EMMA
I call Thatcher one last time before getting ready for my father's fundraiser. The call goes directly to voicemail, so he either has had his phone off for four days or he's declining my calls. I sigh. This was supposed to be simple. Hang out with him and his family a few times to get an interview. Get some great clips for my portfolio, and maybe earn some credibility at work. Why does it feel so shitty now that all of that has happened? I wonder what his family thinks about our apparent breakup. He must have told them he can't trust me…
I slide into my cocktail dress. It's a black shift, so it's more form-fitting than I prefer, but I like how the boat neck shows off my collar bones. Nicole insists the dress makes my boobs look hot, and I turn sideways, observing that they do look pretty high and front with this bra she made me buy. I fasten a string of pearls around my neck, but refuse to put on nylons in the middle of July.
As I pull my hair from the hot rollers, I think about how my end of the bargain worked out. Work has been amazing. Phil praised me during the staff meeting today, and my in-depth piece about the organ donors is going to be phenomenal. None of that feels as good as Thatcher making me a new coffee pot when I broke mine, or letting me have the ham sandwich even though it's both of our favorite.
I can't even look around my bedroom without remembering the feel of him taking me from behind. Every other man I've ever been with has treated me so cautiously, I felt like they didn't even respect that I'm a whole person. Thatcher managed to be wild, all the while focusing on what made me feel good. "He made you a neuron before he knew that mattered," I say to myself in the mirror. I try not to cry because I've put a touch of brown mascara on my auburn lashes and I don't want it to smudge.
I decide this is as good as I'm going to look, and I slip into a pair of heels, grab my bag, and begin my walk to the museum a few blocks away.
When I get there, I see Veronica first, sipping white wine and clinging to Logan's shoulder in such a way that her diamond ring is visible to everyone. "You're going to cut me with that," I tell her as she pulls me in for a fake hug and a fake cheek kiss. "Since when are we French?"
Veronica pouts at me and says, "Jesus, Emma, can you just behave one time for Dad?" Logan smirks and I roll my eyes, looking around for our mother.
I hear her before I see her. She's bellowing, "Oh there's our other daughter, Emma! Emma, you simply must meet Tristan Cummings!" I turn around just in time to be thrust toward a smarmy-looking guy who is escorting my mother across the room. Shit, she's trying to set me up, I think, realizing this is how she is responding to her horror at learning I am engaged to Thatcher Stag. Was engaged? Anyway, there's no way I'm hanging out with this guy. She makes a face at me and I stick out a hand for Tristan to shake. "Tristan just made partner at his law firm," she says, fanning herself. "He's not even 30!"
"Congratulations," I say, smiling my fakest smile.
"What do you say we grab a drink to celebrate?" He asks and he honest-to-God winks at me.
"Hm, you know, I haven't said hello to my father yet," I tell him. "Won't you please excuse me?"
I never thought I'd be using my father as an excuse for, well, anything, but to escape Winky Lawyer, I slip toward the center of the gallery space. "Daddy," I say, coolly. "This is a lovely event."
"Emma!" He kisses my cheek. "You remember Mayor Gil."
I nod. I've actually interviewed him more than a few times, and printed critical articles about his proposed referendums. His smile is strained and he looks for something to say, so he gestures to the art I haven't had a chance to take in yet. "Interesting stuff, this."
As soon as I look up I know it's Thatcher's work. There's a glass woman in the middle of the room, the focal point of the entire gallery. She's made from orange and red glass, twisting up, lit from within. She's reaching toward the heavens, rays of red and orange and yellow shooting from her hands. The display is stunning. She's set on a pedestal, surrounded by low sculptures blown in vibrant greens and blues. She looks like the sun, rising from the sea. Triumphant. I nearly cry, the piece is so moving. I can't believe how the light and the space all work together to transform the work from what I saw on the shelves in his studio. I hear my father saying, "Yes, it's quite dramatic. Evidently the artist will be here tonight."
I gasp. Thatcher will be here. I start to look around, and I feel my mother come up and put her arm around me. "Emma, do you see what I meant about quality artwork? This piece here--this is the work of someone refined and elegant. Passionate and bold!"
I stare at her, not believing that she hasn't bothered to read the plaque bearing Thatcher's name. I don't really get time to ponder this for long, because Tristan glides back over holding two flutes of champagne. "Emma, darling," he says, his voice slick as an oil spill. "How about we take that drink now?"
I sense Thatcher arriving behind me and my body yearns for him. Then I hear his deep voice, smooth and certain, with an edge of danger. "The lady doesn't drink alcohol." I smell him, the familiar, wonderful scent of him above the evergreen soap. I feel his big, strong hand wrap around my waist and he pulls me close. I exhale, feeling like I haven't drawn a breath since our fight Sunday. When I look up at him, I'm stunned. Thatcher has trimmed his beard short and neat. He's cut his long hair underneath, buzzed it into a tight undercut and kept the top long. In his dark, fitted button-down shirt and black slacks, he looks so fucking sexy I nearly swoon. I let myself lean back against him, savoring the close warmth of his touch.
Tristan's expression darkens and he asks, "And just who might you be?"
I can feel Thatcher smile behind me. "Thatcher Stag," he says, sticking out one hand for a shake and keeping the other possessively on my stomach. "Emma's fiancé."
My mother giggles, a high-pitched, nervous sound, as my father's eyes start to bulge from his head. "How silly of me to forget to make introductions. This is just all so new that we aren't yet used to Emma's…betrothal."
My father clears his throat. "Yes, we're all quite excited. But if you'll excuse us, we are due to meet with the artist before things kick off this evening, so…" He drifts off and looks back and forth between Thatcher and the Mayor. I blush and bite my lower lip.
Thatcher clears his throat and keeps his hand out. "So glad you're enjoying my art, Mr. Cheswick. Pleased to meet you in person, Mr. Mayor. When I did a piece for the lobby of the city council building last spring, I only met with your staff."
The mayor pumps Thatcher's hand. "Stag! Yes! Of course! I see the similarity in style with this work here. You did that black and gold bridge for us. We get so many compliments." He gestures toward my father with his drink. "Cheswick, you didn't tell me your daughter was marrying a Stag."
My mother's skin has gone grey and she starts fanning herself with her program. Veronica floats over with Logan and tries to ease the tension. "Can you tell us what inspired this piece here?" She leans in to read the plaque. "Emma? Oh! It's called Emma! That's you!"
Thatcher grins. He leans forward and beckons for my family and the mayor to lean in. He whispers as my father takes a sip of his gin. "I made this one the first time I saw your daughter naked."