Public Secrets

“You—never made it back to the beach.”
“No.” She continued to smile, but the dimple faded away from the corner of her mouth. “I never learned to surf. I didn’t know if you’d still be living at home.”
“Actually, I’m not. I lost a bet with my old man, so he gets free gardening service for a few weeks.” He didn’t have a clue what to say to her. She looked so beautiful, so fragile somehow, standing on the freshly shorn grass in her expensive Italian pumps, her pale hair stirring slightly in the light breeze. “How’ve you been?” he managed at last.
“Fine. And you?”
“All right. I’ve seen your picture now and again. Once you were in one of those ski places.”
“Saint Moritz.”
“I guess.” Her eyes were the same, he thought. Big, blue, and haunted. Looking into them made his stomach dance. “Are you —visiting around here?”
“No. Well, yes. Actually—”
“Michael.” He turned at his mother’s voice. She stood in the doorway, neat as a pin. “Aren’t you going to ask your friend in for a cold drink?”
“Sure. Got a few minutes?” he asked Emma.
“Yes. I was hoping to speak to your father.”
He felt his hopes deflate like a used party balloon. Where had he gotten the idea that she had come to see him? “Dad’s inside.” He managed to smile. “Gloating.”

Emma followed him to the door Marge had left open. She had a death grip on her purse now, and no amount of mental effort could relax her fingers.
They had their tree up. Emma glimpsed it, standing full of tinsel and shiny balls near the front window. There were presents under it, neatly wrapped and bowed, and sprigs of pine here and there that scented the house.
The furniture was old, not shabby but established. A family had shared these pieces, she thought. Had shared them so long, they hardly saw them now, but settled into the couch or a chair comfortably day after day, evening after evening. Curtains were pulled back to let in the light. A trio of African violets bloomed lavishly on a stand by the east window.
She had taken off her sunglasses and was folding and unfolding the earpieces as she studied the room.
“Want to sit down?”
“Yes, thank you. I won’t stay long. I know I’m disrupting your weekend.”
“Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to cutting the grass all week.” He grinned, relaxed again, and gestured to a chair. “I’ll get my father.”
Before he could, Marge walked in carrying a tray crowded with a pitcher of fresh iced tea and glasses and a plate of her homemade sugar cookies. “Here we are. Michael, button your shirt,” she said casually, then set the tray on the coffee table. “It’s nice to have one of Michael’s friends drop by.”
“Emma, this is my mother. Mom, Emma McAvoy.”
Recognition came swiftly. Marge worked hard to keep both sympathy and fascination out of her eyes. “Oh yes, of course.” She poured the tea. “I still have the clipping from the paper—where you and Michael met on the beach.”
“Mom—”
“A mother’s allowed,” she said mildly. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Emma.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to just drop in this way.”
“Nonsense. Michael’s friends are always welcome here.”
“Emma came to see Dad.”
“Oh.” The frown in her eyes came and went quickly. “Well, he’s out in the back making sure Michael didn’t run down any of his rosebushes. I’ll get him.”

“One rosebush—when I was twelve,” Michael said as he snatched up a cookie. “And I’ll never be trusted again. Try a cookie, Mom makes the best on the block.”
She took one out of politeness, terrified to put anything in her stomach. “You have a lovely home.”
He remembered his brief tour through the Beverly Hills mansion where she’d spent that summer. “I’ve always liked it.” He leaned over, laid a hand on hers. “What’s wrong, Emma?”
She couldn’t have said why that quiet question, that gentle hand almost snapped the last of her control. It would be so easy to lean on him, to pour out her heart and be comforted. But that would just be running again. “I’m not really sure.”
She rose when Lou came in. Her smile was hesitant, vulnerable, and for Michael, devastatingly appealing. “Captain.”
“Emma.” Obviously pleased, he crossed to her to take both of her hands. “All grown-up.”
She nearly broke down then, almost laid her head on his chest and wept as she once had so long ago. Instead she gripped his hands tightly,