Falling (9 page)

Emma frowns. “I'm not sure I'd call it fun. It's a bit of a scene. Sophie loved it.”

“You didn't?”

“I'm more of a quiet, glass-of-wine-in-a-corner kind of girl. We met someone who knows you, though. A real estate agent. Jeff Mulligan?”

Dominic smiles. “Yeah. Another townie. I've known him forever. Small world, huh?” He peers at Emma. “I think I know everyone in town. So, did he ask you out?”

Emma feels herself blush. “I'm not sure. He suggested dinner, but he didn't take my number.”

“Did he give you his business card?”

“Yes!” She laughs. “So I don't quite know what he meant by dinner. I think he sees me as a prospective client.”

“Jeff sees everyone as a prospective client. Which doesn't mean he won't also see you as a prospective something else. Although I'll admit I wouldn't have thought he's your type.”

“No? What do you think my type is?” Emma leans forward to see him better. It's so dark, his features light up every now and then as the candle flickers in the breeze.

“I don't know,” Dominic says slowly. “Why don't you tell me?” The candlelight glints in his eyes as he looks at her, as he leans toward her, never taking his eyes from her face. Emma's heart skips, then stops. They stare at each other, not speaking, the garden completely silent, as a cat yowls from the garden opposite, breaking the spell.

“I'd . . . better go inside,” she says softly.

Dominic sits back, the moment gone, both of them wondering what had just happened; what might have happened had the cat not stolen that moment away.

•   •   •

Emma can't stop smiling. She locks the front door feeling as if she is walking on air. What did it mean? What
does
it mean? None of this should make sense; this is not the kind of man she thought she would fall for. Even that sentence sounds ridiculous. What kind of man
did
she think she would fall for? A banker? A hedge-fund manager? One of the tanned men at the bar tonight, buoyed by alcohol and their own narcissistic sense of self-importance? Jeff? She shudders.

Has she fallen for Dominic? Has
he
fallen for
her
? That moment, in the garden, when they stopped speaking, when they just stared at each other as Emma's heart skipped a beat before racing wildly. Wasn't that the moment he was supposed to kiss her? She could feel it, could sense it in the air, the intimacy, the chemistry, the excitement, but then, the cat. He had pulled away.

There was something there. She felt it. She is old enough and experienced enough to recognize chemistry, even in the most unexpected of places. She does like him. Every time she sees him, she feels happy. Sometimes when she's in the house, and she hears his truck pull in the driveway, without even realizing she is doing it, she starts to smile. She doesn't know when this started. She thinks of him guiding her through the garden gate the other night, his hand on the small of her back, the feeling of safety that came over her. She feels safe with him. He is the kind of man who would look after her. He is the kind of man who
is
looking after her.
Look at how he takes care of Jesse.
She is still smiling as she thinks of him building her shelves, helping her out in the kitchen, and just now, in the garden, almost . . . almost . . . kissing her.

Could she see herself with a man like Dominic? A few months ago she would have said no. Not because he wasn't a city boy, but because they come from such different worlds. She thinks of the world she comes from, the world she moved across the Atlantic to escape. The formality and pretension of her aspirational mother, the expectations everyone held for her, expectations that led her into banking in the first place. And during those New York years, all the parties, the competitiveness, the one-upmanship, how relieved she is to have escaped to a quieter life.

“Stop!” she says out loud, realizing how ridiculous it is to project into the future, to think about what kind of a life she might have with Dominic. This isn't what she does, what she has ever done. She has never been the sort of woman to dream about getting married. On girls' nights out, in her twenties, even when she was with Rufus and knew the path down which she was supposed to be traveling, she was never comfortable having the conversations the girls sometimes had: where they would get married, what kind of flowers they would have,
what—oh, how many times did she listen to this one—the dress would be like.

Emma was never interested. She shakes her head now to dislodge her thoughts. Why is she even thinking about whether she could see herself and Dominic together? It's not like she's looking for a relationship with anyone. The fact that he makes her feel good is irrelevant, surely. She has bigger things to focus on—living intentionally and on her own terms, perhaps for the first time ever in her life.

Twenty minutes later she is brushing her teeth when she hears a car pulling up outside the house. Padding into the library, toothbrush still in her mouth, she leaves the lights off to peer through the window, knowing she can't be seen. Who could it be, so late at night?

A Jeep is in Dominic's driveway. Emma stands to one side and watches as the lights go off and the car door opens. And out steps Gina, who pauses for a minute to shake her hair out. Emma's heart sinks.

Of course. That was why he left. Gina was coming over. Emma got it completely wrong. He wasn't about to kiss her. That was all in her imagination. Why would he have kissed her when he has Gina?

Feeling stupid, and disproportionately sad over something so silly, Emma goes back into the bathroom to rinse, then crawls into bed. She tries to distract her sorrows with a few pages of the book on her nightstand. But it doesn't work. Eventually, finally, she falls asleep.

T
he Jeep is gone by the time Emma wakes up, earlier than she normally would, only because Hobbes pads along her pillow, purring, curling herself up in the crook of Emma's neck, and licking her chin with a rough, raspy tongue.

Emma nuzzles Hobbes for a while, going over everything that happened the night before with Dominic. The talking, the sharing, the intimacy.

This morning she finds herself embarrassed. He has a girlfriend; she needs to push him out of her head, at least in any capacity other than helpful landlord.

I will be friendly and polite, but a little cool,
she thinks.
I will ensure that he does not think his tenant is interested, that if I was a little flirty last night, or a little too revealing, it was just because I was a little drunk, not because I have a crush on him, or anything ridiculous like that.

As she thinks this, she pictures him in his jeans and T-shirts,
pictures his dimples when he smiles, the way he pushes his hair back when it falls into his eyes as he's working, and she finds that she is smiling to herself. Horrified, she wipes the smile off her face as she hears a noise.

“Hello?” She jumps out of bed and runs into the living room, to find Jesse standing in the middle of the room, still bleary-eyed with sleep.

“Jesse? How did you get in?” She is careful to lock all the doors every night, city girl that she is. She frowns, clearly remembering having locked both the front door and the back last night, after Dominic left.

Jesse grins. “Cat flap.”

Emma can't help but smile. “Ah! The infamous cat flap!”

Jesse drops down to the floor and easily slips through the flap to the other side, popping up to wave at her through the glass of the window, before coming back through.

“Well, you're a boy of many talents, aren't you? Have you come to see Hobbes? You did a wonderful job of looking after her last night. She was so happy when I came home.”

“Can I feed her?” says Jesse, spying Hobbes in the corridor and running over to get her, which sends her darting under the bed in fear.

“Yes. And go gently. Move slowly so she doesn't think you want to play a game of chase, and she'll come to you. Have you had breakfast?”

Jesse shakes his head.

“How about I make pancakes?”

Jesse's face lights up, and Emma walks into the kitchen, makes a fresh pot of coffee, checks for eggs, flour, and milk, and gets to work.

At some point while she is spooning homemade pancake batter onto the griddle, Emma decides that she is not going to stress about
making conversation with a six-year-old. In fact, she's not even going to try. She is going to let Jesse lead the way. If he doesn't speak, she will make herself busy doing something on the computer. Making conversation with a six-year-old, finding common ground, is altogether too anxiety-inducing for someone who doesn't consider herself good with children. With that decided, she slides a few of the finished pancakes onto a plate for Jesse, puts them on the table, and heads back into the kitchen to clean up.

“Where are yours?” says Jesse.

“I might eat them later,” calls Emma, sponge already in hand.

“Oh.” Jesse pauses. “But then they'll be cold.”

“Good point,” says Emma. She puts down the sponge, puts two more pancakes on a plate for herself, and sets it down opposite Jesse and sits.

“Is it okay for us to eat together?” she asks.

Jesse nods happily as Emma suppresses a smile.

“These are good,” he says in surprise, taking a huge bite, talking as he chews.

“It's vanilla extract,” confesses Emma. “It's the secret ingredient. Can you close your mouth when you chew because . . .
ew!
I can see all the food in there.” Much to her surprise, Jesse instantly closes his mouth. “And I added a bit of sugar,” she continues. “You're not supposed to, but frankly I think everything's better with a little sugar added to it. I'm a bit of a sugar addict, you know.”

“I love sugar, too,” says Jesse, his mouth again open and full. “You know what my favorite sandwiches are?”

“No. Can I guess?”

Jesse nods.

“Pesto chicken, Fontina cheese, and tomato?”

He makes a face.

“Chicken, dill, and mustard sauce? Roast beef and horseradish? Gravlax and dill?”

Jesse clearly has no idea what she is talking about, but Emma is having fun. She could go on all day, thinking up exotic sandwiches a six-year-old would never have heard of, let alone tasted.

“Sugar,” he interrupts her, with a whisper and a devilish grin.

“What?” Emma feigns horror.

“I do it when my dad's sleeping.”

“I know you expect me to be shocked,” says Emma, “but that's what my mother had as a treat after the war. White bread, thick butter, and sugar.”

“Butter?” Jesse is intrigued.

“Oh yes. She says it's all about the butter.” Emma leans forward and drops her voice. “I could make one now, one with butter, one without. We could both sample them so we can decide which kind is better. What do you think?”

Jesse nods vigorously, as Emma pushes her chair back to go to the kitchen, grateful she had the foresight to buy a fresh loaf of bread yesterday. It isn't the processed white Wonder Bread that her mother loves, but it will have to do. She cuts thin slices, removes their crusts, and slathers thick slabs of cold butter, straight from the fridge, on one slice only.

She pulls the silver sugar shaker out of the cupboard, smiling as she always does when she uses it. It is a ridiculous thing for a single girl to own, she knows, the kind of old-fashioned object no one has anymore, and certainly not someone with no husband or children. But her mother gave it to her, and it was a remnant of her childhood, and it always makes her think of her childhood home when she uses it. She gives each piece of bread a liberal sprinkling of sugar, then
another, and then tops the sandwich with another slice of bread and cuts each in half again for her and Jesse to sample.

He has pushed the plate of pancakes away in anticipation of this forbidden treat. They each pick up a butterless sandwich and take one bite, staring into each other's eyes, Emma forcing herself not to grimace at the overwhelming sweetness.

“It's good,” says Jesse, mouth filled with sandwich and sugar, as he grins.

“Next,” says Emma, handing him the one smeared with butter. Jesse takes a bite, then closes his eyes, a slow smile spreading on his face as Emma takes her own bite. She has heard her mother wax lyrical about sugar sandwiches since she was a tiny girl but has never before tried one herself.

“Oh, man,” Emma says, her tongue searching out the grains of sugar and thick creamy butter mixed in with the yeasty dough. “That is delicious.”

“Mmmmmm!” says Jesse, wolfing down the rest of the sandwich. “Butter!”

“I never thought I'd like it, but that was amazing. I'm guessing you don't want the rest of your pancakes?”

“I do!” Jesse pulls the plate back and carries on with his official breakfast. “Do you think Hobbes would like sugar sandwiches?” he asks Emma.

“Only if they were coated in cat food,” she says.

“What is cat food made of?” asks Jesse.

“I have absolutely no idea. It says turkey in gravy and beef, but who knows what else.”

“Can I see if she likes pancakes?”

“Okay. But I don't think she will.”

Jesse pulls off a tiny piece and puts it on the floor in front of Hobbes's nose. Hobbes sniffs it, then, to Jesse's delight, bats it across the room, running after it, trying to pull it out from under the chair with her paw.

There is a knock on the back door, startling Emma, who looks up to see Dominic's face in the glass.

Oh God. Again. At least she doesn't have mascara smudged under her eyes. Still, why does this man have to keep seeing her at her worst?
Why should it matter?
she reminds herself.
Friendly but cool tenant,
she thinks, beckoning him in.

Friendly but cool.

“What's going on here?” says Dominic, as relaxed and easy in his skin as he always is.

What was I expecting?
wonders Emma.
Some kind of weird morning-after-the-night-before? Nothing happened. Look! He isn't behaving any differently, which means I don't have to get weird.
She takes a breath and tries to relax, even though it's hard to look at him, particularly given that smile, which causes a small flip in her stomach. She looks away.

“I'm just making breakfast for Jesse,” she says, making big eyes at her young breakfast companion, trying vainly to telegraph that he hide the last of the sugar sandwiches.

“Is there enough for me? I'm starving.” Dominic walks over and picks up Emma's sugar sandwich. “What is this? Egg?” Before anyone can say anything he pops the whole thing in his mouth.

“Oh my God, this is good! What the hell is this? It tastes like sugar!”

Jesse grins.

“It's a sugar sandwich. With butter,” says Emma, reluctantly. “I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. It's my mother's favorite treat and I had to introduce it to Jesse. But I'll hypnotize him and make him forget he ever tasted it, I swear.”

“Can you make me another one?” says Dominic, high-fiving Jesse, who whoops in delight, before reaching over and grabbing one of Jesse's pancakes. “I've got bacon in the fridge if we need bacon,” Dominic adds.

“Yes to the bacon.” Emma's face is serious. She's both relieved Dominic isn't angry, and pleased at the suggestion of the three of them sharing breakfast. “Bacon is always needed. Go get the bacon.”

And before long they are all three sitting down at the table, to a feast of pancakes, more sugar sandwiches, and crispy bacon glazed with maple syrup (Dominic's idea). They sit, and laugh, and tell jokes, while Jesse gets Hobbes to try out everything to see what she likes (just the bacon).

Emma forgets that she saw Gina park her Jeep in Dominic's driveway late last night. She forgets that Dominic has a girlfriend, that she is supposed to be embarrassed to have given him any indication that she was interested in him. She forgets that she went to bed feeling lonely, and sad. She is too busy having fun.

“You got something here,” says Dominic, gesturing to his own lips as he looks at Emma.

Emma flushes a bright red, her hand flying to her mouth. “Did I get it?” she asks as she brushes her lips.

“No. Here.” He reaches forward and brushes his fingers over the side of her bottom lip, and her breath catches as he looks in her eyes. “Got it,” he says quietly, his smile fading. A second passes. Then Emma jumps up.

“I'm going to clear,” she says, and she can't look at him, knows that her face is bright red, that she is flushed from head to toe.

“I'm going to take Jesse to camp,” says Dominic. “Come on, buddy. Let's go.”

“No!” says Jesse. “I want to stay here and play with Hobbes.”

“You've got to go to camp,” Dominic says in his stern voice. He turns to Emma and adds, “And Emma has work to do, right?”

“I do,” says Emma, the flush finally fading. “But, Jesse, I meant what I said. You can come over anytime. Hobbes will be right here waiting for you when you get home from camp.”

“Can I come over as soon as I get home?”

“Absolutely. The cat flap is now yours to use as you please.”

“Look, Dad!” Jesse drops to the floor and scoots through the cat flap, waving delightedly from the other side.

“Oh God,” groans Dominic. “I'm really sorry, Emma. I didn't think he'd be in and out of your house with the damn cat flap. I can tell him not to. I don't want him bothering you.”

Emma finds herself slightly insulted by the suggestion that Jesse might be bothering her. “He's not bothering me,” says Emma. “He's sweet. We had a lovely time before you arrived.”

“Great. Thanks. How to make a guy feel wanted.”

Emma laughs. “I didn't mean that! I just meant we were having fun—he's lovely.”

“As long as
I'm
not unwanted, we're all good.”

Don't blush,
she thinks.
Don't blush, don't blush, don't blush.

She knows he is watching her but she can't meet his eyes.

“We're all good,” she says, not taking the bait. Not looking at him, willing herself to keep her cool.

“Okay. Jesse, let's go. See you later, Emma.” And with a smile, he and Jesse are gone.