Part 6 (1/2)
Just like he hadn't been able to make her want to stay in Millhaven with him twelve years ago.
Sliding back into the sort of effortless conversation he and Emerson used to lose hours and hours on might've been all too easy, but as enticing as their back and forth had felt, he'd do well to remember the past. While he'd once known her well enough to decipher her in less than a glance, now Emerson was guarded. Tougher. Wary.
Yet still beautiful enough to knock the breath directly out of his lungs.
Keep it simple, stupid. Only a few weeks left and you'll be back to normal. Rehab your shoulder and let the rest go.
It took all of ninety minutes after she got out of bed for Emerson to go bats.h.i.+t crazy. Even with fewer hours and the scaled-back intensity of her workweek, she'd been exhausted enough to barely pick her way through some canned soup and half an episode of Supernatural on Netflix before falling into bed at a whopping seven thirty last night. Her eleven-hour stay in dreamland-coupled with the facts that she'd recovered from that h.e.l.lacious drive to Lockridge and her furniture had finally arrived from Vegas a few days ago-had gone miles toward killing some of the ache in both her back and her knees.
Too bad her extended snooze also left her wide awake and crawling the walls at the unG.o.dly hour of eight o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day morning. And the more time she had to dwell on her current situation, the harder it would be to ignore the elephant-sized reality of her week. The thirty-five hours she'd put in at the PT center had yielded one client, and even then, he'd come to her only out of the sheerest of necessities.
How was she supposed to drown herself in work if there was no work to be done?
Nope. Not going there. Stilling the nervous energy that had made her start to fidget, Emerson smoothed a hand over her nights.h.i.+rt and turned to survey the dingy walls of the dollhouse-sized apartment around her. She just needed a distraction to get her through the weekend-even the next few hours would be good-and then she could get back to building her client base first thing Monday morning. Trouble was, she'd been so focused on her career over the last few years that free time had been way more theory than practice, and what little time she had taken off had been spent completing continuing-ed courses or volunteering at the Lightning's various fitness outreach camps.
But, come on. She was smart and resourceful-she had a PhD, for Pete's sake. Surely she could come up with something to keep her occupied when she wasn't at the therapy center with Doc Sanders. Something that wasn't breakfast (she'd managed to eat half a piece of toast with her coffee an hour ago), TV (110 channels of infomercials. Ugh), or trying to cover up the fact that while furniture made life a boatload more comfortable in terms of functionality, it somehow didn't make her apartment any more homey or appealing.
s.h.i.+t. Three strikes and she was definitely out.
Just as Emerson finished her shower and get-ready-for-the-day routine, which killed a whole forty minutes, even though she had nothing to actually get ready for, her cell phone buzzed its way across the chipped Formica of her kitchen counter. Her heart thumped faster beneath her pale-pink T-s.h.i.+rt, then plummeted all the way to the waistband of her denim capris at the sight of the name and number flas.h.i.+ng up at her from the display on her caller ID.
She might be desperate for something to do, but she wasn't m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic. A conversation with her mother would send what little sanity Emerson had left into immediate extinction right now.
Her phone dinged a minute later, signaling a voice mail and tripping her warning sensors into high alert. Bitsy hated voice mail, to the point that she rarely left messages for anyone that weren't going to be ”appropriately handled” by a living, breathing human. Chances were sky high her sanity was about to take that hit even without the actual mother-daughter airtime.
”Sweetheart, it's your mother calling. I do hope you're not still in bed at this hour.” The pause in the recording gave Emerson just enough time to lock her molars together, and wheee, they were off to an awesome start. ”At any rate, I'm headed into Camden Valley for some work on the hospital's annual fund-raiser gala. I thought it would be in your best interest to come with me so you can meet some of the hospital staff. They have a wonderful orthopedics department, and certainly Dr. Norris would consider having you on board as a favor to your father. I'll stop by your apartment on my way through town to see if you're available to make the trip.”
Emerson's cell phone hit the counter with a clatter, her pulse going full-on Rocket Man in her veins. Twelve years might have pa.s.sed since she'd left town, but dammit, her parents hadn't changed one iota. She might not have a schedule full of clients (or, okay, more than one client) but she already had a job she was d.a.m.ned good at, in a field she loved. Even if she did have the desire to go to medical school at age thirty to become an orthopedic surgeon-which she didn't-her multiple sclerosis would make getting through even an inch of the grueling residency a virtual impossibility.
Which was problematic as s.h.i.+t, since that was surely where her parents had set their sights, and she had absolutely zero intention of telling them about her diagnosis. Now her mother would be here in T minus-Emerson turned to look at the clock on the stove behind her-s.h.i.+t! Twelve minutes and counting for a trip to Camden Valley that would surely boast . . . well, a whole lot of boasting. Not to mention a metric ton of the pressure and panic she'd managed to keep at bay for the last twelve years by staying far enough away for her parents not to be able to wield their influence on her life.
She had to get out of here. Now.
Scooping her purse from the counter, she fast-tracked her feet into a pair of sandals and out the door. A quick drive around town to avoid her mother was a bit on the cowardly side, sure, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
And Emerson was definitely. Completely. Painfully. Desperate.
Thankfully, she didn't have a ton of time to dwell on that sad little nugget of truth. She dug her keys from the bottom of her purse, locking her front door with a swift flick of her wrist. Turning on her heel, she hustled over the sidewalk leading to the parking lot, fully intent on getting out of Dodge as fast as humanly possible . . .
And ran smack into a pet.i.te, pixie-faced blonde carrying two plastic bins packed full of bubble bath.
”Whoa!” the blonde squeaked, s.h.i.+fting to the toes of her navy-blue sneakers as she fought to keep both her balance and her grip on the bins. Emerson's hands shot out to steady the process, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng in chagrin.
”I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?”
”I'm A-okay. No worries,” the blonde said, her smile marking the words as the truth. ”To be honest, I was hoping to run into you. Just not, you know”-her ponytail slid over one shoulder as she gestured toward the bins to indicate their near miss-”literally.”
Emerson blinked, the unease in her belly becoming genuine surprise as her brain paired the voice with its owner. ”Daisy? Daisy Halstead?”
”Yep, it's me. Well, I guess I'm Daisy Bradford now, although not for much longer.” The woman shook her head as if to dismiss the words, lowering the bins to the pavement beside her to pull Emerson into an unexpected hug. ”Seriously, I'm so glad to see you, Emerson! It's been, what, since the summer after high school? Of course you look fantastic.”
”Oh! Um, thanks. You look great, too,” Emerson said, a small smile finding its way to her lips. While the academic and extracurricular schedule set in stone by her parents had given her little choice but to keep her cla.s.smates at arm's length during most of high school, Daisy had been the closest thing she'd had to a true girlfriend. At least, Daisy had been the only girl at Millhaven High who hadn't whispered behind Emerson's back about her being too smart or too pretty or too stuck up for her own good.
Daisy's laugh jarred Emerson back to the here and now of the sun-strewn sidewalk. ”I don't know about great,” she said, running a hand first over her plain gray tank top, then her fraying cutoffs. ”But I suppose I'm lucky enough to be getting by. I'd heard you were back in town and living out this way.”
Just like that, Emerson's unease came winging back in all its glory. ”Let me guess. Amber Ca.s.sidy?”
”She still has the market cornered on gossip,” Daisy agreed with a sheepish nod. ”I try not to buy into it too much, but she can be kind of hard to miss. Especially when the news is, um. A big deal.”
Of course. G.o.d, she couldn't blend in any less. ”Yeah. I definitely got that impression. Anyway, I'm sorry for nearly bowling you over.” Emerson sent a covert gaze over the faded asphalt of the apartment complex's parking area, which blessedly held no signs of her mother's Mercedes. At least for the moment.
Daisy shook her head to cancel out the apology. ”I was rus.h.i.+ng, too, so we're even. Preparing for this Watermelon Festival has been making me crazy, and it doesn't help that I'm cutting it really close on time.”
”Oh, right. The Watermelon Festival.” Between last night's exhaustion and this morning's evasive maneuvering, she'd forgotten all about today's festivities.
”Isn't that where you're headed?” Daisy asked, sending a pointed glance at the keys in Emerson's hand. As far as most folks in Millhaven were concerned, the only good excuse for not attending the start-of-summer festival was if your pulse went missing. Even then, it depended on for how long. But Emerson had left over a decade ago, and the chance that she'd fit back in as a local now was way more none than slim.
”No, actually, I . . .” Emerson's brain spun in search of a good answer, but screw it. Even though the truth stung, it was still the truth. ”To be honest, I don't really have a destination in mind. I just wanted to get out of my apartment for a while. I'm kind of dodging my mother.”
”Oh. Oh.” Daisy's green eyes did the round-and-wide routine, but Emerson had to hand it to her. Despite the curiosity running rampant on her face, Daisy didn't press for more details. ”Well, if you're looking for an escape, I sure could use some help at the festival since I'm already running late,” Daisy said, smoothing over the conversational pothole with a kind smile. ”I mean, I'm just selling my new handmade soaps and beauty products, so it might not be the most exciting thing going, but-”
”It's perfect. I'd love to be your a.s.sistant,” Emerson said with an enthusiastic nod. Helping Daisy out sounded kind of fun, plus it would keep her busy and get her out of Bitsy's crosshairs. Talk about a win trifecta.
”Great.” Daisy's smile slid into a grin. ”These are my last two boxes. We can get them all loaded up and I'll give you a quick primer on the Fresh As A Daisy products on the way to town.”
”Lead the way. I'm all yours.”
Emerson wrapped her fingers around the bin on the top of the stack, taking care to use her leg muscles as she lifted so her back wouldn't squall in protest. Daisy's little red SUV was fewer than a dozen steps away, and between them, they made quick work of loading the bins next to the six identical ones and the pair of small card tables in the back. Fresh scents of lavender and lemongra.s.s filled the truck's interior, but rather than being overwhelming or too perfumey, they smelled comforting, like fresh-cut flowers and laundry on a line.
”So you make all of these products yourself?” Emerson asked, settling into the pa.s.senger seat and gesturing over her shoulder as Daisy pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward town.
”Soap, bubble bath, body scrub, and ma.s.sage oil. I'm also working on lotions and face masks, but the lotions in particular can be trickier, so I don't have too many different scents yet.” Daisy paused for a self-deprecating laugh. ”I bet homemade beauty products sound kind of silly to you, what with your being a big-time physical therapist and everything.”
But Emerson shook her head, adamant. ”Not at all. A lot of studies show that aromatherapy can be incredibly effective with patients doing physical rehab, especially when it's accompanied by ma.s.sage therapy. I actually took an intensive cla.s.s in alternative healing practices last year to explore the subject more in depth. The physiological effects are fascinating, and-”
Daisy blinked at her from the driver's seat, and Christ on a cracker, Emerson needed to get out more. Her first friend outing in who knew how long, and she was going to bore the poor woman straight to death.
”I'm sorry,” Emerson said, sliding a hand over the back of her neck to try to disperse the warmth that had bloomed there. ”I've been pretty focused on work lately.”
”I never would have guessed.” Daisy tacked just enough humor to the words to put Emerson right back at ease. ”Still, that's really interesting. I mean, the aromatherapy part,” she added with a little shudder. ”I don't imagine the broken-bones or torn-ligaments part of your job is too much fun.”
Girlfriend definitely had a point. ”I've seen some pretty terrible injuries,” Emerson agreed. ”But even for the most devastating conditions, there are usually lots of therapy options to help people adjust and heal. Getting my clients as functional and healthy as possible is worth all the training and hard work.”
”Do you think you could send me the links to some of those aromatherapy studies?” Daisy asked, her tone edging higher with excitement. ”I just started Fresh As A Daisy a few months ago and I've been kind of lasered in on production, trying to get the recipes and formulas just right. But I'd love to learn more about the positive benefits people might get from the essential oils used in the products.”
Emerson's laugh snuck up on her, but she let it out all the same. Daisy definitely didn't have to twist her arm to talk shop. ”Of course. I've got a bunch of studies bookmarked on my laptop, along with all my course notes from last year. I'm happy to share them.”