gotten the idea that she had come to see him? "Dad's inside." He
managed to smile. "Gloating."
Emma followed him to the door Marge had left open. She had a death grip
on her purse now, and no amount of mental effort could relax her
fingers.
They had their tree up. Emma glimpsed it, standing full of tinsel and
shiny balls near the front window. There were presents under it, neatly
wrapped and bowed, and sprigs of pine here and there that scented the
house.
The furniture was old, not shabby but established. A family had shared
these pieces, she thought. Had shared them so long, they hardly saw
them now, but settled into the couch or a chair comfortably day after
day, evening after evening. Curtains were pulled back to let in the
light. A trio of African violets bloomed lavishly on a stand by the
east window.
She had taken off her sunglasses and was folding and unfolding the
earpieces as she studied the room.
"Want to sit down?"
"Yes, thank you. I won't stay long. I know I'm disrupting your
weekend."
"Yeah, I've been looking forward to cutting the grass all week." He
grinned, relaxed again, and gestured to a chair. "I'll get my father."
Before he could, Marge walked in carrying a tray crowded with a pitcher
of fresh iced tea and glasses and a plate of her homemade sugar cookies.
"Here we are. Michael, button your shirt," she said casually, then set
the tray on the coffee table. "It's nice to have one of Michael's
friends drop by."
"Emma, this is my mother. Mom, Emma McAvoy."
Recognition came swiftly. Marge worked hard to keep both sympathy and
fascination out of her eyes. "Oh yes, of course." She poured the tea.
"I still have the clipping from the paper-where you and Michael met on
the beach."
"mom-',
"A mother's allowed," she said mildly. "It's nice to meet you at last,
Emma."
"Thank you. I'm sorry to just drop in this way."
"Nonsense. Michael's friends are always welcome here."
"Emma came to see Dad."
"Oh." The frown in her eyes came and went quickly. "Well, he's out in
the back making sure Michael didn't run down any of his rosebushes. I'll
get him."
"One rosebush-when I was twelve," Michael said as he snatched up a
cookie. "And I'll never be trusted again. Try a cookie, Mom makes the
best on the block."
She took one out of politeness, terrified to put anything in her
stomach. "You have a lovely home."
He remembered his brief tour through the Beverly Hills mansion where
she'd spent that summer. "I've always liked it." He leaned over, laid a
hand on hers. "What's wrong, Emma?"
She couldn't have said why that quiet question, that gentle hand almost