Beginning, Section II

Part One

Posted on Thursday, 29 November 2007

"Emma, what on Earth are you doing?"

She was armed with ten boxes of tasteful white twinkle lights that she'd acquired at Home Depot for $7.99 each, fifty feet of garland obtained from English Gardens, and two handmade wreaths attained (at considerable price and much begging and wheedling) from some neighbors down on Framton Drive. And a staple gun.

She was exhilarated, determined, and more than a little excited for the first time in months. Not so excited that the fact that her 67-year-old father standing outside on the driveway in an old worn bathrobe in the fifteen degree weather didn't distress her.

"Dad!" Emma rushed to her father, taking off her scarf and bundling it about Gordon Woodhouse's figure. "What are you doing outside without a coat on? Your toes must be freezing!"

"No worries," Gordon waved off her attentions. "I'm not out here for more than five minutes. Only to get the paper."

Emma bent down to retrieve the paper from the driveway and briskly whisked her father into the house. "Dad," she began exasperatedly.

"No, Emma, no," Gordon Woodhouse protested. "I'm perfectly fine. And I go out every morning to get the paper in my robe. It's not indecent."

"It is in this weather! You're not taking enough care of yourself," Emma reprimanded gently. "Let's get you some coffee and warm you up," she moved towards the kitchen.

"Silly girl, I'm perfectly fine and you're making a nuisance of yourself," Gordon called after her, slowly following her into the kitchen.

Emma was moving briskly through the kitchen, removing the newspaper from the protective wet plastic bag and placing it on the dining table. She poured a generous amount of Splenda into a mug and added the decaffeinated coffee and non-dairy creamer.

Gordon watched her actions with disgust. "That's not coffee."

"It is as long as your glucose levels are this high," she warned him, handing him the mug. "And don't bother looking for sugar. I gave it away to the Newtons two days ago."

"No sugar?"

"And no cream. I tossed it."

"And the real coffee that I just bought yesterday?"

"A fantastic present for one of my fabulous employees," his daughter glibly replied.

She had only been home for one and a half weeks and she was already rearranging his life. Just like her mother Meg, bless her bothersome soul. It appeared that while Meg had been laid to rest two months ago, her spirit was living on in her daughter.

"What kind of self-respecting modern 27-year-old woman lives with her Father anyhow?" he grumbled.

"The kind that takes care that she isn't an orphan come 2008," Emma replied placidly.

He hated it when she pulled the orphan card. It was morbid and entirely too effective in shutting him up. "Well, you could have gotten married at the very least. Have a husband to harass instead of me," Gordon grumbled.

"Did you take your medication yet?" Emma skirted around the subject.

"Not yet," Gordon replied, a bit gruffer now. Having lost a bit of his thunder, Gordon Woodhouse meekly looked down at the newspaper, staring at headlines he wasn't reading. She didn't want to show it to him, but he saw how she hunched her shoulders into herself. How the curve of her lips became a thin line.

"What have I told you about your medication? Dr. Perry says you can't forget to take it," she took out an assortment of pills out of a series of amber bottles that were stowed in a kitchen cupboard.

"And I hadn't yet," he protested. "Just like to take it with my first cup of coffee in the morning," he defended himself. "Was going to while I was reading the paper. Don't rush me."

Emma sighed. "All right, all right," she came forward to put the pills on the table. "You just worry me."

Gordon watched his daughter turn away from him to get her own cup of coffee. "You didn't say. What are you doing with all the stuff on the lawn?"

"I should think that it's obvious: I'm decorating the house for Christmas."

"Crazy woman," Gordon muttered. "Not worth it, if you ask me. Too much effort and for what? Two weeks. And then you freeze your butt off trying to take them down come January."

"Did you notice that we're the only house on the cul de sac that hasn't put up anything? I'm determined," Emma announced her resolve. "And it'll look even more beautiful than the Coles's decorations," she dared to elaborate as she took the seat across him at the table.

That was a battle-cry if he heard it. Since the time she was a small little thing, come Christmas Emma had always stared out the window at the house next door. He'd always assumed that the glow in her eyes was from wonder. Not assessment. Why did she have to inherit his competitive nature?

"The Coles had their sons come home for a weekend from college to help out," Gordon said.

"Don't worry about it. I've got my strategy all outlined," Emma said nonchalantly as she gestured towards the yellow notepad that he hadn't noticed before sitting on the kitchen counter. "And with what I'm planning, all I'll need is a ladder. Nothing more. And it'll look fantastic. I promise."

"I'm telling you, Jake. You have to come over and save me."

Jake Knight clamped the cordless phone between his chin and shoulder and pulled back the curtains to look out the window of his family room to catch a glimpse of the diabolical villainess that held Gordon Woodhouse hostage. "She looks harmless enough."

"The worst ones always do," Gordon proclaimed decidedly. "Badgering me all the time, taking over the house. The fool woman is baking and stinking up my kitchen. She made eggnog bread last night."

"Sounds…"

"Yeah. Disgusting," Gordon proclaimed.

It wouldn't have been his choice of words, but Jake wasn't a fan of Christmas breads himself.

"I'm telling you Jake. There's potpourri in the bathrooms and poinsettias everywhere. Can't move without running into one. Stupid useless plant," Gordon growled. "The house has been woman-ized!"

Recalling the state of rampant entropy in which Jake had last seen Chez Woodhouse, the development probably wasn't all that bad.

He pulled his curtains a crack to once more spy on Gordon's daughter. She was bundled in a big puffy red coat, swaddled in layers of scarves and all manner of wool, moving about the yard with alacrity.

"Look. After I send out the column, I'll make my way over and check on you," Jake said consolingly.

"You're not done with your column yet?!"

"You're retired," Jake reminded his ex-editor before hanging up on him.

Moving upstairs into his office, he chuckled to think that Gordon Woodhouse, the Lion of the Detroit Free Press was currently bearded and being harassed by that puff ball of red on the lawn two doors down.

Jake Knight had only transferred from the Chicago Tribune a handful of years ago, so he'd not had much of a chance to work with Gordon in a professional capacity before the older man had retired from his position as sports editor. As his neighbor of two years, though, Jake had seen Gordon aplenty and enjoyed a steady and strong friendship.

Gordon's wife Meg, a quiet, happy woman, had died two months ago. Jack had immediately been concerned about the welfare of his old boss, but decided to bide his time and see what developed.

And though his interaction with their daughter Emma had been limited to her visits home and the times he wasn't on the road himself, he was sure that if she possessed even an iota of the quiet strength and fierce love her mother had embodied, well, she'd be here in a heartbeat.

It had taken a couple more months than a simple heartbeat; she had a business to take care of in Indiana, an independent bookstore on the Notre Dame campus. From what he gleaned from Gordon, she'd moved her operation to Ann Arbor, where she currently served to the University of Michigan community.

Good for her, finding a foothold here. Because if she inherited a modicum of her father's brash temper, she was going to need a place to run off to when she was ready to kill the man.

Jake brought up the document on his laptop and gave one last perusal, as per routine. Doug, a great dane/lab mix, grew restless and voiced his many complaints, chewing on the edge of Jake's sweatshirt. Jake swatted away the dog's attentions as he continued to read his article aloud to himself, checking his notes to make sure certain plays had gone down the way he'd thought.

Satisfied with the product of his toils, he e-mailed the draft off to his editor and shut down his computer. He turned to the mournful Doug and chuckled. "Ok, let me make it up to you. Care to dance?"

The word W-A-L-K had provoked too many spastically over-exuberant moments in the past, which was why Jake resorted to the change in nomenclature. Doug's reaction to the phrase "Care to dance?" was just as overexcited as his previous jubilations, but Jake was too well-trained to try anything different now.

Jake followed Doug through the house, pulling a sweatshirt over his head and grabbing the leash that he never used but still carried off the hook in the laundry room. Once he started the garage door opener, the dog dashed out into the winter cold, leaving his owner to catch up.

He didn't have much distance to traverse; Doug seemed to find an object to bestow on his more than friendly attentions.

Thankfully, the woman wasn't doing anything on the ladder that was set up along the house and so wasn't put in any danger when the dog tackled her in a way that would have made the Bears' Brian Urlacher proud and bestowed on her a bouquet of ardent kisses.

The woman laughed her delight and rolled away as the kisses got ticklish. She also, unfortunately, got herself tangled in a small way in her twinkle lights.

"Doug, down," Jake warned his dog. Doug turned to his master with a look that cried "But I'm just start to having some fun, see? I've met a new friend!"

Jake smiled at the dog and shook his head. Meekly, the dog obeyed and joined him at his side. Jake reached down to untangle the woman from the wire and offer his hand in getting up.

The woman accepted his help in getting free of the wires, but denied it in getting up. She brushed the snow off her jeans with a rueful laugh. "If I had known I was going to play in the snow today, I would have worn snowpants!" She smiled down at Doug with a fond pat to his head.

Jake met her bright green eyes with surprise. Though he'd met her before, he hadn't really looked at her, had he? Because despite the previous meetings, despite the many photographs he'd seen over the years, she still startled him. She'd inherited her eyes from her mother; they were the same lush green as the turf of Ford Field in August. For the lack of a better description. (Writer? Yes. Sports writer? Definitely.) From the stories and complaints, he'd expected someone larger than life, but she was at most 5'4", and under that big red coat maybe 110 pounds. Her hair was hidden under a big floppy wool hat that was pulled low over her brow, though the accessory seemed unnecessary: a drop of sweat bisected the lower third of her forehead, traced the left ridge of her small nose, and plopped inelegantly on her upper lip, where she wiped it off in an expression of exhaustion. The last gesture brought him out of his reverie as it was characteristic of the Lion.

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," Jake laughed.

Emma regarded the interloper carefully, trying to place him. Clear blue eyes, a wry sexy grin and (heaven forbid) dimples. He looked like he hadn't shaved for a few days and his dark thick hair was tossed about without regard for gravity or wind. Far too handsome. Far too self-assured. His lack of coat announced that he was either cocky or, in fact, of Eskimo blood. "I've met you before, haven't I?"

"Yeah. I'm Jake." he offered his hand.

"Ah. Hockey boy," she said knowingly.

Gordon had seen his talents and trusted him from the start of his tenure in Detroit. While Jake was still green enough to be assigned his beats rather than choose them, he was hand-picked to follow the Stanley Cup-winning Red Wings through the memorable 2001-2002 season.

"It was good stuff. You live nearby?" she asked, starting to tidy her wires.

"I moved two doors down a couple of years ago," Jake said gruffly.

"You should be wearing gloves. You'll catch your death of a cold out here."

"Doug keeps me moving," he gestured to the dog.

"Frostbite doesn't care if you're moving," Emma warned.

Jake bit the inner wall of his mouth to keep from laughing. Gordon had not been exaggerating about his daughter. "How's Gordon?"

Emma assessed the gleam in his eye and deemed him worthy of insider information, if a bit terse: "Annoying and gruff, but docile enough."

Jake laughed. "I'd love to see that."

Emma considered him carefully.

"Ask him to dinner!"

She wasn't sure that it wasn't a pathetic (read: tragic flaw) part of her crying out for the attention of the handsome, smiling man before her or external forces at work. However, when she saw her father crying out from an open window on the second story, she frowned. "You close that window now!"

"I will if you ask him to dinner!"

"And what are you making for us tonight, Dad?" Emma called up to her father.

Gordon grumbled as he closed the window.

"Ah, um," Jake said in defensive explanation, feeling six years old, caught lying in some way to his parents.

"Well," Emma said awkwardly, hoping the volume of her voice was somehow louder than the heat of her blush, if that made any sense at all. "You're invited for dinner."

"You don't have to invite me just because Gordon's trapped you into it."

"No. I'm inviting you because Dad obviously thinks he can hide behind an ally with you around."

Jake laughed. "I take it that-"

Emma shook her head in a decisive no for her reply to his interrupted question and grinned. "I like to let him think he can get some victories in every once in a while, though. Any aversions to fish?"

"None whatsoever."

"Excellent. Seven, then," she said decisively. "Now," she continued dismissively. "It appears that your dog wants to continue on your journey. Are you going to appease him or give me reason to dislike you?"

Even as he wanted to chat with her a bit longer, Jake knew when a conversation was finished. He turned to Doug to follow.

Emma tracked their progress down Paddington Court carefully, assessingly. She closed her eyes and turned back to her work in progress and took a deep breath in determination. The most grueling and delicate tasks took lots of determination and did not allow for distractions. Putting up twinkle lights did not seem like one of those tasks, but for her, but somehow, it had become one.

Emma stomped into the house, taking out her frustrations on the laundry room floor under the cover of stomping snow out of the crevices of her boots.

Nothing was going right.

The humiliation she'd suffered at the "hands" of the lights for the past three hours had already put a dark note on her afternoon, but the stack of mail she'd gotten forwarded from her old apartment in South Bend made her want to rage until the house fell down.

Truth be told, it wasn't all that rage worthy. Mostly depressing, but in her current state, any sort of bad news was worth being pissed off over.

So Frank was getting married.

All manner of words occurred to her at the moment, the most prevalent being "scumbag" and "liar". She felt the tears starting to crowd her thoughts, her eyes, her head, but she wouldn't give in to them. She refused to. She had things to do, she moved towards the kitchen.

When her vision blurred as she reached into the fridge, she slammed the door shut and leaned against the counter, staring at the crosshatch pattern of the Formica, begging it for some condolence or wisdom to take the pain away.

"Emma? Is something wrong?"

"No! Nothing!" Emma wiped the traces of tears away quickly, moving towards the fridge. Her voice still held a belying note of temerity, but she coughed to mask it.

Her father was now at the doorway of the kitchen. "I thought I heard some slamming."

"Lost my grip on some things," she said with the best helpless smile she could garner.

Her father was trying to work something out. To obfuscate his efforts, she started to move quickly about the kitchen, bringing down the necessary ingredients from the cupboards and clanging the pans and pots with a cheer she did not feel. She would not let him see her stand still enough for him to examine her features and assess. "So I was thinking maybe of salmon tonight. I had this recipe I wanted to try."

"As long as it doesn't have capers."

As if she needed to be reminded of the Great Caper Disaster of last Thursday. "None in sight."

Gordon looked like he wanted to probe, but Emma, moving at a speed akin to light, steamrolled his inquiries effectively by shooing him out of the kitchen, citing a woman's need to concentrate as she created culinary masterpieces.

Emma got her notepad from the table and flipped the pages through until she came across the one where she'd noted the salmon recipe. The words danced before her on the page, and she struggled in concentration.

Outside, she heard a dog bark. Looking out the kitchen window, she ascertained that the Friendly Neighborhood Jake had returned with his dog. She turned before she could see if he turned in her direction and bit her lip in frustration and self-disgust once she realized what she was doing.

Emma moved towards the cordless phone on the wall and dialed the number she knew she'd never forget.

"Pastime Books. This is Jane speaking. How may I help you?"

Emma opened her mouth and her voice struggled to break free of the voice box. What managed to hop out was a pathetic "ah."

"Emma?"

Emma felt the heat rush to her head and took the phone to the dining table, where she sank into one of the chairs. She pulled her legs up to her chest, letting her left arm hug herself together, even as she was sure the fear or her quickly beating heart would tear her apart. "Um. Yeah. It's me."

"Emma!" Jane Fairfax explained in confused surprise. "Um. How are you?"

"Good," Emma responded automatically, though at this moment she wasn't really experiencing any of the shadings of emotion that word encompassed. "Settling in at Ann Arbor."

"Good, good."

Not wanting to prolong the pain, Emma cleared her throat, trying to make her voice as smooth as possible. "I got an invitation to the wedding today."

"Oh." She could see the perfect "O" that Jane's pink lips would form. The sadness and regret. The awkwardness and guilt.

Emma tried hard to be the better one. "Congratulations. I hope that you and he will be happy," she said gruffly, trying to break through the loud thoughts in her head.

It's not you. It's me. I can't give you what you want. I just don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment, Em. Not for you, not for the next girl.

Right, Emma clenched her jaw. The Next Girl. Ten weeks later. She forced herself out of the chair and made an effort to be strong. She tried to proceed with brave nonchalance, moving towards the fridge where she sought out the dill and lemon juice.

"It wasn't-"

"I don't care," she laughed, disappointed in herself to hear a note of hysteria in it. "We knew this day would come. I'm so incredibly happy for you two!" The lies were flowing smoother now, but she had no way of holding them back now. "You were always better suited for him than I. I should have known."

In desperation to prevent herself from injecting bitterness into her next statements, Emma opened the bottle of lemon juice and took a big squirt into her mouth. She was happy to find that her desperate actions were effective. The cringe had her mouth glued shut in piercing agony. She could feel corners of her brain ringing. Well, that was an effective way to drive out her bitter thoughts.

"No, it's not that. It's never that," her former business partner assured her.

"Well," Emma struggled, pulling her mouth into forms she could control once more. "I just wanted to congratulate you. Regrettably, I won't be able to make the ceremony."

"Oh, we'll miss you!" Jane said, sentiments empty but offered all the same. Emma could hear the relief in her voice, and she couldn't help but feel a bit of it too.

"I have to make dinner now. Take care, Jane."

"I will. I'll tell Frank you said hello?"

Emma swallowed. Really, she'd done all that she thought she was capable of and Jane was asking for more? Emma quelched the urge to seethe, not wanting to prolong this misery any longer. "Sure. Offer my congratulations," her tongue nearly slipped on the word.

"Take care of yourself, Em. Good luck in Ann Arbor."

"Yeah. Thanks." She heard the phone click in disconnection and stared at the handset with a bit of dazed confusion, as if she now was waking from sleep and realizing what she was dreaming about. "Have a nice life," she said quietly before ending the event, and obliterating this unpleasant memory altogether with the "off" button.

She wished setting the table took more effort, concentration, time. She'd folded the cloth napkins, of a bold cheery yellow that she didn't feel but felt at pains to assume, into sophisticated and elegant swans. She'd tried a new and cunning layout of the silverware before rearranging it to the staid and normal. She'd checked the wine label three times to make sure she'd brought out the good chardonnay for their company instead of the vile Grappa her father professed to love.

It had taken her eighteen months to fall in love with Frank Churchill and be sure that he was the one she wanted to marry.

She'd made salad dressing, decided it needed more vinegar, discarded it when she'd added too much, and then made a new batch. When she found that, while it had many merits as a salad dressing, it did not at all complement the chicken and walnut salad she'd prepared, she made yet another batch, thankful for more distraction.

Ten weeks with Jane and so sure!

She had thought that those two weeks right after their breakup had been the worst she'd ever experienced, but that had been nothing to the slit-the-gut/pour-in-salt agony of seeing him so quickly take up with her business partner Jane.

Check on the rice, Emma. Emma moved to the stove and lifted the lid. Ascertaining the rice was ready, she reached for a fork to fluff, not at all feeling in the mood to do so.

And then her mother died so suddenly and everything changed again. The loss of Frank was nothing. Not really, when compared to the loss of her beloved, beautiful, warm mother.

The tears sizzled where they hit the burner and Emma quickly rubbed at her eyes, feeling stupid. She'd cried too much lately. Emma ripped off a square of paper towel and blew her nose into it.

She'd spent her first few weeks feeling like her spirit had died and left her body to function without her. She went through the motions of her mother's funeral and the execution of her will automatically, investing all her emotions and energy into moving back to Michigan and opening a new store in Ann Arbor. She didn't really know how she found closure or even if she had indeed achieved it, but somewhere along the way, she acknowledged the fact that her mother had died. She wasn't sure she wanted to sort through the morass of emotions. It was too scary to do.

It was dark outside now and she felt cold. She wished her father could keep the temperature of the house a bit higher than his preferred 64 Fahrenheit, but he was a creature of habit and she was finding it increasingly difficult to change his ways with every battle they had. Emma shivered into her sweater.

Resolute and armed with a dim glow of new energy and determination, Emma tossed the wet and rumpled bundle of paper towel into the trash and tried to find the calm that she'd had earlier in the day, when she'd found that equilibrium. When she'd found a bit of steadiness and joy again. One thing at a time.

The knock at the kitchen door startled her and she checked her reflection in a hanging pan. Traces of self-pity were visible, but certainly not to a stranger. Once she smiled, they were nearly invisible.

Emma moved towards the kitchen door and pulled aside a curtain. While she'd been expecting their guest, that self-assured, calm grin on Jake Knight's face surprised and irritated her.

He had no way of knowing she'd spent the last hour wallowing in self-pity and she had no reason, nor any desire to apprise him of that knowledge. Knowing the main cause of the irritation lay in herself and not him, she opened the door, polite smile ready. "Jake! Come in and get warm!" She was pleased to see that he at least respected the bone-rattling chill of the evening enough to wear a coat.

Jake smiled and put down a foil-covered bowl and a bottle of wine on the counter. He took in his warmly lit surroundings with pleasure; nobody had really frequented the kitchen since Meg had passed on, and on his previous visits, the room was always lonely, dark, and cold in its abandonment.

Emma had added her own touches; while Meg had favored pastels and lace, her daughter had a more energetic, sunny disposition. Bright florals in red and yellow danced about on curtains, dishtowels and potholders. There was a subtle change in the location of things, one that Jake couldn't really note in any sort of detail. More, the kitchen was warm from cooking and the air was redolent with lazy spices. There was a return of the coziness he'd used to feel when Meg had always bustled about the room putting together another casserole dish for him.

Jake moved into the hallway with the ease of a frequent guest and came back sans coat. Emma had thought to warn him of the indoor weather but was glad to see he'd armed himself with a sweatshirt.

She eyed the bottle on the table and moved to the dining room take her own selection back to the fridge. "You didn't have to bring anything," she admonished.

Without the puffy red jacket, he could see that his guess on her figure and stature had been accurate. Furthermore, he ascertained that the hair that she'd tucked under her hat and scarf this afternoon was the same riot of tawny red curls that her father had, and while she had a pale complexion, her cheeks were pink and perhaps a bit blotchy?

Skin condition? Cold? Tears?

"I know," he shrugged, opening a drawer and rummaging about until he found the corkscrew. "But the chardonnay's really good with fish and I figured why waste it?" he grinned as he cut the foil and started to open the bottle.

"And in the bowl?" she leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"Dessert."

Emma raised her brow in warning.

"Sliced fruit. I promise you!" he said defensively, knowing of Gordon's dietary restrictions, even if the man himself had never deigned to inform him of them.

Mollified, Emma smiled awkwardly and put the plate in the fridge. "We rarely eat dessert around here anymore," she shrugged. "Thank you. It was very considerate of you."

Jake watched her actions with interest. There was a weight in them now. Though he hadn't been able to tell, he was sure she'd been walking on the balls of her feet, bustling around out in the yard today. In the kitchen tonight, though she had a smile on her face, he could see that she sank onto her heels as she grabbed the potholders and took the fish from the oven.

"Dad! Dinner!" she hollered, startling Jake.

"Loud, for one so petite," he observed, ignoring her meek embarrassed look.

"I'm the Lion's daughter," she grinned. "Would you expect any less?"

Gordon grumbled into the kitchen and smiled to Jake in greeting. "Glad you could make it. Nice to have another man here to throw the balance off for a bit."

"As if that would help," Emma rolled her eyes as she grabbed a bright yellow stoneware plate from a neat stack on the counter and handed it to Jake. "You hold it and I'll load it."

Emma moved from station to station, arming the plate with rice, fish, and seared tomatoes. Emma took the plate from him and handed it with a command to her father: "Take it in, Dad. We'll follow."

Emma loaded up Jake's plate generously and gave herself a smaller amount. She sorted through the drawer to take out a wine opener and tilted her head to the door leading to the dining room. "Come on."

"So then Tracy goes, 'What do you mean? That's my dog!'" Gordon roared.

Gordon laughed and dawdled through dinner with Jake and Emma. It was the liveliest Emma had seen him since her moving here, as he usually preferred taking dinner in front of the television and watching whatever game was on. She was glad that her father's old colleague could spare the time to share the meal with them and give her Dad this enjoyment. "Ah, I didn't know anybody who loved his dog more than Joe Tracy," he shook his head, rubbing his eyes.

Jake gave a quiet chuckle and finished the last of his wine. Emma grabbed to the bottle to refill but he declined with a simple shake of his head.

It was a long, tiring evening and Emma's nerves had been almost completely worn through. She no longer feared being left alone with her thoughts; she only wanted to put everything away and sleep.

Gordon checked his watch and got up regretfully. "Think I'll go watch some SportsCenter," Gordon took a last sip of his water. "Jake, it was nice to have you over," he nodded to his guest. Before Emma could get up to help him, Gordon waved her off with a gruff bark. "Don't you dare go herding me about, Emma. Leave a man some dignity before his guests."

Emma and Jake met eyes across the table. Jake lifted a brow and Emma stifled a giggle.

"Good night, old man," Jake gave a half-hearted salute and Gordon laughed again.

"Kids these days," he muttered, leaving the dining room.

Once they could hear the sounds of ESPN from the other room, Emma and Jake burst into soundless laughter.

Jake watched Emma across the table carefully. While she'd laughed, smiled, and even occasionally managed to relax a little this evening, the traces of emotional wear were stronger on her now, digging trenches around her tired eyes, pulling painfully at her lips.

The assessing look he'd periodically subjected her to throughout the evening had returned. Emma was glad that she could escape it now. She stood up and started collecting the dishes. "Well, it was nice having you over. I didn't know if any of Dad's friends still stopped by to hang out."

"It was my pleasure. You're a fantastic cook, especially considering you're not allowed to use sugar," he started stacking dishes on his end.

"I consider it a culinary challenge, and I am more than happy to use substitutes. Don't clear anything! I can handle it! Go and watch SportsCenter or get on your way, but don't bother with this! You're our guest!"

"You look tired," Jake protested, as he gathered the wine glasses.

"It's been a long day," she shrugged as she kept her own dishes and flatware possessively close to her. "Really, Jake, you don't have to do this," she protested as he plucked the dishes from her grasp and placed them on his neat stack.

Jake moved to the kitchen and placed the dishes in the sink and started to roll up his sleeves. "My mom always had this rule that the person who did the cooking didn't have the do the dishes."

She'd worked so hard to be so positive today. Having his undivided attention was disconcerting. "Your mom probably doesn't adore doing dishes the way I do!" Emma lied. "Really!"

It wasn't his place to push or do anything. He was a stranger who'd come in for dinner. And yet, the emotional exhaustion and the fiercely subdued frustrations pulled at something in him. Furthermore, she was the daughter of one of his closest friends. He couldn't just stand around and pretend nothing was wrong.

Jake turned on the faucet. "Well, since I clearly cannot besmirch the memory of my mother and since I cannot begrudge you one of the joys of life, I offer you a compromise," he grabbed a dishtowel. "I'll wash, you dry."

Jake tested the temperature of the running water and Emma cursed to herself. She had the strangest feeling that perhaps this is how her father felt about her.

Their work styles clashed so completely. Jake lazily worked each dish with the detergent-saturated sponge, making sure every square centimeter was covered with soap. Then he took pains to rinse the plates with painstaking slowness until she was sure they'd run the house out of hot water. Was he meticulous or slow and how could she tell?

Emma bit her lip when she was about to volunteer to rinse and dry, or, for that matter, to forgo the dish washing altogether and simply utilize the shiny machine designed for this function. Too tired to argue and not about to try to invoke more conversation, Emma meekly dried the dishes, hoping the process finished soon.

Jake didn't torment her any more by trying to make conversation with her; it was obvious that he'd imposed on her intensely private nature enough this evening. All the same, it made him feel better that he'd helped in his own small way. When the last of the dishes were dried and stacked away neatly in the cupboards, Jake turned to Emma, pulling down his rolled-back sleeves.

"You've been so very generous with your time," she said tersely, following him into the hallway to retrieve his coat.

"It was my time to spend," he reminded, taking the coat off the hanger and swinging it around his shoulders to thread his arms through the sleeves.

They walked back to the kitchen and Jake opened the door. Emma held her breath when he paused in his action, as if he wanted to say something. "Thanks again for your invitation. Have a good evening, Emma," he smiled warmly to her.

"Sure," she said tersely. "It was our pleasure."

With a small departing wave, Jake stepped out into the night with his washed and dried bowl.

Emma shut the door and watched him through the curtains. He sauntered back slowly, not in a rush to get home. Once he arrived at the end of the driveway, he turned to wave again and she self-consciously waved back.

And though she was glad that the ordeal of the evening was over, she lamented that with his departure, the cold had snuck back into the house.

Emma spread out the rugs next to each other.

Really, it was a question of taste. The colorful one said "Hi! I'm a rug! Walk on me!" The elegant one in pastels said "Step on me if you must, but know that I am lovely."

It wasn't a tea room. Emma bent down and rolled up the pastel one and stuffed it in the corner. Having settled that, she set out laying the rug down so that it ran parallel to the lines of the hardwood floor.

Once she was sure that the alignment was perfect, she stood up to admire her handiwork, taking it in with the rest of the store.

It was brightly lit by antique-looking sconces, spotlights, track lights aplenty, and a beautifully gorgeous chandelier she knew was completely inappropriate but too fun to pass up. The warm honey-colored floors were newly installed and polished lovingly smooth. Altogether too fond of hardwood floors, she couldn't very well violate them by covering them with too many rugs and so only kept one in the front by the cash wrap.

The shelves that the contractors had just finished installing and painting spanned the walls, floor to ceiling. Some more shelves bisected the floor space creating a small but totally navigable maze. They were empty. The slightly repugnant chemical smell of that last layer of finish on the shelves lingered in the air. She'd be sure to open the door a crack in the next few days when she stopped by to stock the shelves.

Her first shipment of books waited patiently for her careful attentions in the backroom. She'd been a bit overzealous in the ordering process and so the remaining boxes poured out of the door and built a fort around the entrance. Emma looked at the boxes with excitement. Opening new shipments and shelving them was one of her favorite things to do.

Having had her fill of playing with wires her last day off, she'd commissioned her three employees to install the stereo system today. She figured they'd gotten it working when she had returned from lunch to the velvety croon of Billie Holliday. She briefly considered enlisting their help with Project Christmas Lights, but concluded that she wouldn't have been able to afford the overtime.

The store was on track to be opened on the first of next year and she was pleased. All the paperwork had been handled and what hadn't been concluded was in the accordion folder that sat on the table that would be her front table display.

The comfy couch and armchairs she'd purchased on today's excursion would be delivered on Monday. She and her assistants would start shelving then. It'd most likely take a few days to get all the books out and in order, and then they'd be off for the holiday.

The register computer and software, as well as the scanners had arrived and were also sitting in the back room, waiting to be opened and set up.

It's really happening.

At first, the idea of opening a store all by herself had seemed crazy; she'd recalled the headaches and nausea she'd experienced when she and Jane had embarked on Pastime Books. She wasn't sure she could handle it.

Handle it or not, she gave it a shot, because it was what she loved to do. And she'd found as she went along that experience had taught her well. Emma had kept detailed records of all the paperwork and expenses necessary for the startup of Pasttime, and so had a thorough (and blessedly complete) task list.

And it was thrilling and exciting and all hers. Emma settled in her wheely chair and spun around the room in glee, taking it all in. Everything here was real. And hers. And the bank's, of course.

She was about to start singing very badly to Dinah Washington when she heard a rap at the window. She turned in surprise. It was a bit obvious that they weren't open for business. But when she saw Jake Knight waving through the glass she nearly fell out of her chair in surprise. As it was, she burst out of the chair and it drifted across the room to bump against the boxes.

Emma moved to the door and unlocked and opened it for her guest. "Jake? What's going on?"

Jake did his best to brush off the snow and stomp it from his boots before entering, but the cold wind had Emma rushing him inside.

"Nice place!" he grinned at the chandelier, taking in the store.

It was a wonder he followed sports; the feats on the fields, rinks, and courts were often over in the blink of an eye. How could the man track them when it took him near hours to do everything, from washing dishes to just looking around? "Looks like you're all set for the books now," he observed.

"Just about," she replied. She answered her own question: the man didn't miss a trick. The intensity of his gaze as he processed everything made her feel like he was digging into something within her as he examined her store. Still, she was grateful that he found interest in examining the store instead of trying once more to psychoanalyze her.

He was the first person that was unrelated to operations of Random Books to enter it. She was absolutely thrilled by the undisguised pleasure with which he took it in, even if he was intruding.

"And you open in January?"

"The first," Emma replied, not without a tremor of pride.

Jake grinned. "It's really impressive, Emma. You work really fast. You've only been in this store for a week or so?"

"I took care of all the paperwork and loans while I was still living in Indiana; I made a few drives up north here to hire on some assistants to take care of some small matters. Though I wasn't here at the time, we actually moved in three weeks ago."

"Amazing. Are you specializing in any genres?"

"Not particularly. I don't have a strong preference myself as long as it's good and that's what I hope to stock."

"Sounds like a good enough policy."

He was smiling at her now and once more subjecting her to the scrutiny of his assessing gaze. She moved away and turned down the volume. "What brings you here?"

"I thought Gordon told you: I'm your ride home."

"Dad told you I needed a ride?"

She'd had her suspicions about her father's ideas when he'd mentioned him the day after their shared dinner a few mornings ago, but since then her father hadn't made any references to Jake and she'd gotten complacent and allowed those nagging thoughts to dissipate. But that was the thing about Gordon Woodhouse; he could blindside you. Especially good at the blindsiding, the old man.

Just because patricide was illegal didn't make it tempting every once in a while.

But he didn't know about Frank, she made excuses. And Jake was a nice guy. If…

Well.

"Yeah. There's a snow storm coming in and Gordon was concerned that you weren't safe in your car."

She'd driven in snow storms before in her car before; it had been perfectly fine. "It was really nice of you, but it won't be a problem, Jake," she protested. "I've had experience with this stuff. And it wasn't too bad earlier," she checked her watch, "you know, five hours ago."

Jake took her by the shoulder and steered her to the window.

"That buried dark car by the curb there: that wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?"

Emma moved away from the contact and looked out, truly looked out into the street for the first time this afternoon. The store was located in the heart of downtown, a block away from campus, so the roads and sidewalks hadn't been completely abandoned; Ann Arbor was too busy a town and Michiganders too hardy a stock to let a smattering of snow bother them. All the same, the snow had fallen fast. One and a half feet of it, she estimated by looking by the mailbox across the street. What had really screwed her over was the repeated snow plowing; mounds of snow had been unceremoniously dumped onto her poor Taurus, and Jake's offer was starting to sound a lot better.

"Gordon said you usually left here about eight, but there are warnings that it'll be getting worse soon."

Emma felt awkward accepting his offer after asserting that she was going to be just fine, but really, he was already out now and she really didn't have much of a choice now, did she? "I was finishing up early today anyway. Well. I guess we better get going," she sighed. She moved behind the cash wrap to get her coat and purse, turning off the stereo.

Though it was usually a twenty minute drive from the store to her home, the reduced visibility and general messiness of the roads doubled the commute time. For Emma, the duration was stretched even more. It was strained and surreal. She was every moment wanting to ask him what her father had already told Jake of her and if he had any clue what her father was up to.

Jake favored country music and whistled along while Emma dug her nails onto the palms of her hands to keep from changing the station. They made small conversation, which indicated to her that neither of them was paying particular attention to the details. She knew it was rude, but her mind was simply overtaxed coming up with a good way to corner her father into admitting his unwanted high-handed maneuvering without making her seem ungrateful and how to punish him for it.

Jake was a nice guy for putting up with this. "Thank you for driving out. I hope you didn't have to go too much out of your way…" she said quietly.

"No. I was meeting with someone on the Michigan campus today anyway."

"Oh, lucky me," she said. When she realized how sarcastic she sounded, she flushed. "I mean, thanks. I really am lucky you were around to give me a ride back, because, you know, I would have been stuck back there. In the store." She felt like she'd already said enough, but she felt the driving need to say more.

Shut up, Em.

She wasn't a talkative person by nature, so why did this happen? It didn't happen often; only when she was really embarrassed. As she was a strong believer in the preservation of self-dignity, she was extraordinarily good at avoiding such situations.

"…and I hope whatever brought you to Ann Arbor went well…"

"It went perfectly, thanks."

"Great," Emma clipped and turned to face out the window into the speckled darkness, relieved to be left to herself once more.

"You said that you were closing up early?"

Why are you bringing this on yourself? She mentally railed at him. You're being too polite. Really.

"Yeah. I got good work done today. I interviewed a prospective accountant today, which is nice because I'm getting a bit tired handling the books. She's seventy-three and most likely senile, but even given that I'm pretty sure she knows more math than I do…" Blah, blah, blah.

Jake laughed. "Not one of your fortes?"

"'Fraid not. Not to say that I suck at it," she began defensively. "I mean, I've had to do my own accounting before and it's been all right. I just triple check it and always find mistakes."

"Gordon says you know all the stats of the '84 Tigers by heart."

And we can see Dad has been busy enumerating my many talents. "First of all, memorizing stats isn't math; secondly, with Gordon Woodhouse as your father, well, you'd be sure to memorize them too, else you'd just get lost in the conversations. His favorite baseball team ever," Emma said.

"Acknowledged. So are you still a baseball fan?"

"Sure. My favorite sport. Definitely." Ok, this time, good job. Five words, this time. Only one of them superfluous.

"It's your favorite sport?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes!" The elation Emma felt over using a one-word, mono-syllabic answer had her smiling out into the darkness.

"Then you must be pretty excited at the Tigers' recent success," he replied conversationally, oblivious to her private victory. "For a while there, it was pretty disheartening…"

"It doesn't matter that the Tigers sucked," Emma braced herself. "I'm a Yankees fan."

Jake whistled harshly through his teeth. "Does Gordon know?"

"Does Gordon know?" Emma laughed. "Yes, of course he does. It's one of his favorite fatherly criticisms. That and the whole not married at twenty-seven thing." Too. Much. Information. Idiot.

Jake gave a loud shout of laughter as he maneuvered the car off the freeway and onto the local roads. The roads were emptier here and considerably less-plowed. Emma sank into the seat now, glad that Jake was around to bring her home in his Envoy.

"Do you like hockey?"

Emma turned to him, confused. "Yes."

"What are you doing Friday night?"

Something in her sank into her stomach even as another part of her perked up. What was stronger, the frustration that he seemed to be falling right into her father's plans, or the high, flattered feeling that this handsome man was contemplating spending more time with her?

"Something with you?" she asked.

Jake laughed. "Clever woman. I'm covering the Red Wings/Avalanche game and I'd like for you to come with me."

"You would?"

"You needn't sound so surprised. Gordon said you used to love to go with him when you were younger."

Of course. So it was Dad. Emma snuffed the completely unwarranted disappointment before it could color any thoughts. "I did. The last time I went I must have been thirteen."

"Grew out of it?"

"Nah. Never did. I just got busy with school," she shrugged.

Jake pulled up into the driveway and turned to Emma in the darkness. "So Friday…?"

Emma coughed nervously. "Um. Sure. You're on."

"Great," he grinned.

He got out of the car and moved around to her door. Trying not to start on the lectures to herself yet, she dug into her purse for her house keys.

Jake opened her door and offered a hand to assist her out of the vehicle. She shook her head.

Flushed, she got out of the car quickly and moved to the kitchen door, sorting out her house key in the dim light of the lantern above the kitchen door. "Thanks for the ride, Jake. I really appreciate it," she said, unlocking the door and opening it.

"It was no problem, like I said."

"Well, then," she smiled at him. "Hm. Good night, Jake." And, for lack of a better thing to do, shut the door in his face.

Jake was puzzled. Not entirely sure what happened in the last five minutes, he stared at the door.

"Whatever you said, I don't think it had the effect you were going for!"

"Close the window before she catches you, Gordon!" he called up before turning around and getting back into his car.

Part Two

Posted on Monday, 3 December 2007

It was a new day, and she had a new staple gun.

She'd woken up early and had considered taking her father's Tacoma out to the store, but her staff had the day off and the thought of lugging around boxes in the empty store by herself made her feel lonely.

Still, she was up early and chomping at the bit for a mission. Capitalizing on this rush, she slammed back a cup of decaf, devoured half a grapefruit, borrowed her father's pickup, and drove to Home Depot to buy more lights, and to return Lame Staple Gun for the stream-lined, "so expensive I'd have to put my kids down as collateral if I had them" staple gun she was currently caressing.

If she were a man, she would have grunted or strutted. She allowed herself one Dirty Harry monologue. Quietly uttered, just in case anybody was walking by and overheard.

This time, she decided not to be presumptuous; that would have pissed off the Christmas decoration spirits. Instead, she only brought out two boxes of lights and her ladder. A modest offering and certainly achievable, yes?

No. An hour later, she leaned heavily against the ladder and looked up at the line of lights she'd managed to fasten to the house. It went around the top half of a window.

She wanted to kick something. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shoot something with her staple gun. The rage faded from her eyes, and she put the instrument of death down before she could do any damage. Leaning against the ladder and staring at the window, she felt the tears of resignation sting at her eyes, the self-pitying sniffs tickle her nose.

They're just Christmas decorations! It was not as if they were anything crucial. The world wasn't going to lament their loss. But it'd been so extremely important to her for some reason. Why was she so fixated on these stupid lights? She didn't need the lights.

It's not as if her mother used to put them up.

She wanted to quit but the overwhelming loss she felt when she acknowledged the defeat to herself depressed her. It'd been something she'd wanted to do, something new for her Father and herself. Leaning her forehead against a cold rung, she closed her eyes against the dizzying loneliness that gripped her heart.

Snow had gotten into her boots and saturated her socks. Her toes were crying in frozen pain. Inside her work gloves, her sweat had soaked through the first layer of knit gloves and crusted over the past hour; her fingers were either numb or trembling; she couldn't tell. The rest of her was hot and sweaty. She was a furnace of frustration. Her back stung in hot whining pain and her arms moped at her sides, sore from trying to simultaneously hold up the heavy staple gun and the wire of lights.

"You look like you could use a drink."

Emma stiffened, sniffed, and swiped at her eyes as she pushed herself up from the ladder.

Jake was approaching with a thermos. Not far behind him was his dog. "I'm afraid the strongest I have right now is hot chocolate," he offered the shiny container up to her. Emma smiled weakly in greeting, trying to ascertain if her awkwardness the night before had thrown him off. He smiled easily at her, so she cautiously accepted his offer. She hadn't been hurting for company, but distraction wasn't a bad idea. Especially when it was accompanied by a hot drink.

She cocked her head towards the porch in invitation and he accompanied her. She quickly removed the work gloves and peeled off the wet knit ones. Jake poured her a cup and after a quick blow and rub to her hands to warm them up, she accepted it.

The first sip was heavenly. The aroma danced into her nose first and heat dissolved into her sinuses. The rich liquid warmth left a cozy wake, warming her chest up and she couldn't help but grin with the relief she felt.

Doug settled himself at her feet and though it was far too soon, and the boots entirely too thick, she could swear her toes already felt warmer. She reached down to pet Doug's head. "You're a sweet dog," she said to him quietly.

Jake looked up at the pathetic half-finished window. "It looks..."

"Not a word," she said quietly. "Please just don't say anything," she pleaded wearily.

"You're doing fine," he said, putting a casual arm around her shoulders. "You're just hindered because you need six hands for this operation and you have at most three, when you utilize that foot of yours," Jake chuckled.

Emma shrugged his touch off and tried awkwardly to defend herself. "I do things on my own. I'm used to it. Besides, I don't know where I can get another three hands."

"I can offer two for sure, maybe two and a half if you don't mind teeth marks," Jake said matter-of-factly. "Not mine. My dog's."

Emma's chuckled with a shake of her head. "I wouldn't wish this on anyone. I mean, you've already put yours up and I don't think anybody should suffer this twice in a year."

"I ran three lines of lights around the pine tree in my yard," Jake laughed. "That was nothing."

Emma took another sip of the cocoa. His offer was really, really tempting. But the problem, was, of course, so was he. And when she was around him, things were weird and quick and she couldn't process anything. And later at night, when she'd look back on the day, she'd be confused, agitated, nervous, and excited.

"How about this: I'll help you and you can repay me later?"

She looked at him, uncertainty clear and obvious in her features. "What kind of repayment?"

"Maybe a beer?"

"You'll put up with the stupid cold and wind and the snow in the shoes and annoying loss of circulation to your arms and aching back for one beer?"

"Ok. Maybe two," Jake shrugged.

Emma laughed. "Can I have this in writing before you begin?"

Four (and a half) hands were much better than two, even when hindered by two stubborn minds, a wagging tail that got tangled in everything, and a variety of opinions on logistics. Two and a half hours and countless minor arguments later, they'd bordered all the windows with lights and garlands. In the dim light of the late afternoon, Emma stood in front of the house with a small smile.

"Shall we light?" Jake asked.

"No way. I don't want to see it until it's all done," Emma declaimed decisively.

"It's not done?" he asked in surprise.

"Oh, no," Emma said, grimly.

Before Jake could say anything, she cut him off: "I've already tested all the lights, Jake. They'll work."

"Fine. So when are we going to take on more? You're running out of days; Christmas is next Tuesday."

Emma shrugged as if she didn't care, but really, "we"!! And after this first taste of success, she wasn't about to go it alone the rest of the way; memories of her frustrations this morning were still fresh and ringing in her quads. "Are you busy on Saturday?"

Jake shrugged. "Saturday afternoon should be good."

Emma smiled. "We just have some garlands to put up here and there and I'd like to put lights on those trees over there," she gestured to the drawing on the yellow pad in her hands.

Finally allowed to peruse the master plan for the first time and more than a little curious, Jake took in his fill of the scribbles. "No offense, but you don't have much in the way of artistic ability. I've seen playbooks that make more sense than this."

Emma laughed and gathered up the coat she'd tossed aside on the lawn hours ago when she'd gotten too warm. "Come on."

"What are we doing now?"

"We're going to eat dinner," she opened the door to the kitchen. Jake was surprised; she liked him more for it. "You didn't honestly think I was going to repay all this with two measly beers?"

"I was hoping that guilt would at least bring it up to four and another date," he said, as he stepped aside to allow her to precede him into the house.

Emma moved quickly ahead of him. Her comfort nearly dissolved when he used the "D" word. She wasn't ready for Friday night, and had she known he'd viewed it as a date, she probably wouldn't have accepted his invitation.

Really, what did she want? Insulted when she thought her father was pushing them together, nervous when he stepped it up.

He wasn't asking her because he felt sorry for her, was he?

She'd ponder it later. Focus on dinner, Emma. He was nice all day, and she was repaying him with awkwardness and insecurity.

The fact that he was stirring these strange emotions was just wrong. How long did a woman need to mourn a dead relationship before she was ready to embark on a new one? Contrary to what had happened between Frank and Jane, Emma doubted the answer was this short a duration. She was disappointed in how fickle her own heart appeared to be. She'd been out of her mind and heart in love with Frank! Emma moved back into the kitchen and took stock of the fridge. "Hm. How does pork chops in tomatoes and onions sound?"

"Good. Can I do anything?"

Emma turned to him, exasperated. "Don't you ever tire of being helpful?"

"I'm very useful in the way of chopping vegetables and preparing salads."

Emma opened the crisper and took out romaine hearts. "Fine, fine," she relented. "It'll keep you occupied so that I don't have to." She grabbed a chopping board and a knife from the block in the corner. "I'm giving you one last chance; you can run for it and hang out with my Dad..."

Jake shook his head, stood his linoleum-coated ground, and took the knife from her. "You're prettier."

Emma laughed, cheeks flushed. "Anybody's prettier than Dad."

"I heard that," Gordon grumbled from the doorway of the kitchen.

"Oh, your ego can take it," Emma replied cheerfully. "Dad, we've gotten some of the lights up!"

"I know. I could hear your arguing; you were louder than Springer."

"I can't believe you watch that trash now," Emma warned.

"Couldn't ever stomach those soaps that Meg used to watch."

"Mom used to tape General Hospital for me when I stayed after school. We'd watch it together right after dinner," Emma sighed nostalgically as she reached into a cabinet and took out a glass tumbler. She was surprised to find that remembering didn't hurt as much. "That was a lovely show. You should watch it. It's much better than Jerry Springer," she said matter-of-factly.

"No. I've let you corner me into changing every other aspect of my life, but I'll watch what I want to watch," Gordon proclaimed, trying to get around Emma to the fridge for another beer. Instead, Emma took out a Britta pitcher and poured cold water into the tumbler. She offered it to her father.

Gordon eyed the glass and narrowed his gaze on his daughter. Emma stood her ground.

With a curse, he took the glass and moved out of the kitchen, muttering that beers didn't kill old men; their daughters did.

There was no quiet more wonderful, Emma sighed, than the quiet spent on a winter's eve in warm happy comfort.

After dinner, they'd moved into the family room for lazy conversation and a Pistons game. Not a fan of the commentators ("Young, ignorant upstarts with hasty, misinformed opinions"), her father had put the TV on mute and contributed his own commentary, with occasional consulting from Jake, whose opinion her father appeared to hold in high esteem.

The game had finished half an hour ago, but no one was in a hurry to go anywhere. It was dim in the room, the only lighting coming from a lamp in the corner and the TV, which now showed an episode of a sitcom from a bygone era. Emma was lazy with comfort on the couch, bundled up in an afghan her mother had knitted for her the previous winter. Across the room, Jake drank his Bud Light slowly with a relaxed smile on his face, his eyes almost closed.

It was rest well-earned. It had been a long day. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been around anybody for this long, even one under her employ. A source of great relief to her was that this prolonged exposure to the man had given her time to stem the nervous discomfort and those tendencies to talk on and on. She hadn't gotten there yet, but she was almost perfectly comfortable with him now. If she hadn't, well, the energy and agitation would have made her combust hours ago.

Everything was just so very pleasant now. She was reluctant to disturb this wonderful peace, but she was aware that there were things that had to be done. She slowly pushed herself off the couch. Though she hated herself for doing it, she unwrapped the afghan and shivered with fresh cold.

Across the room, Jake started to get up. She shook her head and whispered. "No. Stay. Relax."

Jake shook his head with regret. "No. It's getting late and I have an interview tomorrow morning in Auburn Hills."

"Oh." Emma turned from him to retreat to the kitchen, where she could figure out why his leaving made her feel so conflicted.

Jake followed and started to push his sleeves back.

"No, Jake," she said firmly when they entered the kitchen. "You can't help me. You've been helping me all day and if you do anything more I swear I'll die from the kindness."

Jake quietly chuckled and moved to the sink. "When we work together, we get things done quicker. And once we're done, I can go home and you can go to bed."

"Jake."

He took her hands in his. Though she'd thought her hands were warm, his were warmer, and she felt the heat and electricity rush straight through her and into her cheeks.

"Just let me help out," he spoke earnestly, looking levelly into her eyes, daring her to say no.

He'd touched her before. He'd boosted her up several times during their efforts today. Accidentally brushed hands with her while handing her something. But this was different. It wasn't cold or sunny outside. There weren't kids running by and screaming. And he wasn't looking at her the way he was now. Emma wasn't surprised that every single nerve in her was ringing right now and she was once again terrified. All the same, she just couldn't look away. Scared when she realized that she didn't want to.

Jake smiled at her warmly and with another hand clasp turned back to the sink. "I'll even let you soap and rinse this time."

Jake gave her a ride to work on Thursday. She was pleased to see her car peeking out of the mound of snow and, after a few broad sweeps to push the accumulation aside, she informed him that she was sure she'd be all right getting home on her own. The parking tickets clamped down by the wipers were a bit annoying, but for some strange reason, she couldn't work up the agitation merited.

Maybe it was the joy she'd felt upon seeing her employees goofing around in front of the locked doors of their store. Maybe it was the zingy fresh smell of Jake's soap and aftershave combination. Or his hilarious story about Doug and the Cat Next Door. Either way, Emma stepped up to her storefront with a small private smile.

"Who's the hottie?" Kim Taylor peered around Emma's approaching figure at the departing vehicle.

"A good neighbor," Emma tried for nonchalance.

Kim watched the SUV turn the corner and turned back to smile at Emma. "Did you enjoy your day off?"

Emma shrugged. "Phase one of the Lighting Disaster is complete."

"Wasn't it called 'Operation Christmas Lights'?" Harriet asked.

"Let's learn some tact, why don't we?" Robert Martin threw an arm around Harriet's shoulders.

Harriet blushed with mortification but Emma laughed as she unlocked the doors.

Her employees filed in after her.

"We're ready to put books into inventory and shelve them," Emma said, walking through the store to flip on the lights.

Excitement and enthusiasm dawned on the faces of her employees. "Dibs on romance!" Harriet cried.

"Well, there's a surprise," Robert laughed sarcastically, moving towards the cash wrap.

The heady beat of the Smashing Pumpkins clicked into the atmosphere. From across the store, Kim cried out, "Veto!!!"

Emma met eyes with Robert.

"She liked them two days ago."

"She's giving birth in a few weeks. She gets her way."

Within a half-minute, Robert caterwauled along with Perry Como, making his disgruntlement known.

Kim rolled her eyes as she waddled up to the computer. Harriet approached with a box. "Come on, let's get started."

"I think you ought to come by tonight, just to make sure we don't eat those lentils that Emma's been threatening."

"Can't save you tonight, Gordon. Going out for dinner."

"Going out for dinner? Who with?!"

Jake smiled grimly at the older man's consternation.

"Business?"

"Ah, actually, I have a date."

"A date!?!?! What business do you have, going out on a date when you're taking out my daughter on Friday night?!!?"

Jake sighed, pulling a hand through his hair. "Look, Gordon, about that..."

"Tell you what, Jake, you do my daughter a grave injustice."

"Save the histrionics, Gordon."

"Histri-"

"I'll tell John and Bella you said hi."

"Ha! If you'd just told me that-"

Jake shut the phone off with a happy touch of the button. He groaned and scolded himself: he should have just kept the mystery alive, not mentioned his brother and sister-in-law. Just too fond of the man. Of course, that's what had gotten him involved in this situation in the first place.

Doug bounded over, trying to assess the walking situation. Jake shook his head. "I have to work a bit." Doug barked in protest. Jake shook his head again emphatically.

He took a seat at the computer and tried to focus on his e-mails. Appointments, inquiries, junk mail. And of course, five e-mails from Gordon. Over the course of the last twenty-four hours, all of them detailing the many attributes of his lovely daughter.

Stepping towards the window, looking out towards the Woodhouse home, he frowned.

Just like the Lion to think that he could simply put the two together, and have them married by the new year.

It was a difficult position to be in. He certainly couldn't leave the Woodhouses on their own; dead within a few days, he'd estimate. Though the jury was out on which would emerge the victor. He cared far too much for the father to leave him to that fate.

And the daughter was...interesting. Intriguing.

Of course, she was also too fragile, too emotional, too...close to the Lion.

She was gorgeous, no doubt about it. Had there been no complications, had he simply run into her in another venue, he'd have gotten her number. Asked her out. Seen how things would have progressed. Which was undoubtedly why he was still...testing out waters.

But as it was, the woman was obviously a textbook case for everything that could possibly go wrong in a year. A deceased parent. From what he'd heard from Gordon, a prematurely (on her end) terminated relationship. Picking up and moving everything within a couple of months. Starting a new business. Fighting with her father every day.

And a man who obviously set her on edge just by breathing.

He was flattered even as he wondered if he ought to stay away.

Doug barked in protest, as if reading his thoughts.

"Yeah, I know." He recalled how her petite waist felt under his hands. How the cold bit pink blossoms across her cheekbones. How the bright glitter came into her eyes when she was feeling genuinely excited and happy. "We can't."

Looking at the house, contemplating the Lion, contemplating his princess. He couldn't stay away. It was inherent to his nature, that draw to the puzzle, push and pull. "I can't."

One evening to gather his thoughts before they stepped up to the plate. And what happened afterwards, well...it seemed that she was going to have yet another thing to stress over.

Too flirty. Emma pulled the low-cut bright red sweater off and dug through her drawers to find something more appropriate.

The black one. Not at all low-cut, considering it was a turtleneck.

After pulling it securely over her head, she swore under her breath when she realized that the sweater was a bit tight. But that thought flew out of her mind as she saw that her freshly blow-dried hair had now assumed a life of its own. She groaned as static-laden strands fought gravity, attaching themselves to the cuffs of her sweater. Moving into the bathroom, she wet her hands and smoothed them over her hair.

Screw it. She started brushing the hair back into a low ponytail.

Frank had always said he'd liked her hair loose, though. It made her look more mature.

Emma gritted. Well, she wasn't dating Frank, she muttered to a hair tie, catching up the gather of hair. After a survey of checks at various angles, she decided to keep the sweater on. It was a date. A little tight was all right. Finally, she glanced down at the last point of contention.

The bag sat on the counter, patiently and optimistically waiting for the past few months to be opened once again. The contents begged to be utilized, on this first night of exciting opportunity.

It's a date, isn't it?

She didn't want to. She wasn't ready for this. Fretting over wardrobe choices, making conversation, constant self-evaluation. Emma grumbled a sigh as she reached for the bag and yanked it open.

Locating the powder, she smoothed it over her face.

He was a nice guy. An attractive guy.

She applied the blush with a liberal hand, veiling her nervous pallor.

Never mind the fact that her father had hand-picked him out for her. Never mind that she suspected he'd asked her out because he took pity on her in her lonely state. Never mind the fact that her hands trembled when she thought of getting herself back into The Fray of Dating again.

She forced her hands to stay steady as she tackled her eye makeup. It was practice, she told herself. Regardless of whether or not Jake was at all interested in her, this was an opportunity to just start over again. Wasn't that exactly what she'd been trying to do this holiday season? What else was she supposed to do, sit around and continue to feel sorry for herself when she thought of Frank and Jane?

Five minutes later, Emma smiled at her results. She looked good. She looked ready for a date.

The self-satisfaction was somewhat shaken when she heard the doorbell.

She shook her head. Grabbing her "date" wool coat from the closet, she rushed down the hall. She shouted her farewell while barreling down the stairs: "Dad! I'm going out! I'll be back later!" She laughed as she realized that she sounded like her teenage self, trying to get out of the house before her date got the third degree from her father.

"Your date is here," Gordon grinned to her in the foyer. "There's a girl! Doesn't she look pretty, Jake?"

Emma flushed as she pulled on a sleeve of her coat. "Hey Jake," she greeted, smothering the embarrassment.

Jake smiled at her in friendly greeting and assisted with her coat.

"So where are you two lovebirds going?"

Emma's eyes flashed dangerously to her father in warning, but she shrugged as she pulled on her gloves. "Jake's covering the Red Wings tonight."

Gordon sputtered. "Hockey? You're taking her to a hockey game!?"

"I don't think we'll have much time, so I guess we'll have to hit up the drive-thru at McDonald's. That ok with you?" Jake asked companionably.

Gordon's face flushed with irritation. "I thought-"

"Sounds absolutely lovely! I've been having a craving for French fries! See ya, Dad!" Emma kissed her stunned father on the cheek. "Be good and eat the spinach casserole I left for you in the oven!"

"I'd rather let the house burn down..." Gordon grumbled.

Emma gave a quick wave as she followed Jake out the door to the Envoy. She took her seat and waited patiently as he got in on his side.

"So..." Jake reached into the back of the vehicle and handed over a paper bag.

Emma opened the bag to pull out a sandwich, two juice boxes, and a bag of animal crackers. She looked back at him in confusion.

"It'd be a lot easier if you finished by the time we got there..." he observed as he started the car. "That sound good?" he asked, as he turned to back the SUV out of the driveway.

She was fuming by the time he pulled into his parking space at Joe Louis Arena. Not at him. Of course not. What had she expected? He was working tonight. He'd asked her to join him. And of course while he'd been the one to mention that it was a date, well, he was a joker. He kidded around all the time. Well, he looked like the kind of guy that did. She'd read too much into it.

But she wasn't disappointed. Of course not. She hadn't wanted for it to be a date. It was too soon to date.

Emma preceded him through the parking structure and towards the stadium, but patiently waited at the press entrance for him to catch up, grin at the security officer, flash his press badge, and inquire "How are the kids, Marge?" She flashed her guest pass and stepped back in time.

She preceded him through the hallways, but after a few turns, he grabbed her arm to steer her in a different direction.

"Some things have changed," he said, smiling at a passing assistant.

Emma nodded.

Following him through a maze of hallways and staircases, she calmed herself by making conversation. "So you still cover hockey?"

"Some times. Lately, yes. We've had a series of close and interesting games," Jake observed. "Gabe, how are you?"

The man addressed as Gabe opened the door, allowing the two of them in.

Emma smiled as she inhaled the familiar scent of the ice rink. She heard the whisk and whir of skates gliding across the glassy surface, the click-clack of pucks against sticks. Stepping forward as much as she could, she took in the vibrant atmosphere of one of her childhood haunts. Energetic background music charged up both teams for their upcoming skirmish.

"Lord, save us! Puck's back!" The ebullient bellow resonated throughout the stadium.

Emma recognized the voice even while she turned to the familiar corner. After ascertaining that there were, indeed, places in the world where time stood still, she threw herself into the arms of the man who was approaching. After smacking a quick kiss on each cheek, she laughed. "I'm twenty-seven years old now, Nolan Bates. Surely I'm old enough to run off with you now?!"

The jovial fifty-seven-year-old laughed. With a fond tug of her ponytail, he turned to Jake. "Knight, you bring this man-eater in here?!"

Jake smiled. "She tricked me," he said easily.

Nolan clucked Emma under the chin. "Where are your pig tails, little girl?"

"In my other purse," she kissed the man on her nose. "Come on, Old Man, where are my green M&Ms?"

She made small talk with the other writers, staying closer to the ones who recognized her.

When the game began, she threw herself into the theatrics on the ice, roaring like a frat boy at the bad calls, lustily cheering when a fight broke out. When the Wings won, she threw her arms around Nolan like it was the first victory she'd ever seen.

And when they worked their way down the ice after the game so that Jake could get interviews, members of the front office ventured down to chat with her, introducing her to some of the players, all unfamiliar to her now. She laughed and joked, easily conversing with old and new acquaintance alike. While it hadn't been apparent before just how well she knew and followed sports, it was now obvious, from the way she absorbed and doled out opinions, that Gordon had considered sports trivia an absolutely indispensable part of her education.

And when she did the full lung and throat laugh thing, she roared like the Lion.

It was good to see her so comfortable, so easy in her surroundings, Jake mused, approaching the penalty box.

After finishing his last interview of the evening, he half expected that she would have been whisked away by Nolan Bates. The veteran writer for ESPN was obviously very fond of her, which should not have come as a surprise; did he not boast a very close relationship with her father? Still, Emma waited for him patiently in her roost, watching the operations of the cleaning staff with a peaceful smile on her face.

Emma grinned as he approached. "Dad always made me wait here."

"How apropos," he opened the gate of the box. She got out and walked with him.

Emma rolled her eyes as they walked past the empty rink towards an exit.

"Why do they call you 'Puck'?"

Emma laughed loudly. "When I was a kid, I got passed around as much as one," she sighed gustily.

"Do they call you 'Ball' at the Palace?"

Emma shook her head. "I loved coming here. Out of all the places Dad covered, I think this was my favorite place. I was the Princess, I kid you not. Every single one of those writers dropped all their work to talk and play with me. I must have been a terrible distraction," she sighed.

"Some things never change," he joked, opening a door.

Emma turned back at wink at him as she walked past. "Oh? Because you seemed intent on the ice," she kidded. She flushed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "So, uh...I didn't see Ryan Otway tonight."

"That's because he retired three years ago."

Emma's brow furrowed in thought. "Dad never mentioned it."

Jake shrugged. "Probably in denial. Last time he came with me, he growled the whole time at the newbies."

Emma shook her head with a rueful smile. "Of course he did."

The cold outdoor air startled her. She turned to him, surprise evident on her expression. "This isn't the parking garage."

He grinned at her with boyish sheepishness. "I hope you're hungry. I know I am."

"Dinner? Now?"

"You didn't think that the sandwich was it, did you? What kind of guy do you think I am?"

Emma cleared her throat. "There were also animal crackers. And you were working."

"Right. And now I'm done. You still owe me beer, and I'm getting you dinner."

The arena traffic on along the Lodge had long diminished. Walking with him along the street, she pondered her surroundings. "It's cleaning up."

"The Riverfront's gotten a lot nicer recently. Pretty park areas, some tempting condos farther up," he mused. "A couple of years ago, when I was looking for a place, I thought about moving in, you know, before Gordon e-mailed me. 'BOY!'" Jake assumed Gordon's gusty roar. "'What are you doing, moving into the city? Perfectly fine place two doors down. Move there. Meg worries about you!'"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course."

"I'll admit it; it'd already been a couple of years since he left the paper, but I still missed your father, and I was curious. So within an hour, I was being shown the house."

"And I'll bet you were moved in within two weeks."

Jake chuckled. "Closer to a month. I had to get down to my parents' home in Iowa to get more of my things."

As they reached Hart Plaza, Emma turned to look out past the geometric installations to the sleepy water of the Detroit River, and beyond it, the lights of Windsor, Canada. "You know, as many times Dad brought me down to the Joe, this must be the second time I've set foot in Hart Plaza." Turning to look up at the tall buildings on the opposite side of Jefferson Avenue, she sighed. "Some places look smaller when you get older. None of this does," she said breathily.

"Shall we walk along the river?"

"I thought you were hungry."

Jake shrugged, taking her arm in his. "Come on."

Emma followed as they cut across the plaza. When she saw a passing old-fashioned riverboat, bright with lights, her eyes widened with happy wonder. "I swear I'm seeing a ghost: is that an old Boblo Island ferry?"

He looked up. "Actually, that boat came to us from Texas."

Emma lifted a brow in inquiry. "Sports columnist and riverboat enthusiast? Are you for real? "

"There was a human interest story a few years back, when that restaurant opened its doors. I wrote it."

Emma's eyes sparkled delight. "Dad didn't mention that you'd shifted to human interest stories."

"I haven't shifted entirely. Not all interesting stories happen in arenas or courts, and not all interesting things happen to athletes."

"True enough," Emma mused. "So what's going on at Boblo Island?"

"Real estate."

Emma sighed, once again saying goodbye the amusement park of her memory. "Too many things are different, Jake."

He put a compassionate gloved hand on Emma's arm. "Come on, some of these changes are good for the city."

Emma shrugged as she gazed back at the boat. "I guess I'm more like Dad than I thought; it may be exciting, and it could be that the changes are good, but...it's still not the same."

Emma turned to consider her companion. He stood looking out over the river. Silent Knight. In the moonlight and crisp cold, his features were of the inscrutable bent. When he turned back to her, he smiled, dismissing the pensive thoughtful persona that had inhabited his space before. Reaching up, he tapped her on the nose. "I should hurry usw along. I bet you're feeling cold." Taking her small gloved hand in his, he guided her past the nostalgia and towards the Renaissance Center.

"Emma, are you up?"

Emma rubbed her eyes, checking the clock. 4:23 a.m. Jake had dropped her off little less than two hours ago; her tossing, turning, and nerve-infused worrying/daydreaming only ceased an hour ago. Sleep fused her mouth shut, but she forced her jaw open and yawned. "Hm?"

"Emma, it's Harriet."

The sadness her young employee felt was came across the void. She transferred her cell phone to the other hand as she sat up against her pillows. "Yes, Harriet?"

"Can you talk?"

Emma kept the selfish "NO!" to herself. "Yes, of course. Are you all right, Harriet?"

"No. No, I'm not," the girl gasped through suffocating agitation. "I know, you hired me only two weeks ago, and I know I've never called you before, but you did give us this number for emergencies..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...what's wrong?" Emma asked, trying to urge the girl on to the point without seeming too unsympathetic.

"Daniel dumped me!"

Awareness came cold crystal clear into Emma's mind now and her urgency and impatience vanished completely. It didn't matter that she'd never heard of Daniel until tonight. "Oh, Harriet."

"And, and, and-" the girl sniffed. "...it's just three days until Christmas!"

Emma nodded. When it sank into her sleep-deprived brain that the girl couldn't see her, she repeated, "Oh, Harriet."

"And I have no where to go. I mean, first of all, we were supposed to Colorado; the Eltons have this cabin out there. But I can't go there anymore. And I don't want to stay here, I mean, this is where we live t-t-together!"

"Of course."

"And because none of us were coming home this Christmas this year, my parents got on this c-c-cruise in the Bahamas!"

Emma flailed helplessly in her bedroom, trying to find a way to express her sympathy over the phone: "Oh dear."

"So...so I just needed to talk to someone, you know? To figure things out."

"Of course you did," Emma said soothingly.

"A-and I just dropped my best friend off at the airport earlier today; she's probably somewhere over the P-Pacific now."

"That's unfortunate."

"A-and I just felt so--Emma, we moved in together just three months ago!"

Emma felt her heart sting as the story sounded all too familiar to her. "Harriet, get out of there."

"But, but where should I go?"

"You'll come here."

After ascertaining that the girl had a car and was, in fact, in a perfect capacity to make the drive, Emma rattled off directions. Sighing, she pushed the covers off, stuck her feet into her slippers, and tied on a robe as she softly padded down the hall to the linen closet, where she whipped out a set of towels. Flipping the light on in the guest room, she checked the sheets before laying the towels on the evergreen duvet cover. Her mother always loved this set best.

Her father forbade that the sheets, or even a pillowcase of the set appear in his bedroom.

Emma lovingly traced the outline of one of the embroidered sailboats before turning and going downstairs into the kitchen.

Deciding that her guest likely would want some form of comfort, Emma added water to a kettle and put it on the stove. After locating the chamomile tea bags, she grabbed a bottle of honey from the pantry and a lemon from the fridge.

It was snowing. Emma mentally begged that Harriet took her time on her drive. She went to the foyer to flip the switch of the outdoor lights.

What kind of words was she to offer the younger woman? What kind of support did Harriet need? She hadn't asked her father if Harriet could come and stay with them through the holiday. He'd have to accept it. There was no sugar in this house.

What kind of Christmas was Harriet going to have now? What could Emma do to raise her spirits? Was there anything that could? What were they going to do the next few days? Emma regretted now that, after being so impressed with their progress at the store earlier today, she'd decided they'd not need to work until after Christmas. The distraction would have been good.

The headlights slowly negotiated the snowy road, decelerating near their driveway. Emma threw open the front door, waving. The vehicle turned.

Shivering, she immediately shut the door, regretting that she'd not remembered to warn Harriet to bring some extra sweaters and layers for the cold house.

Pulling aside the curtain on the window of the front door, she watched the young girl open the trunk of her car and draw out a bag. As Harriet approached the front door, Emma once more threw it open and greeted, with her head at a sympathetic tilt and arms open, the sniffling girl.

Upon meeting eyes with Emma, Harriet once more burst into tears.

Emma drew the girl into the house and wrapped her arms around the frozen figure, smothering her own hiss of discomfort. "Come on," she said quietly, as she closed the door. "I'm heating water up for tea. Let's get you warmed up and settled in."

"It's not like I thought we were going to get married, or anything. Well, not yet," Harriet sniffed miserably into her mug of tea.

Emma rubbed in a soothing clockwise pattern. Noting that the girl's mug of tea seemed to be running low, she grabbed an afghan, wrapped it tightly around Harriet's slight frame, and grabbed the mug. "Let me get you some more tea."

"Oh. Okay."

Rubbing her eyes as she entered the kitchen, she found herself, for the first time since moving in, lamenting the dearth of coffee in the house. There was probably no point in prohibiting it; her absent father was likely curled up in an armchair this very morning at the local Starbucks. After putting the kettle on the burner, she turned towards the pantry, determined to locate any and all sources of desperately needed caffeine. Her efforts were rewarded; a bag of Lipton's hid underneath the flour.

After a suspicious sniff, she sighed her disgust when she realized that it smelled more like the wood of the cabinets than of tea.

The knock on the kitchen door had her banging her head on a pantry shelf. Shuffling over to the door, she groaned when she saw Jake and Doug standing on the step. Was it already afternoon? She couldn't worry about the lights right now. Throwing the door open, she sighed. "I'm sorry, Jake. Now's not a good time."

"Still sleepy?" He noted her heavy eyelids, the tired thin line of her lips.

"Actually," she admitted. "I never got to sleep."

"Is something wrong? Is Gordon all right?"

"Yeah, Dad's fine. I think I heard him go out earlier this morning," Emma said. Behind her, the kettle chirped.

"Emma, my neighbor Bridget just called and-Oh! A dog!" Harriet fell to her knees as Doug bounded into the kitchen.

Truly appreciative of the attentions, Doug lavished many licks on Harriet's arms and neck.

"Sorry about that," Jake said, grabbing the dog by the collar and pulling back.

"Oh, no way! Don't apologize! This is wonderful!" Harriet giggled.

At that bright peal of sound, Emma sighed with relief. She poured hot water into the two mugs. After a moment's consideration, she reached behind to grab another mug from a cabinet and another bag of chamomile tea. "Jake, this is one my assistants, Harriet."

"Ah, good to meet you," he offered his hand.

Harriet took his hand shyly. "It's good to meet you. And your dog."

After a shake, he assisted her up.

"Jake and his dog Doug live two doors down," Emma brought the three mugs to the kitchen island, taking a seat at a bar stool. "Jake, one of these is for you."

He hated chamomile, but drank it with alacrity. "And are you here to assist in Emma's Grand Master Light Scheme?" he asked Harriet.

"I thought you'd renamed it 'the Lighting Disaster'," Harriet said to Emma.

"Disaster? Doug and I did not freeze our butts on Wednesday afternoon to have our efforts so unappreciated."

Quick to assuage, Emma said, "You have to admit it was quite a disaster before you and Doug got involved."

Jake's eyes twinkled as he took another sip of his tea.

There was that quivery, nervous feeling again! Emma cleared her throat, turning back to Harriet. "You said that your neighbor called?"

"Yes. Daniel left for his vacation. I think that now would be a good time to...to-"

"Yes, of course. We should go and move your things out. All of them. Just get them all out of there."

Harriet turned to Jake. "I-I-I got out of a relationship yesterday. Well, more...t-today."

"I'll go with you," Emma extended a hand to rub support and spine into Harriet's shoulders.

Jake looked between the two women. Neither looked like they were in a particularly clear mental state. "Maybe I should drive."

Emma laughed. "Jake to the rescue again! Don't worry about it. We can take care of it ourselves. Go work on your column."

"I turned in my column early this morning. I can go."

Harriet shook her head. "There's not much. I-I only have clothes. I don't have any f-furniture. Just a DVD player. And some plates. We can fit it in my car," Harriet said. "You're too nice."

"I don't think either of you look like you're in a particularly excellent frame of mind to drive."

Foiled again. Emma snuck a sidelong glance to Harriet, and considered her own hands, which seemed to operate on a half-second delay. "I...I think he's got a point there, Harriet," she said.

"But I couldn't possibly..."

"He works for beer," Emma said, tiredly. "You can cook him dinner tonight. Just give in. He tends to win."

"Last trip," Robert Martin informed Emma before she could step out of the kitchen.

Emma grinned her relief and stepped back to allow the young man to step past her into the house. "Thanks so much, Robert."

"No, not at all. I'm just glad I could help," he said, seriously. He'd joined the trio outside of the house Harriet had been renting with her ex-boyfriend and another man. "I'm glad someone could be there for her last night," he said under his breath. "I was in a bar when she called. I wish I'd heard the phone," he groaned.

"Don't worry about it," Emma said, following him up the stairs. "It worked out for the best. It's not like your place could accommodate all this..."

"True, true. The guy's scum," he growled. Smothering his angrier thoughts, he kept his expression passive as Harriet greeted them at the door to her room with a pleasant, "Oh! I hope this one's the last. I don't think we can fit much more..."

After placing the box in the corner, he got up and pulled off his gloves and whipped his hat off his moppy brown hair. Sweat coated his cheeks.

"Where's Jake?" Emma asked.

"Locking up the car?" Robert postulated.

"Well, we owe you dinner, now."

"So, Emma, what have you brought me?!"

Emma turned to the door of the guest room. "Ah, Dad!"

Weepy confessions weren't his scene, so the minute he'd heard the sniffling through the kitchen door that morning, he'd left without a second thought.

The girl still looked like she'd snap in the wind, but the water show was over. Heeding the girl's obviously shy nature, he gentled his voice. "Why hello there. Are you the new daughter I asked Santa for?"

Harriet blushed.

"If there's sugar in any of those boxes, you'll be a marked improvement over the one I've got."

"You weren't good enough for that this year," Emma stated.

Harriet's eyes widened even as Robert's took on a laughing hue.

"Harriet, Robert, this is my father, Gordon. Dad, these are two of my assistants, Harriet and Robert. Harriet will be staying with us for a little bit."

"You'll do," he nodded his head. "Jake! Nolan tells me that you didn't bother interviewing Rheisman last night."

Jake rolled his eyes.

"If people cared about what Rheisman was going to say, they could read any of the other hundred papers. I'm sick of Rheisman," Emma defended. "If he wants to get traded, he can go."

Jake grinned.

"Besides, I was getting hungry," she batted her eyelashes.

"Always were too spoiled," Gordon grumbled. "Your mother's fault."

"Of course," she agreed wryly. "But speaking of eating, Harriet and I promised these gentlemen dinner!"

"Oh really? Well, I think tonight would be a fantastic evening for chicken fried steak. Hands down, your best dish. And of course our guests deserve the best."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course they do." Pretty sure that their guests had been treated to enough of the Woodhouse wit, she tried to communicate her disgruntlement in her stare.

She blamed it on her exhaustion when she sighed, "Fine. But you have to have turkey gravy."

She waited until Robert had left, Harriet had tiredly wandered up to her room, and her father looked like he was going to fall asleep in his La-Z-Boy, but decided to keep up a pretense just in case. "I've actually been writing something lately and I was wondering if you might check it out," Emma said quietly to Jake.

The pretense was a useful one, for Gordon opened his eyes and turned to his daughter and asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You're retired, old man. Your opinions are antiquated at best," Emma teased. "So, Jake? Would you do me a favor and look it over?"

She was up to something. Curious, Jake decided to fall in with her plans. "Um, sure."

"There's not much of it, but I wanted to see if I was on the right track. Let's go to the study and you can take a look."

Emma's body moaned in disgust and self-loathing as she unwrapped herself from her warm cocoon. Jake, likewise, slowly got out of his seat and stretched out his muscles with a yawn.

"Fine. Leave me to die here all alone, neglected," Gordon grumped.

"You whine all the time that I can't leave you alone! Jake and I will be gone for only a few minutes!" Emma laughed as she exited.

Emma led Jake into the study and flipped on every light she could. When she started pulling the drawers out of the desk, Jake chuckled. "You don't have anything for me to read, do you?"

"What do you think?" Emma looked at him. "Come on. You're not only the decoy, but you're here to help."

"It would help if I knew what I was supposed to do."

"Dad smelled like cigar smoke tonight and when we were moving those boxes inside, I could smell some outside the window. I had my suspicions before, but I'm positive I smelled it."

"Does cigar smoke go through glass?"

"You're being pretty useless, you know."

Jake yawned. "Why don't you check after he's gone to bed?"

"As if I can last until after he's gone to bed. Come on. You said it before; we work together, we get it done faster. There are cigars in here, I know it," Emma moved to the bookshelves to start her search.

This, of course, put Jake in a difficult position. After all, the last time he'd been over, Gordon had offered him a cigar from that stash he had secreted away in that hollow copy of Moby Dick. The copy that was currently sitting within a hand's reach on Gordon's desk, in plain sight. He knew that smoking cigars wasn't good for Gordon. But...well. This was between Emma and her father.

Emma looked at him again when she realized that he still hadn't joined in her efforts. He was standing still, watching her with a calm unreadable expression. "You know where they are."

Jake shrugged. "He could have changed hiding places," he said. "If smoking cigars is a problem, then you should take it up with him, Emma. He's usually reasonable about things."

"No, he isn't. Because he is fighting me every step of the way with this health stuff and I'm getting sick of it. If I can find them and get rid of them, then he can't smoke them. Problem solved. I'll bet it's in his locked drawer."

"Maybe if you simply sat down-"

"He's impossible to talk with," Emma said, scanning the desk. "He's so extremely set in his ways; you start on anything and he's like a porcupine. He's just way too defensive." Eyes meeting the Gnome paperweight she'd bought him for Father's Day when she was fifteen, she lifted it, triumphant as she peeled the tape back on the key taped on the underside. "Some things don't change..." she grinned.

A grin that dissolved into stormy confusion upon discovering Gordon Woodhouse's bounty.

"Comic books."

Jake laughed as he recognized the cover. "So now we have it. Your father is secretly a huge fan of Archie." Jake moved close to her. Emma pulled away, walking towards a window. Emma opened her mouth, closed it and turned to him. "I'm tired, Jake."

"Of course you are. So let's get out of here."

"I thought you would help me out. I thought you cared about Gordon."

"I do. And that's why I think you should talk to him. He's not acting out because he likes pissing you off or because he doesn't want to live a healthier lifestyle. He's just slow to change. And he doesn't like having things changed around him without his being informed."

"And why do you think you know Dad better than I do?" Emma asked, affronted.

"It's how your mother did things."

Emma paled and moved to sink down on the desk. After a few moments, she collected enough to speak. "I...she's not here right now, Jake," she said stupidly.

Jake moved to lean his hip on the desk next to her. "Look. Emma, you are doing a great job with your father. Gordon's a very difficult guy and extremely hard to deal with when pissed off. You deserve a medal for having the patience and persistence to battle daily with him."

Crap. She was starting to cry. Jake scanned the desk and located the box of Kleenex.

"My mom." Emma stated, voice cracking. "My mom's not here, Jake. She can't help me," she said.

Jake pulled a tissue out and handed it to her. "She isn't."

"It's..."

Jake awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. "I know. Well, I don't really know, but Meg was a wonderful, loving woman, and I loved being around her, for what it's worth."

"I miss her," she said quietly. "She'd know what to do with Dad. She'd know the right thing to say. And she'd just sit there and listen when things are rough or they're falling apart," she moved closer to him. Like now.

Jake wrapped his other arm around her and held her close. Not wanting to say something inane, he decided to not to say anything at all and listen.

"I miss her cooking. I miss the way she smelled. I always thought it was baked bread, but it's more than that. There's some lemon in there, and some Lubriderm, some of the perfume Dad picked up in Houston all those years ago.

"Put all together; it was love. She smelled like love," Emma said, pulling herself back from his arms and smiling foolishly. "If love had a scent, that would be it," she said, dabbing at her eyes.

Jake smiled and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

Emma sighed. "And I know I'm allowed to miss her and everything, but it's just so hard. I don't want to miss her, or think of her, or do anything that reminds me of her. And everywhere I go, there's just some memory. Always. I just think of her and try to stay busy so that I can't. We need to move on. I'm just...we have to move on."

"You need time to mourn, Emma." Jake said softly.

"I can't. Not...not yet?"

Jake traced her chin with his finger. "It'll hurt you until you do."

"I didn't cry until tonight."

"Then I guess it's a step in the right direction," he smiled into her wide eyes.

Continued in Next Section