Once Upon a Winter's Heart (9 page)

“Uh-huh.” She nodded as she shelved a Curious George book. “And those hands?”

“I'll go wash 'em right now.”

She smiled. “And you might be glad to know I just put some bug books out. They looked good too.”

As Tristan took off for the restroom, Lane came sauntering over to the children's section. Now, unlike this morning, she didn't feel the least bit eager to see him. What if her mom was right? What if he was simply being charming and wonderful because she was going to be his sister-in-law? How foolish would she feel when she was standing by Anne at their wedding knowing that she'd been over the moon for her sister's groom?

“Hello, Emma,” he said warmly. “Helping out?”

She nodded as she slipped another book into place. “Yes, with Poppi gone, I know they're shorthanded.” She gave him her professional smile. “And I don't mind. I've always loved being around books.”

“But you worked in advertising?”

“Yeah…” She reached for another stack of books. “I discovered I was a pretty good copywriter in college…for some reason that made me think I'd enjoy working in marketing.”

“But you didn't?”

“Not so much.” She turned over the book in her hand, pointing to the back cover copy and skimming it. “See, I think I could've done this a little better.” She pointed to a line. “That doesn't really make sense, does it?”

He studied the line. “Not really.”

“But writing sales copy or book cover copy…well, it's not as fulfilling as I'd hoped it would be.”

“So what would be your dream job?” he asked as he straightened a crooked book. “Working in a bookstore?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't think that would be my dream job. But it might have something to do with a bookstore.”

“Aha…” He nodded with a knowing look. “Then I think I have guessed your dream job.”

“What?” She turned and frowned at him. “How is that possible?” She'd never told anyone what her dream job truly was…she barely admitted it to herself…it sounded too foolish and unachievable. How could he know?

“You want to be an author and write books,” he stated.

She took in a long slow breath and turned back to the bookshelf.
How did he know?

“I'm right, aren't I?”

She just shrugged, slowly shelving the books and trying not to act dumbfounded. But how
did
he know?

He chuckled. “I can see it in your eyes, Emma.”

“What?”

“Poppi mentioned to me that you used to create books as a little girl. He described how you would write the stories and illustrate them, even binding them together with cardboard covers. I think he might even have some of them stashed away somewhere.”

“Oh…” She was partly embarrassed and partly touched.

“And why shouldn't you be an author?” he persisted.

She gave him her are-you-crazy look. “Because it's impossible!”

He waved his hand toward the stacks of shelves. “What if all these people, the ones who wrote these books, thought that?”

She frowned. “But look at all these books, Lane, and this is just a small portion of what's out there. Why does anyone even need to write another?”

He laughed. “I'm sure glad that the other authors out there don't think like that. Imagine all the wonderful stories that we'd miss out on.”

She grimaced. What he said actually made sense, but she didn't want to admit it. And seeing Tristan coming this way, she knew she wouldn't have to. “Excuse me,” she told him. “I want to show Tristan the new bug books that just came in. I think he'll like them.”

As she was showing Tristan the science section and the new books, she knew that Lane was watching them. And that only served to aggravate her more. Did he really think it was okay to play the charmer, to toy with someone's heart like this—just because he wanted to endear himself to Anne's family? Didn't he realize the havoc he could create if he wanted to? Didn't he care?

On Sunday, Emma went
to church with Nona and her mother, but because Nona was moving slowly, they arrived a few minutes late. However, Nona's favorite pew had enough space for them to squeeze in. Sitting directly ahead of them were Anne and Tristan and Lane—like the perfect little family. Tristan was sitting in the middle, but after Reverend Thomas announced it was time for children's church, Anne scooted over so that she was sitting right next to Lane—like the perfect couple. And certainly they looked perfect together. There probably weren't two more attractive people in the church. Emma tried to focus on the sermon, but all she could think about was Anne and Lane. Why didn't they just proclaim themselves a couple, get engaged, and start planning their wedding? It would certainly make her mother happy.

Sitting on the other side of the aisle was Emma's dad. With his eyes straight forward, it almost seemed like he was paying attention. And that was reassuring. It was also reassuring to see him here. She remembered a time when her mother had to nag and pester her dad to go to church. With her being gone, it would've been easy for him to have slept in and pretend to forget it was Sunday. Yet, here he was. It gave Emma hope.

After the service, Lane and Anne turned around and started visiting with them just as easily and naturally as anything. But all Emma wanted to do was run.

“I'm glad to see you,” Lane told her. “I want to ask you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yes. Will you have coffee with me tomorrow morning?”

Emma felt her cheeks warming. She could tell that Saundra and Anne and Nona were all curiously watching her. “Tomorrow morning?” she echoed meekly. “I…uh…have to help with Nona and—”

“Nonsense,” Nona told her. “I am fine, Emma. You go and have coffee.”

“But I like to help you with—”

“You baby me too much,” Nona insisted. “You will turn me into an invalid,
dolce
. Go and have coffee with Lane.”

“But I—”

“I could come to your house for coffee,” Lane offered. “Is ten okay?”

She nodded. “Sure. That would work.”

“Good.” He smiled. “I need some help with my ad campaign for KidsPlay. And maybe we can talk about Big Brothers Big Sisters while we're at it.”

“Oh,” Anne said with what seemed like relief. “This is work for you, Emma. How nice.”

Lane tossed Anne a curious look. “Well, hopefully it's more than just work. I consider Emma my friend too.”

Anne gave him a sugary smile. “I certainly hope so, Lane. She is my only sister.”

Emma felt like running now. This was all too weird, too uncomfortable. Seeing her dad near the door, she used him as her excuse. “I'm sorry,” she told them. “I need to go speak to Dad about something.” She hurried over to him and asked if they could have coffee together.

“You bet.” He nodded. “I'd like that.”

“Can I ride with you?” she asked helplessly.

“Sure.” He peered curiously at her. “Something wrong?”

“Maybe.” She nudged him toward the door. “Let's get out of here, okay?”

As they walked to his car, she told him that she was confused and flustered and in need of some fatherly advice.

“About what?” he asked as they got into his Saab.

And so, similar to what she'd told her mom, she poured out her story about Lane to him. “And Mom says Lane is just friendly like that to everyone. But I keep getting a feeling that it's something more—like he's really interested in me. But I know that makes no sense. Do you think I'm crazy?”

“Not in the least.”

Before long they were seated at Starbucks, because Emma was worried that she might see Lane at the bookstore, although he probably didn't go to his office on Sunday. “I don't know what to do, Dad. It's not like I'm trying to initiate anything with him. I know that Anne is really into him.”

“But is he into her?” her dad asked.

“It's weird…Lane treats her politely, but he's kind of cool to her too. Have you noticed that?”

“I've noticed that Anne seems to be trying too hard to get him.” He gave his coffee a stir. “The way she chases after him, dragging him around like she owns him. I even told her that she might be blowing it. Some guys like to be the hunters, you know. She might get further by playing hard to get.”

“Really, you think that she's trying too hard?”

He nodded and took a sip.

“And that Lane might not be as into her as she thinks?” Emma felt a small rush of hope. “But Anne is so pretty, Dad. She could probably get any man she liked.”

Her dad's brow creased. “Do you think Anne is prettier than you?”

Emma gave him a look that said
duh
.

Now her dad peered curiously at her. “Emma, you are a beautiful woman. Don't you know that?”

She smiled at him. “Thanks, Dad. But you're my dad; you're supposed to think that.”

He rolled his eyes. “And as you well know, I'm no expert in the area of romance. Your mother has made that absolutely clear to me over the years. So much so that I just gave up even trying.”

“You gave up on romance?” Emma felt sad to hear this.

He just nodded.

“Do you still love Mom?”

Her dad looked down at his coffee.

“Is there someone else?” she asked in a tiny voice.

He looked up with alarm. “No, no, certainly not.”

She sighed, believing him. “But you didn't answer me…do you still love Mom?”

“Of course, I do.” He frowned. “Just don't tell her I said that.”

“You two.” She shook her head. “You're being so childish.”

“Unlike you and your sister and the man you both want?”

She frowned. “I never said I
wanted
him, Dad.”

“Not in so many words…”

“It's just that I'm confused. I don't know what to do.”

“You know what Poppi would tell you to do, don't you?”

“What's that?” She studied him.

“Follow your heart.”

“Oh…yeah…”

“We're a pair, aren't we? Sitting here and trying to figure out our love lives when it's obvious we're both in the dark and yet we're trying to give each other advice.” He laughed. “Like the blind leading the blind.”

She pointed her finger at him. “Want some advice…from your blind daughter?”

He smiled. “Sure.”

“You love spaghetti and meatballs, right?”

He nodded. “You know I do.”

“And it bugs you that Mom doesn't know how to make it?”

He shrugged. “I don't know…maybe…a little. But that's not really it, Emma.”

“I know. But how about this—how about if you learn to make it and you make it for Mom? It could be a peace-making meal.”

He seemed to be thinking about this.

“It's really easy, Dad. Nona or I could teach you. And we both know that Mom is never going to be much of a cook. But you always seemed to like the kitchen.”

He smiled. “I think I'd be a good cook.”

“So why not let us teach you a few tricks. It'd be fun.”

“All right.” He nodded. “How do we go about this?”

And so they started putting together a plan for how he would come over to Nona's for an afternoon or two next week and learn to cook.

“At the very least I won't have to live off of takeout every night,” he said.

“And Nona will love teaching you.”

On Monday morning, Emma felt nervous and torn. She wanted to see Lane…and yet she didn't. Finally, as she was finishing up the breakfast dishes she reminded herself,
This is business—purely business.
Lane needed advertising help. She would give it to him. End of story.

Lane arrived at ten o'clock on the dot. And he looked sharp in his khaki slacks and dark brown polo sweater. As she opened the front door, she instantly wished she'd put on something nicer than her favorite jeans and black turtleneck. But then she reminded herself again,
This is business—purely business.
Her appearance was of no consequence.

“Good morning, Mrs. Burcelli,” he told Nona as they passed through the living room.

“Why do you not call me Nona?” she asked. “You called my husband Poppi; you should call me Nona. No?”

He grinned. “All right, I will. Thank you,
Nona
.”

“That's better.” She grinned at him then turned her attention back to her knitting.

“Coffee is in the kitchen,” Emma said in a businesslike tone. “I figured we could work in there, if you don't mind.”

“Sounds good to me.” He followed her into the kitchen, waiting as she poured him a cup of coffee, showing him the cream and sugar on the counter. “I've only been in this kitchen a few times, but I really like it.” He poured cream into his coffee.

“I like it too,” she admitted as she filled her own cup. “It's always felt like a
real
kitchen to me. All that stainless and granite biz leaves me cold.”

He nodded. “I hear you. I want to figure out how to ensure the integrity of my old kitchen too…but I want it to function. It's a bit of a dilemma.” He set his briefcase on the kitchen table. “Okay if I set up here?”

“That's what I had in mind.”

Soon they were seated across from each other and Lane was telling her about some ideas he had for a new KidsPlay logo. “I want to design new T-shirts and things. A fresh campaign to get everyone excited about sports again.” Emma got out a pad of paper and some pens, and before long she was shooting ideas at him. They talked and drew and tweaked and jotted down more ideas. All in all, it felt like a fairly inspired meeting, and they actually accomplished quite a lot. It was much more fun than her old job selling silly e-cards had been.

“You're really good at this.” Lane glanced at his watch. “But I know I've used up far more than an hour of your time. And I promised to keep it to an hour. I'm probably keeping you from something else.”

She shrugged. “The only thing I had wanted to do this morning, besides helping Nona, was to pick up the painting I bought at the fundraiser.” She tore off the last page from the notepad, handing it to him. “I know we're supposed to get them picked up today—and I'm working at the bookstore this afternoon.”

“Why don't I give you a ride over there?” he suggested. “I have a couple of pieces I need to pick up myself.”

“Okay.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “That'll give me time to get back here and get Nona's lunch started.”

It wasn't until he was parking the car in front of the Hummingbird that she realized this could be a fresh invitation to trouble. Surely, Anne would be working. She wouldn't like seeing them coming in together. But then Anne knew they were having a business meeting this morning…so really, why should she care?

“Well, look who's here,” Anne said as Emma walked in. “And you brought Lane with you.”

“Or Lane brought me,” Emma said. “I want to pick up my painting.”

“Oh, yes.” Anne smiled at Lane. “And you have some pieces too, don't you? Let me tell Wendy to go find them for you. We're anxious to get them out of here and get this place back to normal. People have been picking them up all morning.”

Anne disappeared and Lane turned to Emma. “I know I said it before, but I still marvel that you and Anne are sisters. You're so different.”

“Dad says that Mom and Anne got the French, English, and German genes. He and I are products of Nona and Poppi.”

He nodded, smiling as Anne and her assistant returned with the paintings. “Did you really buy this one?” Anne asked Emma. “Seriously? On purpose? Or did someone twist your arm?”

Emma reached for the seascape. “I bought it because I really like it.”

“Oh, Emma, you're such a sentimentalist. Well, at least you donated your money to a good cause.” Anne chuckled as she reached for the next painting.

Emma gazed at the seascape in her hands. She knew Anne was putting her down, and her sister's words stung, but she would not deny she liked this piece—even more in the daylight. “I've always believed that art, like beauty, was in the eyes of the beholder,” she said quietly.

“Yes, yes, to each his own.” Anne laughed as she handed Lane an attractive still-life painting. “Now, this guy, on the other hand, has exhibited some very fine taste in his selection of art.” Anne winked at Lane as if they were sharing a secret joke. But the expression on Lane's face was unreadable.

“That
is
a nice painting,” Emma agreed. “But I still like mine better.”

Anne frowned down at the seascape, pointing to the signature. “I don't even know who this Randolph Lawrence is, since this was dropped off when I was out, but I'm guessing it's some old dude who decided to give up his paint-by-number sets.” She giggled.

Lane cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I painted this.”

Emma stared at Lane. “You're kidding.”

“No.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “Although after hearing your sister's opinion of my talent, I might be wise to keep my mouth shut on the matter.”

“Oh, Lane!”
Anne's hand flew to her mouth. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.” She pointed at the signature. “But that's
not
your name.” She cocked her head to one side. “You're punking me, aren't you?”

“Not at all,” he said solemnly. “Randolph is my middle name. Lawrence was my father's name. I suppose I was trying to slide this painting under the radar.” He gave Emma an apologetic smile. “And if you'd like your money back, I'm perfectly glad—”

“No way!” Emma clutched the painting even tighter. “I love it and I am not giving it up.”

“Oh, Lane.” Anne put her hand on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes with a horrified expression. “I'm so sorry…and now that I look at the painting, it's really not—”