Always the Baker, Never the Bride (33 page)

“Just dandy,” she replied, and then she turned her attention toward Fee. “Can you pull the cake, Fee? We can get the fondant over the first couple of layers, anyway.”

“You got it.”

Fee freed her hands from the dough then went to the sink to wash them.

Jackson glanced around the kitchen, and peered through the doorway to Emma’s office.

“So where are they?” he asked.

“Where’s what?”

“The roses. I heard there were quite a few of them delivered this morning.”

Emma looked up and stared at him intently. He was just about to fidget beneath her gaze when she broke it and returned her attention to the bowl before her. She grabbed the ball of dough and threw it against the floured surface of the island.

“I gave them to Lucille so she could put them out at the front desk.”

She pushed at the dough until it flattened, and then she dusted the rolling pin with flour and began to roll it out.

“Mm-hmm.” Jackson nodded. “Nice. Do we still have a baseball-themed wedding to look forward to?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Well, I can’t really speak for Callie or Danny, but it was just a momentary lapse. He got caught up in the whole nostalgia thing.”

“But you shot him down,” he stated, hoping that she had just told him that she had.

“Well. Yes. I mean, it’s been twenty years since then.”

“So the whole
nostalgia thing
; you didn’t get lost in it along with him?”

“Maybe for a minute,” she said as she rolled and rolled the dough. “But in the end, no.”

Emma pulled her hands from the fondant and let them flounder in midair above it. Jackson saw the disappointment in Emma’s green eyes, and it pinched at him.

“I showed him the sketch of his wedding cake.” She shrugged, as if she could push the memory from her shoulder and let it drop to the floor. “He couldn’t seem to wrap his brain around the idea that I could make it, that I could … do something extraordinary.”

When she looked up at him, she tried to smile, but it was lost before it ever reached her eyes. Then she shrugged and took hold of the rolling pin and started pressing the dough again.

“His loss.”

Emma glanced upward and gave him a grateful shadow of a smile.

Jackson couldn’t imagine someone missing how really spectacular Emma Travis could be, but something deep within him whispered that he was happy Danny Mahoney lacked that ability.

“Well. Carry on,” he said and turned on his heels and left the kitchen.

Emma had been hiking the Vickery Creek Trail for years. After the climb over a series of short ridges, she normally slowed her pace down the section of wooden stairs, allowing her the opportunity to read the signs along the way that told the historic story of Roswell Mill. Today, however, those signs were a blur as she flew past them, her running shoes thump-thump-thumping in her ears. She couldn’t even manage to enjoy the spectacular scenery that had kept her coming back to this trail whenever her mind needed a good cleansing.

Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of rushing river waters, rustling tree leaves, and the crisp, grassy scent tickling her nose, Emma was lost in thoughts of Jackson Drake. After nearly two hours on the trail, she’d thought of little else.

She jogged down the incline toward her parked car, then stopped to catch her breath. Several more cars had joined hers in the lot, and it wasn’t until he waved and called out her name that she recognized one of the hikers as Miguel Ramos. Holding his hand was a petite blonde with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Miguel said as they approached. “How are you, Emma?”

“Good,” she replied, and she returned the blonde’s friendly smile.

“This is my wife, Rosalie.”

“Georgiann’s daughter?” Emma clarified. “Yes.”

“It’s so great to meet you. I adore your mother.”

“She’s easy to adore,” Rosalie beamed. “I tried to meet you at Uncle Jack’s opening night party, but you were on the move that night.”

“Yes, that was quite a night.”

“It seemed like a big success.”

“I think it was.” Emma glanced at Miguel and asked him, “Do you two hike here often?”

“Rosalie does. I don’t get out here as often as I’d like.”

“There’s Mindy and Art,” his wife pointed out. “I’ll let you two chat for a few minutes while I go and say hello. It was great to meet you at last, Emma.”

“You too.”

Miguel nodded toward an open wooden bench overlooking the river, and Emma followed his lead toward it.

“How are things going for you, Emma?” he asked once they sat down.

“Just fine,” she replied, rubbing her throbbing calf. “How about you?”

When he didn’t reply, Emma looked up and found Miguel gazing at her with an understanding glimmer in his eye that, for some reason, made her want to immediately burst into tears. She fought the inclination, darting her attention out to the water before them.

“People are talking over at The Tanglewood,” he said softly. “Everyone seems to think you and Jackson are getting very close.”

Emma tapped her feet and grabbed hold of the bench seat with both hands. Shrugging, she answered, “You know how gossip is, Miguel. They’re making something out of nothing.”

Miguel nodded. “It got me to thinking how difficult it would be for anyone in that position. Getting close to Jackson isn’t an easy thing to do in recent years.”

She glanced at him for a moment, and then looked away again.

“He’s wrestling with a lot of demons since the loss of his wife.”

“Understandable,” she remarked.

“But then I guess we all have our issues to battle, don’t we?”

Emma nodded, lifting her face into the breeze. She didn’t realize quite how large the gap of silence had become until Miguel bridged it.

“Would you like me to pray for you, Emma?”

Once again, her eyes darted toward him, but this time he held her gaze.

“Prayer is a remarkable thing.”

“Oh, well, I haven’t really done much of it lately,” she told him. “I did say a prayer for Jackson recently, though.”

“Did you?”

“He just seemed to need it.”

“I understand.” Miguel touched her arm. “That’s the way you appear to me right now. Like you could use a prayer or two.”

Emma chuckled. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Miguel reached out and took her hand with a tentative smile. “I’ll start. You just chime in if you feel led.”

He waited for her response, then translated her halfhearted shrug as an agreement. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Lord Jesus, I feel compelled in this beautiful environment to thank You for Your creation. The river and the trees and the canopy of blue; it’s all so inspiring, and we thank You for the gift.”

Emma dropped her head but, instead of closing her eyes, she just focused very hard on the knotted lace of her shoe.

After several minutes, Miguel walked her to her car, rubbed her arm, and closed the door behind her without another word. Something about the stillness was attractive to her, and Emma flipped off the radio as soon as she turned over the engine, and drove home in silence. Her ears sort of ached in the silence, but she even shushed the music of her own thoughts to take in a little more of the quiet she hadn’t really known she’d been craving.

When she reached home, she parked and turned off the ignition. With no inclination to move a muscle, she sat in her car for nearly fifteen minutes. In his prayer, Miguel had spoken of God whispering comfort into her waiting ears, and Emma wondered if that might be just what was going on. Her heartbeat had slowed considerably since she’d headed off for the Vickery Creek Trail several hours prior, and she didn’t sense even a trace of that bitter anxiety that had driven her there.

“If that’s You,” she whispered, then she looked around to make sure no one saw her alone in her car, seeming to talk to herself. “Thanks.”

Emma cranked the door handle and hurried toward her front door.

Once inside, she turned away from the beckoning red blink announcing voicemail on her cell phone, which she’d purposely left behind earlier in the day. Instead, she opted for hanging up her jacket, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and an apple from the bowl on the counter. As she plopped into her chair by the window, Emma groaned and picked up the phone.

“You. Have. Four. New. Messages.”

“Hey, girl. Peter and I are going to that gallery opening I mentioned this morning. If you’re interested, give me a shout and we’ll swing by and pick you up. If not, and you’re just a big bore, I’ll see you in the morning at ten.”

A big bore was just what Emma felt like being, and she wasn’t going anywhere. She leaned back into the chair and took a bite out of her apple to prove it.

“Emma Rae, this is your mother. Call me directly, please.”

She knew that tone. Translated, it meant,
You have ignored me long enough, and I know your father has spoken to you, so you’d better call me or I’ll show up at your door unannounced and make you talk to me.

Another big bite from the Gala apple announced that she wasn’t going to be coerced into anything just then.

“Hello, Princess. Better call your mother.”

Emma chuckled, wondering if her mother was in the room holding a letter opener to her father’s throat until he made that plea on her behalf.

After the next beep, a moment of silence followed. Then a slight clearing of the throat.

“Uh. Hi.”

Emma’s hand froze, the apple just inches from her lips, her eyes wide and glazed as she waited for Jackson’s next syllable.

“I, uh … No. Never mind. Well. Actually, I wondered if you wanted to … The thing is, my buddies have season tickets. When the guy who has the seats next to theirs can’t make it to a game, well, so … I have these tickets for Sunday. I don’t know if this even interests you, but I remembered seeing you in a Falcon jersey one day at the hotel and, you know, if you want to—”

Beeep.

“What!” Emma cried, pulling the phone from her ear and staring at it. “If I want to, what? Jackson, what?”

She played it through one more time, frustrated when the message ended at the exact same spot.

“Crud.”

She pressed the seven key to erase it, and then hit number four on her speed dial, tapping her foot frantically until Jackson answered.

“Jackson Drake.”

“Hi. Jackson. It’s Emma. I got your message. Well, part of it. My voicemail cut you off halfway through.”

He made a sort of grunty noise, and Emma waited for him to follow it up.

“I didn’t know if any of it came through.”

“Oh. It did. At least as far as you talking about my Falcons jersey.”

“Right.”

“Number 2,” she told him with a sway to her head. “Matt Ryan.”

“You are a fan then.”

“Yes.”

Again, she waited. But this time, nothing. “So were you inviting me to a game?”

“If you want the ticket.”

“Would I be going with you, Jackson? Or are you offering me a ticket to go on my own?”

“I could pick you up. We could go together. Or not.”

This was fast becoming the most uncomfortable telephone conversation of Emma’s life, and she dropped her head backward and closed her eyes.

“Well, here’s a thought,” she said. “Why don’t you decide about that and get back to me. Good-bye, Jackson.”