In Your Dreams
Page 50
Come to think of it, Jack did know what sound was better than Emmaline laughing. It was her saying his name in a breathy, almost startled voice, and it made him feel incredible to make her feel so good.
Then he took her to bed and pulled her against him, her dark hair against his jaw, her hand over his heart. She was asleep within seconds, but Jack just lay there, feeling something he hadn’t felt in a while now.
Peace.
His marriage had been tumultuous, Jack never knowing which version of Hadley he’d be coming home to at the end of the day. The brief periods of happiness had been built on what he thought he knew, like judging a wine on its color and clarity, only to find it had turned to vinegar. After he’d walked in on Hadley and Oliver came that edgy, angry sense of failure—and loneliness.
And then, since the boys had gone into the water, his mind had been like a river after a savage flood, all sorts of sharp, dangerous things sliding under the current, sharp and unseen, sometimes rushing past, sometimes slamming into him without warning.
But now there was something else blanketing that, and for the first time in a very long while, Jack felt at peace.
He wouldn’t have guessed the potty-mouthed hockey-playing cop would’ve been the right one for him.
He’d have been wrong.
Lazarus jumped up on the bed, and, after a second, Jack heard the cat’s rusty purr. From Emmaline’s side, no less. Even his feral cat liked her.
He wasn’t aware that he’d fallen asleep until he heard a noise. A thudding.
Thunder?
No.
Someone was at the door.
The clock read 2:37 a.m.
He slid out of bed, pulled on his pants and went to the front door. It was Pru.
It couldn’t be good.
“I’ve been calling for forty-five minutes, Useless!” she barked. “Pops had a heart attack. Hurry up, Jack! It’s not good.”
Adrenaline shot through his arms and legs. He grabbed a sweatshirt from a hook and pulled it on, ran to get his wallet and keys. And phone.
Sixteen missed calls. A screen full of texts. Why the hell hadn’t he heard?
“Is everything okay?”
Em stood there, wearing his bathrobe, hair tangled.
“Our grandfather’s in the hospital,” Pru said. “Heart attack.”
“Oh, no! Can I do anything?”
“My phone was off,” Jack said tightly.
Her hand flew over her mouth. “Jack, I’m so sorry. I muted it before...”
Jesus H. Christ. That was something that Hadley would do. Not Emmaline. “We have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
He didn’t have time to discuss it.
His grandfather was dying, and he hadn’t even known.
* * *
EVERYONE WAS AT the hospital, sitting grimly in the waiting room of the E.R. Goggy was flanked by Honor and Faith; Abby was sobbing quietly in Ned’s arms; Carl, Levi, Charlie and Tom stood off to one side. Mrs. J. had her arm around Dad.
Jack went right to Goggy and knelt in front of her chair. “Oh, Jack,” she said, and hugged him.
“We don’t know anything right now,” Honor murmured. “Jeremy’s still with him.”
Apparently, Pops had awakened with chest pain radiating into his left arm. He’d been unable to talk, and Goggy didn’t waste time, just pressed the emergency button that all apartments at Rushing Creek had and shoved a baby aspirin in her husband’s mouth. The facility had its own ambulance service, and they’d gotten him to the hospital in fewer than fifteen minutes. Goggy also called Jeremy, who was Pops’s regular doctor, and Jer was with the cardiologist now.
“Sounds like you did everything right,” Jack told his grandmother. “Just like always.”
“We only just started liking each other last year.” She wept against his neck, and Jack hugged her closer.
“Now, now,” Jack murmured, his throat tight. “You know what he told me the other day? He said you were the love of his life.”
Goggy tried to smile. “Of course I am. Who else would put up with him?”
“Hey, guys,” Jeremy said from the hallway. “He’s stable for now. Elizabeth, he wants to see you in a minute. John, could you come with me?”
Dad looked at him, and Jack went with him, putting his arm around his father’s shoulders as they walked down the hall.
Usually, his sisters would make disgruntled comments about sexism in the family and call Jack the little prince. The fact that they didn’t was horrible.
No one lives forever, of course. That wasn’t exactly news, but it was still shocking when that universal truth hit home.
Pops was easy to dismiss as a joking, bickering old man, but that was just the surface. John Noble Holland, Jr., had a deep love of his family and land, the work ethic of a Spartan and a sentimental streak that he did his best to keep hidden. But he got choked up every time he saw Jack in his navy whites. He put flowers on all the graves in the Holland family cemetery on the anniversaries of their deaths and each April before the blessing of the crops. His eyes filled when Faith and Levi told everyone about the baby. Last year, when Goggy had almost died in a house fire, the fear of losing his wife had practically felled him.
Jeremy stopped outside a room and signaled them to go in.
Pops was gray, an oxygen mask over his face. If not for the beeping of the heart monitor, Jack would’ve assumed he was dead.
“We’re here, Dad,” his father said, taking the old man’s hand. His eyes were full of tears.
“Hey, Pops,” Jack said.
Pops’s eyes fluttered open. He gestured weakly to his face, and Jeremy leaned over and took the mask off. “Proud of you,” he whispered, looking at Dad, then Jack. “So proud of my boys.”
Then his eyes closed again, and the beeping of the monitor slowed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TO SAY THAT Emmaline was writhing in guilt would not have been an exaggeration.
Shit. How could she have decided to mute Jack’s phone? Without even asking him? For the tenth time that morning, she scrubbed a hand over her face.
She was still at his house, though she had to go to work in half an hour. But she’d stayed, hoping to see him first. The coffeemaker was set up, and she’d even baked somewhere around 4:00 a.m.—an almond coffee cake, her grandmother’s recipe, and one of the few things Em could bake from memory. She’d imagined Jack coming home and telling her his grandpa was okay, what a night, had she baked, all was certainly forgiven, no worries on the phone thing.
But he didn’t come home, and he didn’t call or text, either, and she didn’t dare interrupt. She wasn’t family, after all.
The rain had turned to snow at some point, the fat, heavy, discouraging snow of late winter, not enough to be a real storm, more than enough to be depressing.
Sarge erupted into excitable barks, and Emmaline jolted from the table where she was sitting. Sarge’s tail wagged and he whined and pawed at the floor-to-ceiling window.
It was Hadley, walking up Jack’s driveway, wearing a shiny black raincoat.
Super.
Emmaline opened the door just as the other woman knocked. “Surprise!” Hadley said, opening the raincoat.
She was wearing a fire-engine-red bustier and tiny scrap of panties.
“Hi there,” Em said. “Nice underwear.” That was a perfect body, all right. Em guessed her thigh and Hadley’s waist had about the same circumference.
“Where’s Jack? I need to talk to him. Right now.”
Uh-oh.
Hadley was drunk.
Her eye makeup was smeared, and while she didn’t quite look like Heath Ledger as the Joker, it was close. Her red, red lipstick had been crookedly applied, and the usually smooth and perfect blond hair was matted in the back. Despite the cold, she wasn’t wearing stockings. Or sensible shoes...those had to be four-inch heels, and her feet were nearly blue.
“Come in,” Emmaline said. “Jack’s not here.”
“Well, I was already at Blue Heron, and no one’s there, so don’t you lie to me! I wanna see him! He’s my husband, after all!”
“Not anymore he’s not,” Em said. She wasn’t about to tell Hadley about poor Mr. Holland. She’d end up going to the hospital, and Em didn’t think Jack would want that one bit.
But you know what? This was good practice for crisis negotiations. Half the calls they got were because someone was under the influence. First rule of negotiations: establish rapport. “Come on in, Hadley. Those shoes are amazing, but your feet must be freezing.”
“I don’t hafta do what you say,” Hadley slurred.
“No, of course not. But are you sure? It’s nice and warm in here. There’s coffee.”
“Take a bite of my pink...Southern...ass.” She poked a finger against Em’s chest with each of the last three words.
Em smothered a smile. Hard to commit to active listening and empathy with a statement like that. “You must be pretty frustrated,” she said.
“Go to hell. Where’s Jack?”
“He’s not here. I promise.”
“Are you two sleeping together?”
Ruh-roh. Emmaline paused.
“No!” Hadley shrieked, guessing the answer. “How dare you steal my husband, you Yankee slut!”
Clearly, stating the obvious wasn’t going to help here. Em opened the door wider. “Hadley, come on inside and we can talk. You, uh, you have a point.”
“No! You’re not the boss of me! And if I can’t have Jack, then I may as well go off and die!” She burst into noisy sobs.
For the love of the baby Jesus. “Hadley. Let’s have some coffee, and you can, um, see Lazarus. Right? You must miss him. You’re a cat person, right?”
“I hate that animal! I hate him! Jack! Jack! I need you! If you don’t come out right now, I swear I’m gonna make you sorry!”
With that, she picked up a rock and threw it at the house, and it was like she was channeling Derek Jeter firing to first base, because there was a smash as a window broke.
Clearly, that hadn’t been planned, because Hadley’s mouth dropped open. She cut her wide eyes to Emmaline. “Oopsy,” she said, then bolted, wobbling crazily in her ridiculous shoes. Instead of down the driveway toward the road, she ran into the woods.
This was just great. With a curse, Em ran after her. This was not how she wanted to spend her morning, and God forbid Jack come up the driveway to see his girlfriend (who’d turned off his phone to make sure their shagging wouldn’t be interrupted, preventing him from being with his family during a crisis) chasing his ex-wife (who was drunk off her pink Southern ass and nearly naked).
For a drunk, Hadley was fast. “Hadley!” Em yelled. “Knock it off! You’re going to hurt yourself!”
Or freeze to death. It was raw today. Hadley’s coat flapped like awkward wings. And what was that about making Jack sorry, huh? Aside from breaking his window, that was?
Jack didn’t need this. Not with Mr. Holland in the hospital, very, very sick...or even dead. “Hadley. Please stop.”
She turned around and gave Emmaline the finger.
Nice. A branch slapped Em across the forehead and tangled in her hair, and she growled with irritation.
She caught up to Hadley as the smaller woman tried to climb over a rock wall. Hadley saw her coming, bent over and picked up a handful of something, then turned and shoved it in Em’s face.
Dirt and snow. Gross.
Em grabbed her hand, twisted it behind her back and yanked her back against her. “Knock it off,” she said, spitting out some frozen moss. “Or I’m arresting you for drunk and disorderly.”
“Jack! Jack!” Hadley shrieked, struggling.
So. Getting a drunken, surprisingly strong woman out of the woods wasn’t easy. “Can you just walk, please?” she said as Hadley writhed. “I really don’t want to have to carry you.” She got kicked in the shin as an answer. Branches snapped underfoot, and a squirrel followed them from the tree branches, laughing at the idiocy. Some of the snow Hadley had shoved at her had slid down Em’s shirt (of course), and there was a cold, wet lump sitting on her chest like a third breast.
Then he took her to bed and pulled her against him, her dark hair against his jaw, her hand over his heart. She was asleep within seconds, but Jack just lay there, feeling something he hadn’t felt in a while now.
Peace.
His marriage had been tumultuous, Jack never knowing which version of Hadley he’d be coming home to at the end of the day. The brief periods of happiness had been built on what he thought he knew, like judging a wine on its color and clarity, only to find it had turned to vinegar. After he’d walked in on Hadley and Oliver came that edgy, angry sense of failure—and loneliness.
And then, since the boys had gone into the water, his mind had been like a river after a savage flood, all sorts of sharp, dangerous things sliding under the current, sharp and unseen, sometimes rushing past, sometimes slamming into him without warning.
But now there was something else blanketing that, and for the first time in a very long while, Jack felt at peace.
He wouldn’t have guessed the potty-mouthed hockey-playing cop would’ve been the right one for him.
He’d have been wrong.
Lazarus jumped up on the bed, and, after a second, Jack heard the cat’s rusty purr. From Emmaline’s side, no less. Even his feral cat liked her.
He wasn’t aware that he’d fallen asleep until he heard a noise. A thudding.
Thunder?
No.
Someone was at the door.
The clock read 2:37 a.m.
He slid out of bed, pulled on his pants and went to the front door. It was Pru.
It couldn’t be good.
“I’ve been calling for forty-five minutes, Useless!” she barked. “Pops had a heart attack. Hurry up, Jack! It’s not good.”
Adrenaline shot through his arms and legs. He grabbed a sweatshirt from a hook and pulled it on, ran to get his wallet and keys. And phone.
Sixteen missed calls. A screen full of texts. Why the hell hadn’t he heard?
“Is everything okay?”
Em stood there, wearing his bathrobe, hair tangled.
“Our grandfather’s in the hospital,” Pru said. “Heart attack.”
“Oh, no! Can I do anything?”
“My phone was off,” Jack said tightly.
Her hand flew over her mouth. “Jack, I’m so sorry. I muted it before...”
Jesus H. Christ. That was something that Hadley would do. Not Emmaline. “We have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
He didn’t have time to discuss it.
His grandfather was dying, and he hadn’t even known.
* * *
EVERYONE WAS AT the hospital, sitting grimly in the waiting room of the E.R. Goggy was flanked by Honor and Faith; Abby was sobbing quietly in Ned’s arms; Carl, Levi, Charlie and Tom stood off to one side. Mrs. J. had her arm around Dad.
Jack went right to Goggy and knelt in front of her chair. “Oh, Jack,” she said, and hugged him.
“We don’t know anything right now,” Honor murmured. “Jeremy’s still with him.”
Apparently, Pops had awakened with chest pain radiating into his left arm. He’d been unable to talk, and Goggy didn’t waste time, just pressed the emergency button that all apartments at Rushing Creek had and shoved a baby aspirin in her husband’s mouth. The facility had its own ambulance service, and they’d gotten him to the hospital in fewer than fifteen minutes. Goggy also called Jeremy, who was Pops’s regular doctor, and Jer was with the cardiologist now.
“Sounds like you did everything right,” Jack told his grandmother. “Just like always.”
“We only just started liking each other last year.” She wept against his neck, and Jack hugged her closer.
“Now, now,” Jack murmured, his throat tight. “You know what he told me the other day? He said you were the love of his life.”
Goggy tried to smile. “Of course I am. Who else would put up with him?”
“Hey, guys,” Jeremy said from the hallway. “He’s stable for now. Elizabeth, he wants to see you in a minute. John, could you come with me?”
Dad looked at him, and Jack went with him, putting his arm around his father’s shoulders as they walked down the hall.
Usually, his sisters would make disgruntled comments about sexism in the family and call Jack the little prince. The fact that they didn’t was horrible.
No one lives forever, of course. That wasn’t exactly news, but it was still shocking when that universal truth hit home.
Pops was easy to dismiss as a joking, bickering old man, but that was just the surface. John Noble Holland, Jr., had a deep love of his family and land, the work ethic of a Spartan and a sentimental streak that he did his best to keep hidden. But he got choked up every time he saw Jack in his navy whites. He put flowers on all the graves in the Holland family cemetery on the anniversaries of their deaths and each April before the blessing of the crops. His eyes filled when Faith and Levi told everyone about the baby. Last year, when Goggy had almost died in a house fire, the fear of losing his wife had practically felled him.
Jeremy stopped outside a room and signaled them to go in.
Pops was gray, an oxygen mask over his face. If not for the beeping of the heart monitor, Jack would’ve assumed he was dead.
“We’re here, Dad,” his father said, taking the old man’s hand. His eyes were full of tears.
“Hey, Pops,” Jack said.
Pops’s eyes fluttered open. He gestured weakly to his face, and Jeremy leaned over and took the mask off. “Proud of you,” he whispered, looking at Dad, then Jack. “So proud of my boys.”
Then his eyes closed again, and the beeping of the monitor slowed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TO SAY THAT Emmaline was writhing in guilt would not have been an exaggeration.
Shit. How could she have decided to mute Jack’s phone? Without even asking him? For the tenth time that morning, she scrubbed a hand over her face.
She was still at his house, though she had to go to work in half an hour. But she’d stayed, hoping to see him first. The coffeemaker was set up, and she’d even baked somewhere around 4:00 a.m.—an almond coffee cake, her grandmother’s recipe, and one of the few things Em could bake from memory. She’d imagined Jack coming home and telling her his grandpa was okay, what a night, had she baked, all was certainly forgiven, no worries on the phone thing.
But he didn’t come home, and he didn’t call or text, either, and she didn’t dare interrupt. She wasn’t family, after all.
The rain had turned to snow at some point, the fat, heavy, discouraging snow of late winter, not enough to be a real storm, more than enough to be depressing.
Sarge erupted into excitable barks, and Emmaline jolted from the table where she was sitting. Sarge’s tail wagged and he whined and pawed at the floor-to-ceiling window.
It was Hadley, walking up Jack’s driveway, wearing a shiny black raincoat.
Super.
Emmaline opened the door just as the other woman knocked. “Surprise!” Hadley said, opening the raincoat.
She was wearing a fire-engine-red bustier and tiny scrap of panties.
“Hi there,” Em said. “Nice underwear.” That was a perfect body, all right. Em guessed her thigh and Hadley’s waist had about the same circumference.
“Where’s Jack? I need to talk to him. Right now.”
Uh-oh.
Hadley was drunk.
Her eye makeup was smeared, and while she didn’t quite look like Heath Ledger as the Joker, it was close. Her red, red lipstick had been crookedly applied, and the usually smooth and perfect blond hair was matted in the back. Despite the cold, she wasn’t wearing stockings. Or sensible shoes...those had to be four-inch heels, and her feet were nearly blue.
“Come in,” Emmaline said. “Jack’s not here.”
“Well, I was already at Blue Heron, and no one’s there, so don’t you lie to me! I wanna see him! He’s my husband, after all!”
“Not anymore he’s not,” Em said. She wasn’t about to tell Hadley about poor Mr. Holland. She’d end up going to the hospital, and Em didn’t think Jack would want that one bit.
But you know what? This was good practice for crisis negotiations. Half the calls they got were because someone was under the influence. First rule of negotiations: establish rapport. “Come on in, Hadley. Those shoes are amazing, but your feet must be freezing.”
“I don’t hafta do what you say,” Hadley slurred.
“No, of course not. But are you sure? It’s nice and warm in here. There’s coffee.”
“Take a bite of my pink...Southern...ass.” She poked a finger against Em’s chest with each of the last three words.
Em smothered a smile. Hard to commit to active listening and empathy with a statement like that. “You must be pretty frustrated,” she said.
“Go to hell. Where’s Jack?”
“He’s not here. I promise.”
“Are you two sleeping together?”
Ruh-roh. Emmaline paused.
“No!” Hadley shrieked, guessing the answer. “How dare you steal my husband, you Yankee slut!”
Clearly, stating the obvious wasn’t going to help here. Em opened the door wider. “Hadley, come on inside and we can talk. You, uh, you have a point.”
“No! You’re not the boss of me! And if I can’t have Jack, then I may as well go off and die!” She burst into noisy sobs.
For the love of the baby Jesus. “Hadley. Let’s have some coffee, and you can, um, see Lazarus. Right? You must miss him. You’re a cat person, right?”
“I hate that animal! I hate him! Jack! Jack! I need you! If you don’t come out right now, I swear I’m gonna make you sorry!”
With that, she picked up a rock and threw it at the house, and it was like she was channeling Derek Jeter firing to first base, because there was a smash as a window broke.
Clearly, that hadn’t been planned, because Hadley’s mouth dropped open. She cut her wide eyes to Emmaline. “Oopsy,” she said, then bolted, wobbling crazily in her ridiculous shoes. Instead of down the driveway toward the road, she ran into the woods.
This was just great. With a curse, Em ran after her. This was not how she wanted to spend her morning, and God forbid Jack come up the driveway to see his girlfriend (who’d turned off his phone to make sure their shagging wouldn’t be interrupted, preventing him from being with his family during a crisis) chasing his ex-wife (who was drunk off her pink Southern ass and nearly naked).
For a drunk, Hadley was fast. “Hadley!” Em yelled. “Knock it off! You’re going to hurt yourself!”
Or freeze to death. It was raw today. Hadley’s coat flapped like awkward wings. And what was that about making Jack sorry, huh? Aside from breaking his window, that was?
Jack didn’t need this. Not with Mr. Holland in the hospital, very, very sick...or even dead. “Hadley. Please stop.”
She turned around and gave Emmaline the finger.
Nice. A branch slapped Em across the forehead and tangled in her hair, and she growled with irritation.
She caught up to Hadley as the smaller woman tried to climb over a rock wall. Hadley saw her coming, bent over and picked up a handful of something, then turned and shoved it in Em’s face.
Dirt and snow. Gross.
Em grabbed her hand, twisted it behind her back and yanked her back against her. “Knock it off,” she said, spitting out some frozen moss. “Or I’m arresting you for drunk and disorderly.”
“Jack! Jack!” Hadley shrieked, struggling.
So. Getting a drunken, surprisingly strong woman out of the woods wasn’t easy. “Can you just walk, please?” she said as Hadley writhed. “I really don’t want to have to carry you.” She got kicked in the shin as an answer. Branches snapped underfoot, and a squirrel followed them from the tree branches, laughing at the idiocy. Some of the snow Hadley had shoved at her had slid down Em’s shirt (of course), and there was a cold, wet lump sitting on her chest like a third breast.
