The Major And The Librarian. Nikki Benjamin

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      Feeling even more like a fifth wheel, Emma yanked the screen door open.

      “Come out and join us as soon as you’ve had your shower,” Margaret called after her.

      “I will,” Emma said, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

      Actually, she had no intention of hanging around now that Sam was home. She would shower, dress, then pack up her belongings, make her excuses and return to her own house a few blocks away. Her presence here was no longer necessary. Sam would be available if Margaret needed anything. And Emma could always return once he’d left again.

      She put the chicken casserole Margaret had prepared earlier in the oven, then scurried upstairs to the guest room she had been using for the past three weeks. Margaret’s bedroom was right next door. The bedrooms Sam and Teddy had used as children were on the opposite side of the landing, their doors closed.

      Emma supposed she should take a few minutes to air out Sam’s room, but just the thought of invading what had always been his personal space made her uneasy. She could only hope Mrs. Beal had changed the linen and dusted recently. If not, Sam could do it himself.

      Right now, all Emma wanted was to get away from him before she said or did something stupid. She could only pretend to be cool and calm in his presence for so long. Then anything could happen. Could, and with her luck, probably would.

      Chapter 3

      “I wonder what’s taking Emma so long,” Margaret said, glancing at her watch for the third time in less than fifteen minutes.

      Sam had been asking himself the same question as he eyed his own watch surreptitiously, and he already had a pretty good idea of what the answer could be. He’d seen how steadfastly Emma had avoided his gaze despite her courteous manner. As if she could barely stand the sight of him. Why, then, would she go out of her way to seek out his company?

      He couldn’t say as much to his mother, though. She would pretend not to understand. Just as she’d already pretended not to understand why he had expressed concern about her well-being. He couldn’t come right out and tell her Emma hated his guts any more than he could come right out and tell her how shocked he was by her frailty.

      She had aged to a frightening degree since he’d seen her last. But when he’d asked outright if she had been ill, she hadn’t said anything specific about having been diagnosed with leukemia.

      Instead, she had hedged, admitting only that she had been a bit under the weather the past few weeks, thus finding it necessary to ask Emma to stay with her. Then she’d also insisted—rather hurriedly—that she was feeling much better, especially now that he had finally returned to Serenity.

      “It was time you came back,” she had said. “But why now?”

      “Because it was time,” he’d replied, hedging in his own way.

      He couldn’t admit that Emma’s letter had been the real catalyst without also revealing why she had written to him. And what would that do for his mother other than spoil the thrill of his homecoming for her?

      There would be more than enough time in the days ahead to confront her about the true nature of her illness.

      “Maybe I ought to check on her,” Margaret continued. “Or, better yet, you could do that while I get started on the salad.” She nodded purposefully. “Yes, that’s a better idea. You can get your bags out of the car, take them up to your room, then make sure Emma didn’t slip in the bathtub and bump her head.”

      Oh, now that was something he really wanted to do—intrude on Emma Dalton while she was taking care of her personal needs.

      “She’s probably just drying her hair,” Sam said, the heat of a blush warming his face.

      “Probably. But it would set my mind at ease to know that nothing’s happened to her. Of course, if you’re going to be shy about it, I can climb the stairs myself.”

      “Oh, no, you don’t,” he muttered, smiling ruefully as he glimpsed the merry twinkle in her faded blue eyes. “As you pointed out, I have to take my stuff up anyway. I might as well check on her while I’m there.”

      Margaret Griffin had always been much too good at getting her own way, and obviously, she still was. Though what she hoped to accomplish by sending him chasing after Emma he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Or perhaps, more accurately, he could, but chose not to.

      “Thank you, son.” She smiled brightly as she retrieved the tray from the wicker table.

      “You’re welcome,” Sam replied.

      He held the screen door for her, then walked slowly down the porch steps and crossed the lawn to the car he had rented at the airport in San Antonio.

      Had he honestly believed Emma had been delayed because of some mishap, he would have been more inclined to hurry. But likely as not, she had simply bypassed the front porch, going on to the kitchen instead.

      No doubt Margaret would find her there, and the two of them would finish putting together the meal he’d been promised, leaving him to try to make himself at home in the one place he no longer felt he belonged.

      The drive from San Antonio had been pleasant enough, but then he’d been away so long that the city itself, as well as the sprawling countryside on the outskirts, had seemed only vaguely familiar. As he’d entered Serenity, however, he had been bombarded by memories. Surprisingly, not all of them had been bad. And those that were… Well, they were also distant enough to have lost their edge.

      Still, he had driven more slowly, prolonging the moment when he would have no choice but to pull into the driveway of the aging, two-story Victorian house on Holly Street.

      Sam had told himself he was simply reacquainting himself with his hometown, taking in the various changes that had occurred during his four-year absence—the refurbishing of many older homes and the building of new ones, as well as the revitalizing addition of shops and restaurants to the downtown area.

      Yet he had known what he’d really been doing. In a roundabout way, he had been putting off what he had long believed would be the ultimate test of his fortitude.

      Eventually, he was going to have to walk inside his mother’s house, climb the steps to the second floor and face, once and for all, the emptiness—made even more awful by its permanence—of his brother’s bedroom.

      As Sam had drawn closer and closer, he had found himself wondering how his mother had faced the void Teddy’s death had left day after day, year after year. And then, in a sudden flash of realization, he had mentally cursed himself for allowing her to do so all alone.

      He had been so damned intent on distancing himself from his pain that, for the most part, he had blocked out all thought of hers.

      Some son he had been, he’d thought as he finally turned into his mother’s driveway.

      And yet, she had never held his disregard against him. Not once in the four years he had stayed away. She had waited patiently for him to come to his senses—something he hadn’t really done on his own, but rather, thanks to Emma’s none too gentle nudging.

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