Emma's Secret: A Novel

at the place and its surroundings the day Detective Riley had asked her and Peter to meet him there. But in the evening, with the sun setting, Megan’s heart ached. This was where her daughter grew up for two years, in the country, surrounded by flower gardens, trees, and open fields. She pictured her little girl playing in the front yard, chasing butterflies or picking dandelions. Now, when Emma told her stories of when she’d help Jack pick weeds and sing songs to his rosebushes, Megan could picture it.
    She knew Emma had been happy in that run-down farmhouse—happier than she was at home now. She needed Emma to become settled back at home, to adjust, to smile, and to be willing to createnew memories. She needed Jack to respect her wishes as Emma’s mother. Apparently, he didn’t.
    He could write all the letters he wanted to her daughter, but she would guarantee that Emma never saw them.
    He’d kept Emma from her for two long years. It didn’t matter that her child had been happy and well cared for. It didn’t matter that she had been loved by strangers. The fact of the matter was that he’d kept her daughter from her. She hadn’t believed him when he’d said he had no idea; that he’d believed Emma was his granddaughter. Megan had listened to him try to explain how Emma had come to them and how he’d never thought to question his wife. How could he not? If Peter hadn’t put his foot down after the investigation, Megan would have pressed charges.
    No. Jack Henry would never be a part of their lives, and Megan would do everything she could to ensure that.

CHAPTER THREE
    E mmie’s First Year
    July 25
    It’s my birthday today. Jack surprised me with fresh scones and tea. He took Emmie into town with him to the bakery, even though he’d promised me he wouldn’t take her out in public. It’s not safe. He knows how I feel about Emmie leaving the house. It’s not often he goes against me like that. It’s our responsibility to shelter her as much as possible. Her laughter, the way her eyes light up when she smiles—I don’t want that to ever go away. Not like it did with Mary.
    Jack understands. I know he does.
    I’ve been told I need to spend some time today away from the house, and that there is going to be a special surprise for me, and I can’t be home while they do it. Or make it. I hope Jack will bake me a cake. On our first date, we picnicked near the stream on his father’s land, and he’d baked me the most delicious vanilla cake I’ve ever tasted. Even after all these years, he holds his mother’s recipe close. I’ve tried to get him to write it down for me, but he refuses. Says it requires a magic touch. I’ll be sure to leave the coconut out on the counter, though. I’ve got a hankering for a coconut cake today.
    Emmie wanted to know what I would do, since I can’t stay at home. I really have no idea. It’s been a long time since I spent the dayjust by myself with nothing to do. Jack and Emmie are downstairs making a list for me. I already know what Emmie will suggest—a stop at the local bookstore. Jack handed me some money to buy myself a dress or two. But Emmie needs clothes more than I do. That child grows like a weed, just like Mary did.
    I think the first thing I will do, though, is drive down to the lake. There’s a place I like to go; it’s special in some way…I wish I could remember how. The memory is there, I can feel it, but no matter how hard I try, it slips away from me.
    There’s a little tree that’s been freshly planted in the wooded area just before you step onto the sand. I noticed it the last time. My mother used to tell me how important it is to plant a tree when a loved one has passed on. I think I planted it, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I was thinking of my mother that day, of how much she loved the water. But I have two trees in our yard—one for her and one for Daddy.
    Maybe Jack will know.

    The creak of the old wood rocker broke the silence. Jack knew he should turn on the radio for company, but there was something in the air tonight; a restlessness he couldn’t quite understand.
    It was a night for memories.
    He sank his head back on the worn chair and closed his eyes. Fairies danced before him, their lights flickering as they twirled in the air, or so Emmie used to say. The fairy lights were just Christmas lights Dottie had unearthed from who knew where—lights that he had spent hours tacking onto the wall—but it made their little girl