly. Perhaps she had assisted Beverly in writing the letters.
Less than a minute later, that idea become even more imbedded in him because of his uncle Walt.
Known for his jokes, Uncle Walt asked, “Anyone know what the tablecloth said to the table?”
As others shook their heads or rolled their eyes—that was Aunt Adelle and Janice, who were exposed to Walt’s jokes all the time—Beverly spoke up.
“Oh, I’m sure Emma knows,” she said, with adoration in her eyes and voice. “She knows all sorts of jokes and riddles. It’s because she works with children. That’s what she does. Works in the library at the elementary school on Washington Street.”
All eyes turned to Emma. A protectiveness arose in George, and he wanted to touch her hand, tell her she didn’t have to answer.
With her cheeks flushed, she gently shook her head. “I don’t believe I know that one.”
“I’ve got you covered!” Uncle Walt answered, laughing harder than anyone else.
“We’ll have to write that one down,” Beverly said to Emma.
Emma nodded, but George sensed that she’d known the answer and hadn’t wanted to intrude on Walt’s enjoyment of sharing the answer. He questioned if she had supplied Beverly with the jokes and riddles in the letters.
“Tell them one of your riddles,” Beverly encouraged Emma.
Emma bowed her head shyly.
George knew the feeling of being put on the spot and pushed his chair back from the table. The meal had ended, and others were moving to the dance floor. He tapped Emma’s shoulder. “Would you care to dance?”
Disappointment rose inside him at her hesitancy as she glanced across the room, towards the dance floor, but then, to his surprise, she turned to him and nodded.
He wondered if he should question the excitement that her response created inside him, but chose not to as he rose to his feet and assisted her from her chair. Taking her elbow, he guided her left, around their table, mainly because of the couple approaching their table from the right. He’d spoken to Roy and Jill King on his first night home. They’d came over to the house and assured him that they hadn’t known anything about Martha breaking their engagement until she’d already eloped.
Their attitude had created nothing but sympathy for Martha, mixed with a bit of happiness because of her courage. From what her parents had said, they hadn’t seen her since her elopement, as she hadn’t come back to Albany since then.
That didn’t surprise him. Martha had often talked of moving to New York City, and it was clear her parents were still upset over the elopement. Especially Jill. She obviously cared more about the future of North Country Logging than about her daughter’s happiness.
That hadn’t surprised him, either. She’d been the one to suggest the marriage, the merger. It had been shortly after Robert had died, and Jill had been at their house. He remembered it plainly, because he’d told her that he’d take over the company someday and make it the biggest and best in the nation.
She’d scowled at him and said the only way he’d ever do that was to marry Martha and merge their two companies.
He’d only been a kid, a little kid, and she’d scared the dickens out of him, and in his attempt to be brave, to be older, he’d told her that he would do that, and he’d told his parents, too.
Over the years, they had questioned him about his childhood decision, but when he’d continued to state that’s what he’d wanted, they’d agreed.
Glancing at Emma walking beside him, he asked, “You work at the elementary school library?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?” he asked while guiding them around tables.
“Almost two years.”
“Is that when you moved to Albany?”
“Yes.”
“From where?” He clamped his teeth together, feeling as if he was drilling her for answers. He was curious to know more about her but hadn’t meant for it to sound like an inquiry.
