Page 68 of Playing for Keeps

Grace beamed at me, but then her expression changed.

“What?” I asked.

She hesitated, then said: “Mom called yesterday. She… she’s been in therapy for a while now. She wanted to know if you would be willing to meet.”

I just stared at her, my throat tight.

“She’s working on her stuff,” Grace added quickly. “Her therapist thinks talking could help. I told her I would pass it on.”

I didn’t respond. My jaw ached from how tightly I was holding it.

“No pressure, just think about it. That’s all,” she said, while shoving a platter into my hands. “Dining room, before this food gets cold.”

Emma’s eyes found mine when I put down the dish and drinks. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a small smile. She lightly touched my arm, which helped me feel more grounded. I told myself to just focus on the party.

Grace had outdone herself. The spread was ridiculous in the way home-cooked meals can be. There were breads, roasted vegetables, a main dish that smelled amazing, and more side dishes than I could count.

Drinks were refreshed. Plates moved like choreography.

“So, Emma,” one of Aidan’s friends said, “we hear you’re a famous writer.”

Emma smiled. “Only in very specific living rooms.”

Grace beamed. “She’s being modest. She’s brilliant. Tell them about your new book.”

Emma paused, fork in hand. “The truth is, I don’t have all of it yet. I know what the broad strokes are and how it will end, but I just need to stitch in the details. And that’s always the hardest part. But I want it to feel like Toronto in the little ways you only notice when they’re missing.”

“Like what?” Aidan asked, genuinely curious.

She smiled. “The way the streetcars screech. The smell of winter when it’s clean and mean. The way everyone apologises, not because they’re sorry but because it keeps the day going. The lake when it turns to steel.”

Grace sighed contentedly. “See? Brilliant.”

Emma ducked her head. “We’ll see,” she said as she reached for her glass of water.

Lucy leaned sideways to look at Emma around the gravy jug. “What’s your favourite book ever? And you can’t say one of your own.”

Emma put a hand on her heart as if she were offended. “Ruthless. Well, it changes all the time. Today it’s The Names. Tomorrow it’ll be Great Expectations. And by next week I’ll insist it was Emma from the start.” She leaned toward Lucy and whispered, like she was telling her a secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but I was named after her. My dad loves to read. He said he wanted his daughter to be like Austen’s Emma – strong-willed, loyal, and always trying to do the right thing for the people she loves. Even if she occasionally gets it wrong.”

“That sounds like someone I know.”

Emma glanced at me then, her green eyes soft, her smile radiant. Christ, that made me want to kiss her.

Lucy leaned forward again. “Have you read The Golden Compass? It’s my favourite. But I think I’ll love the one that you gave me even more.”

Emma’s face lit up. “The Golden Compass is brilliant. Armoured bears, brave girls. You and I, Lucy, we’re definitely starting a club.”

Lucy beamed. “Yes!”

The dinner was well on its way, with Aidan basking in birthday attention. When someone asked him for a story, he delivered, because Aidan always has one worth telling.

“So,” he said, leaning back. “A few weeks ago, a guy came into the ED. In his thirties. He looked like a man who could bench-press his truck. He was completely ashen. Said he swallowed something ‘by mistake’, but wouldn’t say what it was. X-ray came back and there it was, right in the stomach.”

“Aidan, the kids are listening,” Grace warned.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything gross or alive. It was a ring.”