Chapter 9

Emma hadn’t wanted his help with her rosebushes. Sam had known that as surely as he knew his own name. But he had refused to let her put him off. He had wanted to talk to her away from his mother’s house, and Margaret’s suggestion that he give her a hand with her planting had presented the perfect opportunity.

Now, standing at the sink, washing his hands, Sam eyed himself in the mirror and acknowledged that she hadn’t wanted him in her house, either. Again, however, he had chosen to stand fast. Not only because they had yet to talk, but also because he had wanted, needed, to see the place she had chosen to call home.

He had heard the hesitation in her voice when she invited him to have a beer. And he had sensed her apprehension as she unlocked the door, then stood aside so he could cross the threshold.

Yet she hadn’t seemed afraid of him. He wouldn’t have taken her up on the offer if she’d given that impression. Instead, she had seemed vaguely troubled, as if she hadn’t been sure exactly what to expect of him.

Nothing hurtful, he had sworn as he slowly made his way through her bright, cheerful little kitchen, taking in the warm, homey feel of it. At least not if he could help it. He just wanted something to take away with him—some small, special memories of the place where she lived so he could think of her there months from now in the loneliness of the night.

Perhaps she had reason to be uneasy, Sam mused, a wry twist to his lips as he rinsed the soap from his hands, then splashed cool water on his face, washing away the dusty film of sweat that coated his skin. How rational was it to obsess over a woman he had yet to believe he could ever have?

Unless he took a chance and told her the truth…

Would Emma understand as his mother had insisted? Could she?

With a muttered curse, Sam dried his face and hands on a fluffy dark green towel that exactly matched the tiny ivy leaves in the patterned wallpaper. Then he opened the bathroom door, stepped into the hallway and paused.

Sounds came from overhead—as good a sign as any that Emma was still upstairs. That meant he had a few more minutes to himself. Not to snoop, he told himself as he turned toward the living room doorway. Just to…look around.

Floral-print fabric in shades of rose and blue covered the cushioned sofa, a deep, comfortable-looking chair and an ottoman. Cherry-wood end tables topped by brass lamps, a matching coffee table and wardrobe, doors open to reveal a television, small stereo, books and several framed photographs, completed the furnishings. A lovely Oriental carpet, also in shades of rose and blue, added warmth to the highly polished hardwood floor. And old-fashioned, wide-slatted wooden blinds, slanted to let in the late-afternoon sunlight, covered the windows.

The room suited Emma—feminine, but not frilly. The blend of soft colors and sturdy wood made it livable. Pretty as the furnishings were, a man could still feel at ease there. At home, Sam thought, drawn into the room despite his intention not to leave the doorway.

He prowled around slowly, savoring the ambience Emma had created. He could stay there forever, he admitted. Quite happily, as long as he had Emma by his side.

At the wardrobe, he paused, eyeing the silver-framed photographs curiously.

One was older, taken when Emma was nine or ten, he guessed. She stood between a lovely, fragile-looking, unsmiling woman with curly red hair similar to hers and a tall, dark man with a wild, rakish grin—her parents, more than likely.

Another, featuring a tall, handsome couple, the man holding a baby in his arms, had been taken more recently—her friends Jane and Max Hamilton, he supposed. There was also one of Emma holding the baby—their son, Emma’s godson.

Grouped together on another shelf were three photographs that caused Sam’s breath to catch in his throat. All were of Teddy and him: one taken years ago at the swimming pool in the park outside of town, one of them with their mother at the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding and one of them dressed in their tuxedos, a picture he remembered Margaret taking the following morning just before they’d left for the church.

Of all the photographs Emma must have of Teddy, why had she chosen to display those that included him, too? Sam wondered. Was it her way of constantly reminding herself of his role in his brother’s death?

No, she wouldn’t do that. Not when she had made such a point of telling him she’d never really blamed him for what had happened.

Looking at the photographs more closely, Sam noted that in the older one he and Teddy appeared to be quite happy. Their smiles were carefree and…genuine. By contrast, their smiles seemed oddly strained in the other pictures.

Understandable for him, Sam mused. He had been on the verge of watching the woman he’d only just admitted he loved exchange vows with his younger brother. But Teddy should have been grinning broadly. Had he been in his brother’s position, Sam knew he wouldn’t have been able to contain his jubilation. Yet Teddy looked more like a man doing his dreaded duty than a man about to have his dream come true.

In the days before the wedding, Sam had been so wrapped up in his own problems he hadn’t really paid much attention to Teddy’s behavior. Thinking back now, he recalled how quiet his brother had been. Granted, they had engaged in their usual horsing around, but Sam hadn’t been the only one who’d done so halfheartedly. And several times, Teddy had gone off alone without telling anyone.

Had he had doubts about marrying Emma? Doubts he had chosen not to voice for fear of hurting her?

They had been such close friends for so many years, yet they certainly hadn’t been in any hurry to marry even after they’d graduated from college. Though Sam hadn’t been home much during those years, it had seemed that everyone around town assumed they would…eventually. He certainly had, and he knew his mother had, as well.

Had Teddy and Emma been weighed down by those expectations? Expectations that had kept each of them silent rather than risk causing the other anguish?

That would explain why Emma had made no move to stop the wedding after the mad, passionate kiss they had shared. And now that Sam thought about it—really thought about it—that could also explain his brother’s erratic behavior that fateful morning as the two of them set out for the church.

Teddy had been the one to suggest they take a more roundabout route, and Sam had agreed willingly enough. He had been in no hurry to watch Emma walk up the aisle and into his brother’s arms. And self-involved as he’d been, he hadn’t questioned Teddy’s rather odd request.

Thinking back to that sunny summer day, Sam admitted he wouldn’t have been able to get to the church quickly enough had he been in his brother’s place.

Teddy’s foot-dragging should have alerted him to a possible problem. Instead, it had merely set the stage for the tragedy that followed. And Sam had all too willingly played his part, initiating the conversation that had driven his brother to make the fatal mistake that had ultimately cost him his life.

“Are you sure you want to go through with the wedding?” Sam had asked, only half-teasingly. “Sure you want to tie yourself down to a wife and family without ever having gone anywhere or done anything except teach high-school English in your hometown?”

“What do you suggest I do, Sam? Leave Emma standing at the altar? I couldn’t do that to her.”

“Well, I could always take your place. I’m already dressed for the occasion….” Any lingering trace of lightheartedness had vanished from his voice.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Teddy had eyed him without rancor, nodded once and unbuckled his seat belt.

“Then let me out of the car up there, just past the intersection. I’ll catch a ride back to the house, clear out my stuff and be gone before the service is over.”

“Teddy, don’t be silly. Emma loves you.”

“Not the way she—”

Not the way she should? But Sam would never know what Teddy was going to say. Before Teddy had been able to finish, a pickup truck had sped through the intersection, failing to stop at the stoplight, and plowed into Sam’s car. The sudden impact had sent Teddy hurtling through the windshield and onto the pavement.

Had Sam been paying attention to his driving, he might have been able to swerve out of the way. Or, even more important, had he simply kept his mouth shut, Teddy would have been saved by the seat belt he’d have still been wearing—

With a start, Sam heard the floorboards creaking overhead, warning that Emma was more than likely on her way downstairs. Not wanting to be caught where he hadn’t been invited, he turned away from the photographs in the wardrobe and hurried back to the kitchen.

He had just time enough to help himself to a bottle of beer and slouch into one of the ladder-back chairs by the antique gateleg table in the bay-windowed alcove. Emma bustled through the doorway, a file folder full of papers in one hand.

“Sorry I took so long. I wanted to give you as much of the information I’ve been collecting on leukemia as I could, but I didn’t have it all in one place.” She plopped the folder on the table, then crossed to the refrigerator and took out a beer for herself. “Ready for another?” she asked, eyeing his bottle.

“Not yet.”

She had also taken time to wash her face and comb her hair and—to his disappointment—change into a less revealing T-shirt while she was upstairs, he noted as he took a long swallow of the frosty brew.

“Thanks again for helping with the rosebushes.” She sat across from him, drank from her bottle, then set it aside with a slight smile. “Mmm, good.”

“Tastes the best after hard work on a hot day, doesn’t it?”

“Or with a plate of tamales and cheese enchiladas.” She hesitated, finally adding, “I think I might have a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa in the pantry if you’re hungry.”

“Not really, but you go ahead.”

“No, I’m not, either.”

She reached for her beer again as the silence stretched between them uncomfortably.

Sam knew he was getting very close to wearing out his welcome. He had held off asking about his mother as long as he could. Not because he dreaded what Emma might have to tell him. He had already come to terms with the seriousness of his mother’s illness. But once Emma had answered his questions, his reason for having her all to himself would no longer exist.

“You mentioned you’ve been collecting information on leukemia?” he began at last, gesturing toward the file folder on the table.

“Whatever I could find about the disease itself and the options for treatment. I wanted to be able to understand what the doctors were saying and also be able to question them intelligently.”

“Thanks for taking the time to do that.”

“Since Margaret insisted she didn’t want you to know, I thought someone should look out for her.”

“I would have done it if I’d known,” Sam said, holding her gaze.

“Yes, I know you would have. And I know now that I should have contacted you sooner. But I kept thinking she would get better, and I didn’t want to worry you needlessly, either.” Her tone defensive, Emma looked away.

“I’m not faulting you, Emma. You were only trying to do what you thought was best for everyone, especially my mother. I’m just glad I’m here now so I can give you a hand. You shouldn’t have had to deal with her illness on your own for as long as you did.”

“I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t.” She faced him again, smiling slightly.

“I know.” Touched by the benevolence of her gaze, he wanted to reach out and smooth a hand over her hair. Instead, he pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the refrigerator. “I think I’ll have another beer, after all. How about you?”

“Yes, please.”

“Is the offer of chips and salsa still good? I’m going to need a little something to sop up the alcohol or I won’t be able to walk a straight line.”

“It most certainly is.”

Crossing to the pantry, Emma retrieved the bag of tortilla chips and jar of salsa while Sam opened the beer bottles at the sink.

“Why don’t I give you a summary of the information I’ve collected,” she suggested when they were seated at the table again. “Then you can read through everything on your own later.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam agreed, grabbing a handful of chips and dipping into the salsa.

“Basically, Margaret was diagnosed with a chronic form of leukemia that occurs primarily in older adults. The onset was gradual, as is usually the case. At first, her doctor thought she had a touch of flu. She was running a low-grade fever, she was achy all over and she didn’t have much of an appetite. When those symptoms lingered for several weeks and she also started complaining about feeling weak all the time, he assumed she’d contracted a bacterial infection while her defenses were down.

“He prescribed several different rounds of antibiotics, and eventually she seemed to start feeling better. When she had a relapse just before Thanksgiving, he finally ordered a series of blood tests. The results came in, and he immediately made arrangements for her to see a specialist in Houston.

“She went through one round of chemotherapy then. That relieved her symptoms, and she seemed to go into remission. But the symptoms recurred again about two months ago. Since the original treatment she received produced only a very temporary improvement, her doctor ordered another round of chemotherapy using a different combination of drugs that ended up making her even more ill than she had been.

“At her age and in her weakened condition, there are only a limited number of options when it comes to treatment, and unfortunately, even a minor complication can be life threatening. A bone-marrow transplant is out of the question. She’s just not strong enough. Even the chemotherapy she’s received is of questionable value when it comes to actually prolonging her life. Considering how sick she was the last time, I can understand why. And I can’t say I blame her for not wanting to go through more of the same.”

“But if she’s no longer in remission and she doesn’t agree to additional treatment, then how long can she survive?” Sam asked, his brows furrowing.

“That would depend on how quickly the disease progresses from the chronic to the acute stage. A drug called interferon has been known to delay that happening in some people without unbearable side effects. But there’s no guarantee she won’t have an adverse reaction—one she might not survive.”

“So, damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t, right?”

“Something like that,” Emma admitted, eyeing him sadly. “And it has to be her decision. She’s the only one who can choose between taking the risk involved in whatever treatment her doctor recommends or letting the disease run its course over the next year or so.”

“That’s all the time she would have left?” Sam hardly recognized the sound of his own voice.

“Give or take a few months.”

He looked away, barely able to contemplate the consequences of either alternative. After a few moments, he asked, “What do you think she should do?”

“I think she should do whatever feels right to her,” Emma murmured.

At the touch of her hand on his arm, Sam met her gaze, then shook his head helplessly. He had thought he was prepared for the worst, but he’d been wrong.

“I saw what she went through in the hospital a few weeks ago,” Emma continued. “I’m not sure I want to see her suffer through something similar again. I don’t want to lose her that way. I don’t want to lose her at all…ever. She’s all the family I have left.”

“I know how you feel. She’s all the family I have left, too.” He covered her hand with his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “But I want her to be as comfortable as possible for whatever time she has left. Quality of life has always been so important to her.”

“I guess we’ll just have to trust her to know what’s best.”

“Maybe I’ll come across something in your notes. Or better yet, maybe her doctor will have good news for us next week.”

“I hope so.” Emma smiled again, then withdrew her hand from his hold to brush the moisture from her eyes.

With their shared closeness severed by her seeming retreat, Sam glanced at his watch, then reached for the folder.

“I suppose we should be getting back,” he said.

“You go on,” Emma urged. “I have a few things I want to do around here.”

“Anything I can help with?” File folder in hand, he stood.

“Thanks for offering, but I can manage on my own.” Without meeting his gaze, she pushed away from the table.

Sensing that she wanted to be alone, Sam took the car keys from his pocket, set them on the table, then headed toward the door.

“I’ll leave the car here for you. That way, you won’t have to walk back on your own.”

Emma seemed about to protest, but didn’t.

“Okay, fine,” she agreed instead. “I won’t be too much longer.”

“See you at dinner, then?”

“Yes, see you then.”

Relieved by her reply, Sam stepped onto the back porch, pulling the door shut behind him. He had been afraid she would find an excuse to stay there overnight, and then to move back permanently. She had every right to. He was more than capable of caring for his mother on his own.

But he wanted Emma close by for as long as possible. Wanted to know that—deep in the night darkness—she was only a few steps away. Even though he couldn’t yet allow himself to go that short distance.