Chapter 6

The next morning, Emily sat down in her office and jiggled the mouse to wake up her computer. First, she sent out an e-mail to the board of directors, inviting them to a special meeting at her home at seven o’clock. She wanted to serve champagne to celebrate, but alcohol was forbidden at the center, so the meeting had to be off the premises.

Next, she called the branch manager at the center’s bank to alert her to the incoming influx of cash. The manager—the same one who had regretfully relayed the news about the cancellation of their mortgage—congratulated her on the center’s good fortune.

Emily pushed her chair back from the desk and stared out the window at the cold, gray street.

After he’d accepted her invitation to dinner on Saturday, Max had released her hand. The only other times he’d touched her were to help her in and out of the limousine.

The truth was that she’d wanted him to kiss her. Just a brush of his lips on hers, to see what it would feel like. Because she’d been imagining it through the whole dinner. She had thought he was imagining it, too, because his gaze would occasionally drift to her mouth.

“Maybe he just liked watching me eat the food he was paying for,” she muttered.

He unbalanced her. She was happy with the life she had built, but when he touched her, she wanted more.

“It’s just sex,” she muttered again. “I’m having a normal reaction to a good-looking man.”

Except she’d met other good-looking men without fantasizing about them kissing her. Even after she’d gone home and gotten into bed, the fantasy of Max touching his lips to hers had been vivid in her mind.

He was interested in her personally. He had made that clear when he’d taken the donation out of the equation.

“But he didn’t kiss me.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m so confused.” She was also exhilarated, her blood fizzing in her veins every time she thought of Max.

Her cell phone pinged with an incoming text message.

I’ll bring wine on Saturday.

She gasped. Had he somehow felt her thinking about him? She pulled herself together and typed back, Don’t you need to know what I’m making? I’m just as picky as the chef at Laurent, you know.

I’ll cover all bases. Thanks again for inviting me.

He still sounded surprised that she’d asked him to her home for dinner. Just don’t expect oysters and caviar.

May I make a request?

Now she was surprised. He hadn’t been the demanding sort in the past. Sure, but I can’t guarantee I can make it.

You told me it was your specialty: macaroni and cheese deluxe.

Gratification warmed her. He remembered a dish she had cooked seven years ago. I’m always up for comfort food, she typed.

I found it very comforting.

She’d suspected he was lonely back then. Fresh out of graduate school, thrown into a culture alien to him, single and with no family, and under pressure to produce a miracle fabric. That’s why she’d encouraged Jake to bring him home for dinner frequently.

“Hey, Emily, I’m here to take a look at the boiler.” Coleman Young’s raspy voice interrupted her reverie. She looked up to see the HVAC repairman standing in the doorway, dressed in his standard green coveralls with a giant wooden toolbox in his knobby hand.

“Go ahead. I’ll be right down,” Emily said, giving him a warm smile. Coleman was worth his weight in gold, since he could keep the ancient iron behemoth in the basement spewing out heat. She went back to her cell phone’s screen.

Duty calls. See you at six on Saturday.

Count on it.

Slipping her phone into her pocket, she found herself practically floating down the steps at the prospect of seeing Max in three days. She stopped halfway down the basement stairs to tamp down her excitement. She should be focusing on how to get the K-9 Angelz project up and running as soon as possible. Instead, she was spinning giddy, unrealistic daydreams around the center’s gorgeous patron.

Emily made a quick detour to the utility room that now served as Diego’s bedroom to make sure there was no sign of the boy living there. They had a deal: Diego folded up the cot and stashed it in the closet every morning, just in case anyone wandered into the basement. The room revealed nothing but stacks of cleaning-supply boxes and paper products. That some of the boxes held Diego’s clothes and few possessions was a well-kept secret.

In the furnace room, Coleman stood with his hands on his hips and shook his grizzled gray head as he eyed the cast-iron boiler hulking in its cobwebby lair. “I told you before that this thing is on its last legs. Hell, it’s older than I am. Pardon my language.” He nodded toward it. “Seems to be working now, though.”

“That’s the thing. It turns itself on and then turns itself off and then turns itself on and then turns itself off. It’s never done that before, and I can’t imagine that it’s good for the furnace.” Emily looked at the boiler along with Coleman, even though she had no idea what any of the various dials and gauges meant. The big piece of equipment was grumbling along at its usual bass pitch at the moment.

“I’ll take a look and see what I can figure out,” the repairman said. “But I’m thinking that you need to run a few bake sales to replace this old monster.”

It would take more than a few bake sales to replace the heating system in the center, and Emily felt as though Coleman had just dropped the entire weight of the boiler on her shoulders. Then she remembered Max’s donation and started to smile. “Why don’t you work up an estimate for a replacement? And add in air-conditioning for the whole building as well.”

“You serious? What’d you do, win the lottery?”

“In a way.”

“I’ll get the estimate done, but I can’t start a project this big until after the holidays. I gotta order the equipment and run ductwork and—”

Emily held up her hand. “I understand. But give me a price so I can budget for it.”

“Okay, but it’s gonna set you back a bundle, even with giving you the equipment at my cost.” The man sounded dubious. “Now, skedaddle, and let me put some more duct tape on this antique to keep it running.”

Checking on Diego’s room reminded Emily about the injured dog, so she walked out into the hallway to call the veterinary office. The receptionist transferred her to the vet tech, Tiana, who said, “He came through surgery pretty well. Doc put a couple of screws and plates in his broken tibia to stabilize it and stitched him up. Now he has a cast on, and we’re giving him penicillin to fight any infection, as well as pain meds. When you get an open fracture from a high-energy trauma, there’s a lot of damage to the soft tissues. But he’s young, barely more than a puppy, so he should heal fine. Doc’s so good, he probably won’t even limp.”

Relief coursed through Emily, although she felt a twinge of dread at how expensive the surgery sounded. “Thank goodness! Is it all right if Diego comes by after school to see the dog? He’s very invested.”

The tech laughed. “No kidding. He’s been barraging us with texts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. I like a kid who cares about animals.”

*

The Carver Center’s six board members sat around the heavy mahogany dining-room table that had belonged to Emily’s aunt Ruthie. On the matching sideboard sat a silver tray holding seven crystal flutes, but she’d left the two bottles of champagne in the refrigerator, so no one could see them. Izzy was in her room doing her fourth-grade social-studies homework. Fortunately, she thought board meetings were boring, so Emily wasn’t worried that she would eavesdrop.

“Okay, why are we here?” Gloria asked with a thump of her cane.

Emily picked up the stack of manila folders in front of her and handed it to Violet, who sat beside her. “Please take one, but don’t open it until I tell you to.”

She’d printed out the page of the Carver Center’s online bank statement, showing the million-dollar deposit from earlier that day, and put a copy in each folder.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have a flair for the dramatic?” Horace asked as he placed his folder flat on the table in front of him.

“It’s a dramatic occasion,” Emily said, struggling not to grin.

When the last person laid their folder on the table, Emily said, “As you know, Max Varela cleared time in his busy schedule to visit the Carver Center yesterday. Just as he arrived, Diego brought in a severely injured dog.” She flinched as she remembered the bone thrusting through the little creature’s fur. “Mr. Varela generously put his limousine at our disposal to take the dog up to Dr. Quillen’s office. After that he toured our facility.” Emily looked around the table to find every set of eyes fixed on her. “He was impressed.”

She heard the intake of breath as they waited for her next statement.

“I’m happy to announce that Mr. Varela reversed his foundation manager’s decision and agreed to fund our K-9 Angelz project. You may now open your folders.”

There was a murmur of voices and a sound of rustling paper before silence fell over the group as they scanned the sheet of numbers in front of them.

“This shows a wire deposit of one million dollars,” Horace said, frowning as he raised his eyes from the paper. “Is that a mistake?”

Emily’s grin broke through as she shook her head. “Mr. Varela wanted the program to have full funding so it could get started right away.”

Violet made a humming sound of amazement. “I’ve never seen that many zeros in one place before.”

“Honey, you did one hell of a persuading job,” Gloria said, still staring at the paper.

“Honestly, I think Diego and his rescued dog did the persuading. Mr. Varela saw how much the child cared about a dog that wasn’t even his.”

“I’ll get on the phone with Buster,” Gloria said. She was their designated negotiator, because she had a slight acquaintance with the owner of the lot. She was also a tough cookie. “That man is gonna blow a gasket when I make him an offer he can’t refuse. So let’s talk strategy.”

They discussed numbers and developed a road map for Gloria’s conversation.

“Now it’s time to celebrate,” Emily said, carrying the two bottles of champagne out from the kitchen. She popped the corks and let the sparkling liquid spill into the glasses.

“I would have baked a celebration pie if I’d known,” Violet said when Emily handed her a flute.

As soon as she’d served everyone, Emily raised her champagne. “To the generosity of Max Varela and the Catalyst Foundation.”

“Hear, hear!” the group cheered and sipped their champagne.

“To K-9 Angelz,” Gloria said. “I can’t wait to see the kids’ faces.”

They drank again.

“To Emily,” Violet said in her soft voice. “She made all this happen.”

A chorus of “To Emily” rose from the small group, and Emily felt a rush of satisfaction. Not because the board recognized her contribution, but because her vision was going to become a reality. She hadn’t truly grasped that until this moment. The children she cared about so deeply were going to learn about love and responsibility from some of the best teachers in the world—the canine kind.

“Mommy, what’s everyone yelling about?” Izzy stood at the archway into the dining room, her high ponytail sagging to one side because she tugged on it when she was concentrating. She balanced on one stocking foot with the other braced against her calf, the purple polka-dotted socks arguing with her orange-and-turquoise-striped leggings. At least her sweatshirt was solid orange. However, it had a flashy sequined heart in the center. Even at age nine, Izzy had her own unique fashion sense. Beside the little girl, their collie mix, Windy, settled onto her haunches, her long, silky tan-and-white coat rippling slightly as she moved.

Laughter swelled around the table. “Sorry we disturbed your studying,” Violet said. “We’ve just had some good news about the center.”

“Cool,” Izzy said without much enthusiasm. Then she brightened. “Can I have some champagne?”

Emily walked over to put her arm around Izzy’s small shoulders and bent to whisper in her ear, “I’ll let you taste mine later.”

Izzy nodded. “Did Violet bring a pie?”

“Not tonight, punkin. Your mama surprised us,” Violet said.

“Are you done with your homework?” Emily asked.

“I just have to read a chapter of my book.” Izzy threw her mother an innocent smile. “I thought I could read it to you.”

“Absolutely. Just give me a little while to finish up my meeting.” Emily knew she was being manipulated, but she loved having Izzy read to her.

“Yay! Thanks, Mommy.” Izzy did a cheerleading jump and headed for the stairs.

“We’ll get out of your mama’s hair now,” Gloria said, leaning on her cane as she eased up from her chair. “I can’t gallivant around late at night at my age, anyway.”

Everyone drifted toward the door and said their farewells, except for Violet. She settled into one of the crushed-velvet armchairs in Emily’s living room, crossed her ankles, and gestured toward the matching one that faced her. “I just wanted to congratulate you again on getting that funding,” Violet said. “Having fresh air and grass and dogs running around in that open space will do the kids a world of good. Now tell me again how you know this Max Varela.”

“He and Jake worked together on a body-armor project for about six months down at Camp Lejeune. Max is a chemist. According to Jake, a genius one. Which makes sense, since Horace says Max sold his company for a billion dollars.”

“Did your husband like this Max?”

Emily nodded. “He considered him a good friend. Although Max kind of withdrew toward the end of the project. Once he left the base, he didn’t keep in touch. It was strange, because he spent a lot of time at our house for the first four months or so. But I guess he was busy creating V-Chem.” She smiled. “He was always very focused.”

“So you got to know him, too.”

“He came to dinner and played with Izzy and watched movies with us. He was fresh out of grad school at MIT, so he didn’t know anyone at Lejeune. I figured he was lonely.”

“I got my granddaughter to do that Google thing on the Internet. He’s a fine-looking man.”

Emily felt the blush crawl up her cheeks as she remembered how much she’d wanted Max to kiss her last night. “It wasn’t like that at Lejeune,” Emily said, suddenly afraid of what Violet was thinking. “We didn’t . . . there wasn’t anything . . .”

“Of course not. You were a happily married woman.” Violet waved a hand in dismissal of the idea. “But your situation is different now.”

The phrase nagged at Emily. She’d just heard someone say something similar, but she couldn’t come up with the source. “Yes, now I’m a busy single mother.”

“We all make time for the things we want to do.” Violet reached out to pat Emily on one knee. “Don’t you pass up the chance to be with a good man.”

Emily thought of the dinner she was going to cook for Max on Saturday. Izzy was enthusiastic, because she loved to make desserts and she wanted to meet anyone who had known her father.

But beyond that, what exactly did Emily want to make time to do?

“Max is a little out of my league,” Emily said with a wry smile. “He’s a genius and a billionaire. I’m just . . . me.”

“Remember that you knew him before all that billionaire stuff. Underneath the fancy suit, he’s still the same grad student from MIT.”

Emily thought of the powerful angle of Max’s clean-shaven jaw and the magnetic air of confidence he exuded now. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true.”

“Well, he obviously remembers your kindness toward him. After all, he gave you a million dollars.”

*

As Max settled onto the seat of the limousine after yet another dinner with the new owners of V-Chem, he blew out a long breath. He appreciated their desire to explore new directions for the company, but he would prefer to do it during regular business hours. However, being from out of town, they wanted to sample every high-end restaurant in New York City.

That was why he had to wait three more days before he could see Emily again. Ever since she’d burst into his office, he’d been having flashbacks to moments at Camp Lejeune that were seared into his memory. The exquisite torture of her lips against his cheekbone when she greeted him at the door. The brush of their fingers and arms when she would pass Izzy to him so she could go back to cooking dinner.

But the most miserable and the most enthralling times were their trips to Wrightsville Beach, when Emily wore that pale pink bikini.

He closed his eyes and groaned at the memory of the swell of her breasts in the low V of the neckline. And the sight of her cold-hardened nipples pushing against the suit’s top as she walked out of the surf. He had wanted to suck on them through the fabric. And then kiss his way down the curve of her stomach—the one she’d complained would never be flat again after her pregnancy—and then go lower until he could taste the salt of the sea, and the salt of her, on his tongue.

And her thighs.

Oh dear God, the sight of that beautiful, smooth skin just inches away from his fingers as they lay on towels on the sand. His hands would literally shake with the desire to stroke up her thighs and pull aside the fabric of her bikini so he could slide a finger inside her.

Knowing it was stupid and juvenile, he took out his phone and sent the home address Emily had given him to his driver’s GPS.

The driver’s voice came over the intercom. “Just to let you know, sir, we’re going to hit some traffic on the way.”

“Not a problem.” He could fantasize about her the whole time, as long as he didn’t mind the discomfort of an erection in his suit trousers.

Maybe he should ponder whether it had been just a sexual fascination back then. Something about the fertile curves of a young mother, and perhaps even the thrill of forbidden fruit. He had never considered speaking of his desires, much less acting on them. Had his frustration seared her on his memory in a way no other woman could rival?

He shook his head. No, his feelings had gone deeper than the physical. She had seen him in a way no one else at the base had. His loneliness, his sense of being an outsider in a closed culture. She had reached out to him because of that, and her kindness had burrowed deep into his being.

He drummed his fingers on the leather seat and decided he preferred his sexual fantasies to his emotional introspection.

“It’s right here, sir,” the driver spoke through the intercom. “With the red door. I won’t be able to park here, though.”

“I’ll walk a little,” Max said. “Why don’t you see if there’s a space farther along the street?”

He wanted to clear his head, but he was also curious about the area. Of course, Harlem had a rich history of African American culture, as was attested to by the street names. He’d heard that South Harlem was becoming popular with young professional couples who couldn’t afford the high prices of Manhattan. Which was why the empty lot beside the Carver Center had risen in value.

Mostly, though, he wanted to see where Emily lived.

As he straightened out of the car, a cutting gust of frigid wind slammed into him, so he buttoned his overcoat before pulling his gloves out of his pockets. They called Chicago the Windy City, but he found that New York could easily compete in that department. The street grids funneled wind off the cold gray water that surrounded the city on every side, concentrating its power enough to freeze your balls off. He wound his cashmere scarf more snugly around his neck and shoved his gloved hands in his pockets, since the elegant but thin leather offered little insulation from the winter air.

Emily lived on a quiet cross street lined with solid nineteenth-century town houses, featuring stone stoops with wrought iron railings, ornate cornices, and fancy window trim. The doors were freshly painted, and many windows sported flower boxes, now empty for the winter. Twinkling Christmas lights festooned railings, balconies, and even the trees growing in the sidewalk beds.

Most of the houses were three stories high, but Emily’s continued up one story above its neighbors. Max crossed the street to stand in the shadow of a tree and scanned the windows of her building, wondering which floor she lived on. There were lights on in the basement garden apartment and the third floor. He remembered Emily saying something about a renting the lower floor to a divorced cop, so he stared at the lines of light showing around the curtains on the higher floor.

Was Emily reading to her daughter? Or was she sitting at a desk poring over plans for the new project at the Carver Center?

Was she wearing a nightgown? Did she wear a nightgown? Or a T-shirt with those flannel pajama pants that were in style now? Or maybe she wore nothing at all to bed.

His groin tightened again, and he forced himself into motion, strolling down the street while his breath came out in visible puffs of vapor. He passed three people walking their dogs, several putting out their garbage, and one smoking a cigarette on the front steps. Everyone nodded or even muttered a greeting as they huddled in their coats.

He walked down one side of the block, then crossed the street and headed back.

This street was a far cry from the ranch house at Camp Lejeune, and Emily might have changed as much as her surroundings had. He’d noticed the physical differences in her, but she’d gone through emotional upheaval as well.

Losing her husband left scars that wouldn’t show on the outside. Had she begun seeing other men already, or was she still mourning Jake’s death?

Max frowned down at the icy sidewalk. He wasn’t sure why she had invited him to her house for dinner. She might be saying thank you for the donation. She might have done it out of nostalgia for the old days or even in memory of Jake.

He huffed out a cloud of frozen irritation.

The limousine cruised around the corner, and Max flagged it down.

He was a scientist, so he had no idea how to deal with a ghost.

*

Her daughter’s small, sweet voice washed over Emily as they snuggled together under the covers with Izzy’s book propped up on her knees. Windy was stretched out across the foot of the bed, her tail occasionally thumping for no apparent reason. The scent of her daughter’s freshly washed hair, the weight and warmth of the dog on her feet, the knowledge that she had accomplished something big, and the bubbling anticipation of seeing Max again all wove together to create a contentment that soaked deep into her bones.

There was a tug on the sleeve of her nightgown. “Mommy, you’re not listening.”

“I am listening, but more in the way you listen to music.” Emily smoothed down a curl on Izzy’s head. “Your voice is so pretty.”

Her daughter lifted eyes that were the same shade of blue as Jake’s. “Do you think I could be a singer?”

“Do you want to be?”

“They get to wear really cool outfits. But I think I want to be a baker and make pies with Violet.” Izzy closed the book. “What kind of pie should we make for Mr. Varela? Violet said maybe a chocolate pecan pie. Did he like chocolate when he worked with Daddy?”

“Let me think.” Emily cast back to the days when she, Jake, and Max would linger over dessert while Izzy sat on Emily’s lap. She’d mostly served cake and ice cream, because those were easy. “Yes, he really liked the chocolate layer cake I used to make.”

“Good. I’ll tell Violet.”

Emily thought of the elaborate poached pear and gingerbread dessert Max had ordered at Laurent. He wasn’t the hungry former grad student anymore.

Then she remembered why Violet’s earlier comment echoed in her mind. Max had made a similar statement after he’d accepted her invitation to dinner. It suddenly struck her as important and disconcerting. He’d said, “Things are different now.”