The Real Deal. Debbi RawlinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
you brought them here instead of taking them home because…?” Emily figured she knew the answer.
“So you could wrap them. No hurry.”
“Uh, yeah, with Thanksgiving still being three weeks away.”
Ignoring Emily’s sarcasm, Pam dumped the bags on the tan leather couch and then frowned at her watch. “I hope Denise isn’t late. Mark and I have dinner reservations at the club tonight.”
“Denise is coming, too?”
“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you about getting together today?”
Sighing, Emily shook her head. Why would they? She was always here. She worked at home, spent her free time reading or cooking, only going out on a Saturday night when needed as a last-minute babysitter for her nieces and nephews. “What’s going on?”
“We’re going to discuss Thanksgiving dinner.” Pam moved to the wet bar and helped herself to a martini. She set down the bottle of gin and critically eyed Emily’s favorite baggy gray sweats. “I can’t believe you still have those things.” Her gaze moved to the fuzzy pink house slippers. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Emily glanced down. Okay, they had gotten pretty ratty over the years. “It’s not like I’m out in public.”
“But what if someone came to the door?”
“Like who?”
“Like that cute UPS guy who delivers your manuscripts.”
Emily sighed. Sad that he used to be the highlight of her week. Hell, of her life. She’d even broken down and started applying mascara when she knew he was coming. “They changed his route.”
“Hmm. Who took his place?”
“A woman.”
“Too bad. Your only prospect gone.” Pam took a sip of her martini. “You really need to get out more.”
“I like my life, thank you very much. By working at home, look how much money I save on clothes.”
“Apparently.”
Emily rolled her eyes. She loved her sister. She did, but Pam could be so irritating at times. “I think I heard a car door,” she muttered and went to the window and watched their younger sister, looking smart in a mauve silk suit and impossibly high heels, bow her tawny head in deference to the wind as she hurried up the walkway.
“Denise?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Go get Mom, will you, while I give Mark a quick ring.”
Gladly. Then she’d be left in peace again. She heard the front door open as she trudged toward the kitchen at the back of the house. It was a joke, really. Discuss Thanksgiving dinner? She knew how that would go. Just like it always did. With her doing most of the cooking.
Before Emily got to the door, Laura Carter, the matriarch of the Carter clan, entered the kitchen with her gloved hands full of fragrant pink and yellow roses.
“Are the girls here?” she asked, using the back of her wrist to push the blond bob away from her face.
“Yes.” Emily stretched on tiptoes to reach the crystal vase sitting on top of the antique oak hutch that had been passed down for five generations. “You didn’t mention they were coming.”
“Didn’t I?” She smiled. “Sorry, honey. Fill that only half full, would you?”
Emily dutifully filled the vase to specification. “Pam and Mark have dinner reservations so she’s kind of in a hurry.”
“Well, she can wait a few extra minutes.” She clipped the stems and then carefully arranged the roses to her satisfaction.
Emily leaned a hip against the counter and fondly watched her mother work. In a way, Emily was most like her. Definitely more Zen than either Pam or Denise, with a greater appreciation for long sentimental movies and heart-tugging books that kept them reading until three in the morning.
Conversely, Pam and Denise were more gregarious and ambitious, like their father. At least that’s what Emily had gleaned over the years. She’d been eight when he’d died, and although she remembered him quite vividly, at least through the eyes of a child, she relied on her mother’s memory for the nuances of his personality.
Her mother took a step back to admire her arrangement. “I should have brought in some greens.”
“You realize the girls will start hollering for us any second.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t started already,” she said, unconcerned, and moved a pink rose to the other side of the vase.
Emily chuckled. She had to give her mother credit for gumption. The trace of a Southern accent that had survived living in Indiana for the past thirty years often misled the uninformed. Beneath her petite and genteel exterior, she was a tough cookie who generally knew what she wanted. Except when it came to men. Then she flaked out. Sad, really—it was if she was still chasing the great love she’d once had with Emily’s father.
In that regard, Emily was nothing like her mother. Dating and men were a nonissue. Mostly due to lack of opportunity, but still, it wasn’t as if she laid awake at night longing for that special someone, not even the UPS guy, as cute as he was. She’d always been a bookworm in high school and could count the dates she’d had on one hand. College hadn’t produced any significant long-term romantic interludes. She’d made a couple of good male friends, but that was it. No matter, primarily she was content with her life. Really. She had her work and her books…though sometimes she missed sex. Her recent two-year dry spell was starting to get to her.
Briefly she thought about Marnie’s email. Maybe next year she’d venture out. Consider taking a cruise or a guided tour of France and Italy. She had enough money saved. Sharing the family home with her mother had its financial advantage. Laura Carter did not do well living on her own, and after divorce number three, Emily had agreed to move back into the large brick colonial to help out with the mortgage and expenses.
Two years later, they still got along great, rarely stepping on each other’s toes. Mainly, she suspected, because she spent so much time in her office and her mother was out and about most days. Ironically, or maybe tragically was more apt, at fifty-four, her mom had a more active social life than Emily did.
“I haven’t got all night, you two.” It was Pam yelling from the den. “Can we get on with this?”
Emily sighed. “Don’t be shocked, but I actually agree with her. Let’s get this over with.”
“You have a point.” She glanced at the clock. “I may still make it to bridge at Sheila’s.”
“Don’t see why not,” Emily muttered. “This shouldn’t take long.” Her mood had suddenly plummeted and she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t give a tinker’s damn that everyone but her had someplace to go tonight. She truly didn’t. Her irritation had more to do with how she knew the so-called family discussion would inevitably play out.
Oblivious to Emily’s crankiness, her mother led the way into the den, heading straight for the wet bar. Pam and Denise were sitting on the leather sofa, sipping their cocktails. Emily claimed the matching recliner and watched her mother pour herself a glass of white wine.
“I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind,” Emily said, aware that everyone turned to stare at her. She rarely drank, generally on a holiday or a special occasion, but that was it.
Sliding her feet out from the pink house slippers, she drew her legs up and curled them under her bottom, feeling a tad better just because she’d surprised them. Silly, but there it was.
Pam eyed the slippers with disdain. “I guess we know what you’ll be asking Santa for this Christmas.”
“A new sister?” Emily said sweetly.
Denise