I knew he had Mitch glaze over the finer details. When I asked him for specifics, he was vague, laughing it off as a ‘snag.’ I knew when he was in trouble, and whatever happened down there put him in the direct line of it. My instincts never lied.
Being in an unfamiliar place didn’t help matters much either. As much as I loved Italy, I was still settling into the newness and trying to recover from surgery. In Paris, I loafed the streets, got to know the scenery, the culture, and the people—even if that meant only to watch. But the sudden and irrevocable thread that held me closer to Brando seemed to stop me from venturing out too far.
Plus, I was still contending with the fear that I left behind in Paris.
All of these things caused me to yearn for home—a feeling so powerful that a few times I had mistaken certain streets in Milan for certain streets in Natchitoches. Nothing remotely similar about them, it was a trick of the mind to placate my heart.
I wavered back and forth in my decision.
I could surprise him. But what if I can’t leave once I get there? Two less plane rides would do him some good. But what if I can’t leave?
Just when my mind was made up not to go, my phone rang and the voice on the other end of the line surprised me.
“Scarlett?”
“Emory?”
“It is I,” he said in his French way. “I know I did not want to explore my history when you offered, but, ah, I need to do it now.”
“You want to meet old Emory Snow?”
“Oui.”
“All right,” I said, decision made. “When can you leave?”
* * *
He met me in Italy the next day and we flew commercial from there. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was coming home, especially Brando. When Louisiana started to make its way under the plane, green patchwork hemmed with bayous and waterways, I took Emory’s hand in mine. Needing as much support as he seemed to need. I hadn’t been home in over four years.
“This is the place you call home?” Emory asked.
I nodded, tears filling my eyes.
“I have never—ah, felt this way about a place. I have never had a true home, so to speak.”
I squeezed his hand. “Welcome home, Emory.”
He kissed my hand. “Welcome home,Mon Cheri.”
* * *
No one was as surprised to see me as Maggie Beautiful. Emory and I arrived on her doorstep like stray kittens, begging for some warm milk and a place to stay.
She was so thrilled that she claimed we made her head dizzy and she needed a drink. The entire time she held my hand, and we dressed up in sequins and danced like we used to do to old tunes.
Which was probably why the next day she sent me to Violet’s house with one of her dresses, a black, form-fitting, vintage Marilyn Monroe number that she took in for me. I had a pair of high heels to match. To complete the look, I gave my hair a bit of Brigitte Bardot poof and my lips a little vibrant pink lipstick for old times.
After Violet overcame her shock at seeing me on her doorstep and pulled me inside, I looked down and asked, “How do I look?”
“Like you just walked out of one of your magazine spreads.”
“You have on jeans and a t-shirt. Perhaps I should—”
“Come on,” she yanked me out of the house, dragging Paul with the other hand. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry. And today, I want to get there long before they arrive.”
Once we were in the car, I settled next to Paul to give the little boy company. Violet drove at her usual mad speed, and when we were halfway there, she adjusted her rearview mirror, setting it firmly on me.
“I have to tell you something.”
