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“My uncle is good at reading stories,” I read out loud. “Thanks, peanut. This is awesome.”
“It said ‘mom,’ but I changed it.”
“I see.” I keep reading. “My uncle likes to cook pizza. That’s true, I do.”
Emerson smiles proudly and I read the next line.
“My uncle always says shit?” I look up at her, my eyes wide.
She shrugs. “You do, Uncle Luca.”
In my head, I’m thinking shit right now. Irony.
“My uncle is sixty-five years old?” I laugh and Emerson shrugs again.
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“That’s old.”
I shake my head and read on.
“During the day my uncle plays hockey.”
Emerson smiles proudly, knowing she got that one right.
“My uncle is pretty because he has big muscles.”
She spelled it ‘musels,’ which makes me grin.
“This is one of the best things anyone’s ever given me,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yeah. This picture you drew of us is awesome. I’m gonna hang this up in my locker.”
Emerson’s smile is so proud. I’m glad I was able to be here today since I’m not out of town for a game.
As we eat our muffins, I think of something. I stuff my empty muffin wrapper into my empty coffee cup as Emerson’s finishing and say, “I’ve got an idea, peanut.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you look at the questions and tell me what you would have put down for your mom?” I glance at the paper and read the first line. “What was your mom good at?”
Em’s eyes soften as she considers my question. “Hide and go seek. And volleyball.”
“She was good at volleyball; I remember watching her play when she was in college.”
“You do?”
“Yep. I may even have some pictures of her from back then.”
“And cakes. She made me a bunny cake with whiskers.”
Emerson was four-and-a-half when Danielle died. She doesn’t have as many memories as the other two kids, and there are even fewer of Matt. It was hard for all of us to talk about them at first, but the more we listened to our counselors and did it anyway, the easier it became.
And now, I think it’s a good thing that we talk about them often. But as Emerson answers questions about Danielle, I feel a pang of sadness. She’ll never have a mom here to talk to her about periods and makeup and nail polish.
There’s only me. And I’m pretty sure I’ll need regular reminders like the one Henry just gave me that I’m enough.Chapter NineAbbyThere’s someone standing over me. I can’t tell who, though, because the figure is blurry. I blink my eyes a couple times and Anthony comes into clear focus.
“Rise and shine,” he says, sounding amused. “Your 1:00 p.m. meeting starts in exactly five minutes.”
“What?” I sit up on the couch in the corner of my office and look around, then at Anthony. “Was I asleep?”
“You’ve been out for forty-five minutes or so.”
I stand up, smoothing my hands over my hair. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Anthony shrugs. “I figured you needed the rest. I brought your lunch in at noon and when I came in at 12:15, you still hadn’t touched it and you were sacked out here.”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands, slowly drawing them down.
This is embarrassing. I’ve never fallen asleep at work, even during the latest of nights at my desk. I don’t even remember coming over to the couch.
“I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee brewing,” Anthony says. “You’ll want to go into the bathroom and wipe the makeup out from under your eyes, though.”
I shake my head as he leaves my office. This couldn’t get much worse. I can only imagine what I looked like sprawled out on the leather sofa in my suit. At least Anthony was the only one who saw me.
When I walk into my office’s en suite bathroom, I flip on the light switch and cringe. I have mascara smudged under my eyes and my hair is a disaster. And is that…drool?
I wash my face and pat it dry, then put on some fresh makeup. After I run my hands through my hair, I wrap it into a neat bun at the nape of my neck and reapply some lipstick. When I survey my reflection, I decide it’s much better than the couch monster looking back at me before.
Anthony walks in with a steaming mug of coffee and sets it on my desk.
“Good as new,” he says brightly. “Ready for me to bring in your one o’clock?”
“Please. And Anthony…thanks.”
“No problem.”
I take a sip of coffee and put on my game face. The team of designers I’m meeting with are full of energy, and they launch right into their presentation about their work.
I’m considering adding their line to Cypress Lane, and while I could have my core staffers in here, too, I like to meet with prospective designers one on one at first. I’ve got a good feeling about this line of rustic-inspired furniture, so everyone on my team will be present at the next meeting so I can get some extra input.
