Falling Page 13

  “What about Hobbes?” says Jesse. “Who’s looking after Hobbes?”

  “Why don’t you go through the cat flap and check up on her?” says Emma brightly. “I’ll get dressed and maybe I’ll make us some breakfast. How does that sound?”

  Jesse shrugs but leaves the room. Emma hears the back door slam as he goes out into the garden on his way next door. She slips the covers back to get dressed, before an arm lays across her chest to stop her. She turns to see Dominic’s eyes open, and for a second she is nervous about what he will say, until a slow smile spreads on his face.

  “Morning,” he says, pulling her gently toward him and kissing her. For all her concerns—about him, about Jesse—she can’t help but giggle.

  “Get off me!” She attempts to push him away, which only makes him squeeze her more tightly.

  “This is great,” he says. “This is like having my own teddy bear.” And she finally relaxes in his arms, snuggling down in the bed, rolling over until she is looking into his eyes.

  “Jesse came in,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I honestly wasn’t planning on spending the night, but I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was to see him standing next to the bed.” She frowns a little. “I don’t think he’s happy.”

  “Why isn’t he happy?” Dominic takes a strand of her hair between his fingers and twirls it around and around. “I love your hair, by the way,” he says. “Curly hair turns me on.”

  Emma starts to laugh. “You’re just saying that. Curly hair turns you on? I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay. Let me revise. Your curly hair turns me on.” He smiles. “Or maybe it’s you that turns me on.”

  “I do?” Emma smiles back at him.

  “You do. Everything about you. Your curly hair. Your English accent. Your hands . . .”

  “My . . . hands?” Emma grins.

  “You have the most delicate hands.” He takes her hand in his, entwining her fingers with his own. “I noticed them right when you moved in. They’re beautiful. You move them when you talk, in this really graceful way. It’s like watching ballerina hands.”

  “You’re weird,” sputters Emma, although she is unspeakably flattered.

  “Also, your body turns me on”—he raises an eyebrow—“big-time.” He kisses her, and she relaxes into the kiss, so relieved this is still lovely, so relieved he isn’t changing his mind, hasn’t woken up to what he believes is a terrible mistake.

  But she’s still concerned about Jesse. She pushes Dominic away reluctantly. “Not now. Jesse’s going to be back any second and I said I’d make breakfast. Is that okay?”

  “It’s more than okay. You’re turning into quite the breakfast-maker, it seems. Lucky us. Lucky me.”

  After one more lingering kiss, Emma pulls on her dress. She watches Dominic watching her every move, with a lazy smile on his face. She smiles back before going downstairs.

  Once there, she moves around the kitchen, finding bowls, plates, opening the fridge for the eggs and milk. She cuts slices from a loaf of sourdough bread, puts them into the toaster oven; beats the eggs and seasons them; melts butter in an old cast-iron skillet she finds at the back of a cupboard—as good as new after a very good wash.

  This feels nice, she thinks. Cooking breakfast for Dominic and Jesse. Jesse clearly wasn’t happy with her being in his father’s bed, but why would he be? He’s had his father to himself for his entire life; of course he doesn’t want to share him. Not that Emma is looking to share him. Good God! She laughs out loud at the very thought. Still, it must have been disconcerting for him, and she understands that. Luckily, it won’t last, thinks Emma. Look how she and Jesse bonded over Hobbes; look how much fun they had been having together before this morning. This is a tiny blip in what is clearly a friendship. She knows Jesse likes her, she can tell. He likes the fact that she talks to him like an adult; he doesn’t have to know it’s only because she doesn’t know how to talk to children.

  Breakfast will go a long way toward healing his shock at finding her there this morning. He’s a little kid, after all. A little kid who has no mother, who will surely blossom with a spot of love and nurture. Of course his father adores him, Emma has no doubt of that, but Jesse needs a woman in his life to look after him, and right now, even if it’s only temporary—God, why is she even thinking like this?—she can give him some of that maternal warmth. She will start by making him the most delicious eggs he has ever tasted.

  Emma sets the table properly. She goes into the front garden and snips off five blue hydrangeas, setting them in water in a mason jar that she puts in the center of the table. She lays the knives and forks at each place setting, with glasses of juice, the coffeepot in the middle on a coaster.

  She places the toast on a napkin-covered plate, standing the slices up, as if they were in a hotel dining room. She finds grape jelly in the fridge, and scoops some into a small ramekin, placing it on a small plate with a teaspoon.

  She has no idea why she feels the need to create a scene of domestic bliss, only that she wants them both to sit down to something that is both delicious and beautiful. She wants this to feel special.

  “Breakfast!” she calls, and hears Dominic clump down the stairs. Her stomach lurches as he walks in wearing boxer shorts and a navy T-shirt that rides up as he stretches. You are gorgeous, she thinks, gazing at him for a moment, savoring a feeling she now knows for certain she has never felt in quite this way before.

  “I know what I want for breakfast.” Dominic comes up behind her, murmurs into her neck, sliding his hands around her waist. Then the back door opens, forcing them to jump apart as if shocked.

  “Breakfast!” Emma says to Jesse with false brightness. “Come sit down!”

  “I don’t like these eggs.” Jesse sits, sinking his head in his hand as he stabs at the eggs with his fork, a scowl on his face.

  “These are scrambled eggs, English style,” says Emma. “They’re creamy and delicious. I promise you’ll like them.”

  “They’re really good,” says Dominic, scooping some into his mouth, then turning to Emma. “Wow. These actually are really good. What did you do?”

  “The secret is lots of butter, and very slow stirring over low heat so they cook slowly. It makes the eggs creamy rather than rubbery.”

  “Jesse, you’ll really like them,” says Dominic. “Come on. Try some.”

  Jesse reluctantly lifts a forkful to his mouth, grimacing as he chews, before jumping up and spitting them in the sink.

  “Jesse!” says Dominic, with a laugh. “That’s not very nice.”

  “They’re gross!” says Jesse. “Slimy and disgusting.”

  “Come on, buddy. Sit down. You don’t have to eat them, then. Have some toast.”

  Emma feels herself almost on the brink of tears but remains silent and tries to mentally talk herself out of it. Don’t be silly, she tells herself. He’s only a child and he’s punishing you for being here. Don’t take it personally.

  She looks at Dominic, who is gazing at his son with unconditional love. How can he not say something? she thinks. How can he laugh? Surely this is a learning opportunity.

  You may not like the food, she thinks, although she doesn’t even believe that, for who would not like these creamy, buttery scrambled eggs? But even if you don’t, you don’t jump up from the table and make a big song and dance about spitting it out.

  You put the fork down and say, “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

  Dominic is encouraging this bad behavior. Instead of showing Jesse another way to cope with his distress, he is smiling at him indulgently, which will surely give him the wrong message, make him think his behavior is acceptable.

  It’s a teaching opportunity, she thinks. And she will not let it pass.

  “Jesse,” she says gently, as Jesse crosses his arms in a sulk and refuses to look at her. “It’s very rude to spit
food out. I just went to a lot of trouble to cook you breakfast. You didn’t have to eat it, but it would have been more polite to just say you didn’t want it.” He refuses to look at her. “Jesse, my feelings are very hurt.”

  He mutters something under his breath.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “I don’t care!” The words burst out of his mouth. “I don’t care about you. I don’t even want you here. Why are you here? Go back home! Go back to your house. We don’t want you here!”

  “Jesse,” Dominic finally interjects. “That’s not very nice. Say you’re sorry.”

  “No,” says Jesse, kicking the table leg, pushing the chair back, and running out of the room. As he heads upstairs his sobbing can be heard loud and jagged through the thin ceiling of the small house.

  “I’d better go talk to him,” says Dominic. “He’ll be fine. He’s never good with the idea of me having girlfriends. Wait here. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  But Emma doesn’t want to wait. Poor Jesse, she thinks. She understands why he would not be happy about the prospect of his father having girlfriends.

  Is that what she is? she wonders. A girlfriend? It is far too early to use that term. A friend who is a girl, she thinks. That’s what he meant. A friend who is a girl, a friend with, obviously, benefits. Girlfriend, in the loosest possible term.

  She washes up quickly and quietly before letting herself out the back door and returning to the safety of her own home.

  SIXTEEN

  Later that morning, Lisa phones, her voice high with excitement. Her husband has given her the go-ahead to get the house decorated on the budget they discussed, so she’d like Emma to get started right away. Should she accompany Emma to the stores? she asks. Emma senses she is nervous about giving up control, even though she doesn’t want to do the hard part.

  “You can,” says Emma dubiously. “But it can be very hard to picture how things are going to work in the room until you see them all together. But don’t worry, I won’t buy anything that can’t be returned if you don’t like it, and I can always text you photos if you’d like. You have the big pieces already; all I really need to do is accessorize.”

  “Okay,” says Lisa. “Don’t worry about texting photos. I trust you. Do you think you’ll be able to get it done by the end of next week?”

  “It’s tight, but I should be able to do it,” says Emma. “Why don’t I come over on Friday morning at nine to get the rooms set up. Does that sound okay?”

  “Is there any chance you could come by on Thursday morning, instead?”

  Emma realizes that she’s going to need to get started right this minute. “Sure,” she says to Lisa. “I’ll see you then.”

  She starts with Pier 1, where she finds bamboo end tables that look far more expensive than they actually are. She adds three big faux orchids, knowing she will have to break the baskets they are glued into and find something else to put them in.

  At the consignment store she finds two midcentury modern chairs, and a pair of white Foo dog lamps that have been sitting there for months. They are whimsical and fun, and she gets them for less than sticker price.

  Just as she’s leaving she finds a set of three huge black-and-white photographs, close-ups of flowers, grainy and gorgeous. The three would be perfect hung together, on the library wall.

  On to HomeGoods for more lamps—she’s always felt that pools of warm light do more than anything else to cozy up a space—a large sisal rug for the living room, and a gray-and-white geometric one for the library.

  She picks up porcelain Buddhas and turquoise shagreen boxes. At West Elm, she buys both wooden and lacquered trays and chocolate-brown geometric poufs. At Pottery Barn, she finds more pillows, and throws, silver-rimmed candle holders, with huge three-wicked barrel candles to sit inside.

  Her car is filled. She phones Lisa on the way home and asks if she can drop things off in her garage as she has no room in her house at the moment to store anything. She makes Lisa promise not to look at anything she has bought. Not yet.

  But Lisa greets her as she pulls up, can’t resist sneaking a peek into the bags as she helps Emma carry them inside. “Buddhas!” she says in delight. “I love the Buddhas. Oh, and look at those pillows! They’re gorgeous.”

  “I’m on the right track, then?”

  “Oh please, please, can we set some of it up now? I’ll help. Please?”

  Emma can’t say no. She’s dying to see it herself. But once Lisa has helped move the furniture to put the rug down, she banishes her upstairs, making her promise not to come down until it’s all done.

  She works quickly. The bags are put in the hallway as she drapes the throws over the back of the sofa, and piles the pillows on top. The trays are placed on the coffee table with the shagreen boxes. She needs a few stools, she thinks to herself. Maybe in porcelain. She can order them online tomorrow.

  The tables look great, and the midcentury chairs, too. They could be re-covered, Emma thinks, in a thick linen, but for now, with pillows, they are fine. She switches on the lamps, takes some books that are already shelved and stacks them horizontally, looking at them with a discerning eye. She needs more, she realizes. So much more. Now she can see the gaps. Artwork for the wall. More objects. She can hang the artwork and the curtains on Thursday. Emma casts an expert eye around the room, making notes on a pad to remind her what else to buy. Lucite chairs for the office, she thinks, writing it down. An upholstered bench in front of the fire. Tables for either side of the fireplace. She’d seen two nice demilune tables at the consignment store but hadn’t thought she had a place for them. Now she realizes she does.

  “I can’t wait any longer.” Lisa has crept back into the room “Emma!” she cries delightedly. “It’s beautiful. It looks like something out of a magazine!” She can’t seem to wipe the smile off her face as she tiptoes around her own house, running her fingers along the sides of the trays, picking up the little sculptures on the bookshelves, admiring the vases. “I can’t believe how different you’ve made it look!”

  “Just you wait,” says Emma. “I have more plans for these rooms.”

  “What do you think about more bookshelves?” Lisa pauses. “Not just for books, but I was thinking about maybe building some shelves in this corner to display stuff. Like one of the pictures in your file—do you remember? They were dark gray and glossy and absolutely beautiful. Do you think that would work?”

  Lisa is talking about the bookshelves in her own house. “That would be stunning,” Emma says. “I could draw something up for you to give to your carpenter.”

  Lisa’s face falls. “I don’t have a carpenter. Do you know anyone?”

  Emma pauses. The bookshelves in her own house look beautiful, but only if you don’t look too closely. Pull off her carefully nailed-on molding and everything slants to the right. Could Dominic do a better job if she helped him? Would he do a better job with a spirit level and an assistant? She could be there to catch the mistakes. Surely this would be good for him, a job doing what he really loves to do.

  “I do, actually,” says Emma. “I can see if he’s free right now to come and take a look.”

  “That would be fantastic,” says Lisa. “I am so glad I found you, Emma. This is going to be great!”

  • • •

  Emma stands back as Dominic measures the wall, asking Lisa a series of very professional questions. Emma is quiet. It’s probably not a great idea for Lisa to know she and Dominic have anything other than a professional relationship.

  “Emma? Can you just show Dominic the picture in your file? I want shelves just like that.”

  “Absolutely.” She turns to Dominic. “I can get those to you as soon as I get home,” she says, and the twinkle in his eye brings a flashback of him moving inside her, smiling down at her, and for a second she loses her words. When she shakes her head to dislodge the thou
ght, he is hiding a grin.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  “I’m so sorry. I just got lost in thought for a second.”

  “Creative types!” laughs Lisa, seemingly oblivious to the sexual energy raging between them. “If Emma gets you the picture today, do you think you could start immediately? How long would it take?”

  “I could get you something by next Friday.”

  “Can you make it next Thursday?”

  “That’s tight. I don’t know.”

  Lisa lowers her eyes, looks up at him through her eyelashes. “Pretty please?” she asks in a little-girl voice, and Emma suppresses a laugh.

  Dominic sighs. “Seeing as you asked so nicely. Let me give you a price when I get home and figure out the cost of the materials and labor, and if it’s good with you, I’ll get going immediately. I should be able to have the shelves done in time. Like I said, it’s tight, but I think I can do it.”

  “Thank you so much.” Lisa’s voice is almost back to normal. “Let me show you out.”

  As soon as the door closes behind Dominic, Lisa whirls back into the room with her hand on her heart. “Oh my God!” Lisa exclaims. “He’s completely gorgeous. You didn’t tell me your carpenter was so hot. He was so handsome I could hardly look at him.”

  “Really?” Emma wrinkles her nose. “I guess I don’t really see it. You think he’s handsome?”

  “And tall. And sweet. God! It’s a good thing I’m happily married or I’d be extremely tempted right about now.” She peers at Emma. “Do you really not think he’s adorable?”

  Emma sighs. “Okay. Yes. I do think he’s very handsome. But I can’t let that get in the way of us working together.”

  “How do you know him?”

  Emma thinks for a second, her mind trying to come up with a plausible explanation, but it doesn’t feel right to lie to a client. She can tell the truth, just not, perhaps, the whole truth.

  “I rent one of his cottages,” she says. “He actually built those shelves in the picture you’re talking about.”