Chapter 8

The front door creaked as it swung open, and Emma clutched the broom with both sweaty palms, her heart thudding and bile rising in her throat. She pressed her back against the pantry door and held her breath.

“Hello?” a man’s voice called out, but she was too afraid to answer.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. “Is anyone here? It’s the Realtor.”

The man poked his head around the corner. “I’m sorry I scared you. I saw your car, but when I rang the bell no one answered, so I just let myself…”

His voice trailed off as he stared at her with astonishment and apparent delight.

Emma returned his stare with confusion, still clutching the useless broom. She peeled her tongue off the roof of her parched mouth. “Do I –”

“I can’t believe it’s you!” he interrupted. “Emma Woodhouse!”

She stared at him blankly.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Emma took one hand off the broom and twisted a strand of hair around her finger. His face did look vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“We went to high school together.”

“Of course,” she said, but she still didn’t recognize him. “I think your face looks familiar, but I’m sorry…. I’m no good with names.”

“You wound me.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knew the beautiful Emma Woodhouse, but I was just a band geek. You probably never even knew I was alive.”

“Oh, I do remember you. Darren, right? Darren…”

“Funkhauser,” he supplied. “I can’t believe you’re here! You haven’t changed a bit—except you’re even more gorgeous than I remembered.”

Emma felt her face heating up. “Oh please,” she protested, gesturing at her ratty track pants and sweaty hair. “I look awful.”

“You couldn't look bad if you tried.”

“Well, you look… very different,” she said. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you.” The Darren she remembered had been painfully thin and pimply, with permed hair and thick glasses. But he’d since grown into his height; he now had broad shoulders, and she couldn’t help noticing the muscles that strained against the front of his blue dress shirt. His head was shaved, and she figured he must be balding, but the look suited him. Very well.

“I’ll take that as a compliment… I think.” He winked, and the lines around his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled at her.

She looked at her feet and cleared her throat. “So you’re the Realtor? Mom mentioned she’d spoken to someone, but I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Yes. I offered to come by and see what work needs to be done before the house goes on the market. I see you beat me to it, though. Why don’t we look over the house together?”

Emma shifted from one foot to the other. This was supposed to be her much-needed alone time, and talking about high school with a self-proclaimed band geek was not at all what she’d had in mind. Still, after he’d taken the trouble to drive out here, how could she ask him to leave?

“Forgive me if it’s not a good time,” he said. Was he reading her mind? “This must be such a difficult time for you. I could come back another day…”

She sighed and set the broom down. “I don’t think another day will make it any easier. I’ve got a lot to do, but I guess I can spare a few minutes.”

***

The more problems Darren pointed out, the more defensive Emma felt, even though she knew he was right. At the very least, someone would have to rip down the peeling wallpaper and give the whole house a coat of paint. He also suggested area rugs, slipcovers, curtains, and light fixtures.

When they got to the partially finished nursery, she drew in her breath. Three walls were freshly painted in a pale yellow, and a can of pastel purple paint stood next to the oak crib in front of the fourth wall. Butterfly wallpaper border topped two painted walls, and muted light filtered through the purple curtains.

Emma closed her eyes and caressed the butterfly print crib set. Picturing Rachel and Evan dreaming together in this room brought back memories of decorating Andrew’s nursery with Joe. They’d stood in the middle of the finished room for several minutes, Emma leaning into Joe, his arms enfolding her heavy belly.

Snapping the light switch on and yanking open the curtains, Darren interrupted her reminiscing. “It should be easy enough to slap on some neutral paint, but I hope that wallpaper tears off cleanly.”

Emma whirled to face him. “No!” she cried shrilly.

Darren’s face registered his dismay. 

“No,” she whispered. Her nose burned, and her chin quivered. The good cry she’d been needing all week seemed imminent.

He laid a hand on her arm. “Emma? This room really needs to be more neutral. People need to see they can move in without doing a lot of work. You can understand that, right?”

She squared her shoulders, her chin jutting out. “No,” she repeated calmly. “I can’t… undo what Rachel put so much love into. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Of course. I understand,” he assured her, but his wrinkled brow told her he didn’t understand at all.

She sniffed, and the hint of a smile curved her lips as she realized what she must do. “I’m going to finish it.”

***

After Darren had gone, Emma stepped hesitantly into Rachel’s bedroom. She stood in front of the tiny closet and ran a gentle hand over her sister’s sparse wardrobe.

Her eyes fell on Evan’s clothes, crammed at the other end of the single rod. She pulled a striped dress shirt out and held it against her face, closing her eyes and inhaling his familiar scent. After all these years, he still wore Polo, just as he had in high school, just as she remembered from the prom. She thrust the hanger back onto the rod with a clank and slammed the bifold doors. 

She turned her back on the closet and drew in several deep breaths as she inspected the room.

Noticing the rumpled bedding, she pulled up the sheets and smoothed the wedding-ring quilt over the top. It reminded her of the quilt Rachel had made for her own wedding, the quilt that had been boxed up on her closet shelf for 12 years.

She pushed back the regret. Although the quilt had an old-fashioned charm, it really didn’t fit with her décor.

She sank onto the bed and looked down at the floor, where she spotted Rachel’s nightgown in a heap at her feet. Laughing, she stooped to pick it up. How many times had she gathered up Rachel’s clothes off their floor?

She laid the nightie on the nightstand, next to… a journal! How could she have forgotten to look for Rachel’s journals?

The nightstand drawer caught on something when she tried to open it. She jerked the knob several times, but it would only open by an inch. Inserting her fingers through the crack, she cleared the obstruction and slowly worked the drawer free, finding it stuffed with journals. She pulled them out one by one: coil-bound spirals, black college exam books, and little flowered diaries—15 in all. She wondered where to begin.

She ran her hands over each journal and then opened the one she’d seen first. She caught her breath at Rachel’s familiar hand, a simple, sometimes sloppy print that always bore deeply into the page. She pictured Rachel bent over this very book, clutching the pen so tightly that her hand cramped.

The date on the first entry was January 2nd—just six months ago.

                Sunday 1/2/10 PM

It always seems momentous to start a new journal, but starting a new journal and a new year at the same time? I have a feeling that this is a new chapter in my life. What will this year bring? Something wonderful, I think. Maybe a baby at last?

It’s not that I’m not happy with life as it is. No, my life is so full. I’m married to my best friend—a very sexy best friend! I have a job I love, one I dare to believe makes a difference.

There are a lot of things we don’t have, but in everything that matters, we’re so blessed.

Emma snapped the journal shut, fighting a wave of resentment as she dropped it onto the stack of journals on the bed. Of course Rachel had been content, because she’d gotten everything she wanted. But what good had her contentment done, when that new chapter she’d sensed was actually the last one?

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