George was about to walk off when the door cracked open, and Emma, of all people, poked her head out, looking like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. It was like his imagination had conjured her up from nowhere. He’d been thinking about her, and poof, there she was, beautiful and vibrant and raising her eyebrow at him, like he was the intruder.
“I’m having lunch with Betty.” She opened the door wider so he could come in, though it was clear she was reluctant to do so.
When he saw the piles of clothes on the couch, everything started to come together. “You’re giving her a makeover?” he whispered. “She’s on a fixed income, and please tell me she did not become one of your projects.”
He expected Emma to look guilty and irritated at being caught. But her face turned bright red, and she stepped right up to him, in all her five-foot-nothing frame. “You stop that right now.” She was trembling with anger, and she swallowed and glanced toward Betty’s bedroom. “She’s not a project to me. Not even a little bit. You think you know everything about me, but all you see lately are the mistakes I’ve made. I get it. I’ve made a lot of them. Stop judging me for being here. She’s my friend, too.”
Betty stepped out from the hallway and raised her hand. “Let me stop you right there since I can hear you. I like you both, but you have this strange habit of dragging me into your arguments, my dears.”
“Sorry, Betty,” Emma said meekly.
George ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, too. I actually came to check on your mother. Is that okay?”
Betty nodded. “Of course. And please stay for lunch.”
George, feeling like an idiot, picked up his medical bag and escaped to the bedroom. From the sound of it, Emma and Betty went back to sorting clothes, discussing the potential of each item and laughing together as if he’d never come.
Mrs. Bates had been asleep, but she opened her eyes and turned to look at George when he touched her shoulder. He talked softly to her while he checked her over. Betty took such good care of her that he didn’t have to worry about bedsores or hygiene, though she was spending more and more of her time sleeping these days.
Emma laughed from the other room, and Mrs. Bates smiled. “Did you meet Emma?” she asked. “Such a nice girl. Burns everything she cooks, but she’s found some pretty things for my Betty to wear.”
“Emma’s here a lot?”
“More lately. It’s nice to hear Betty laugh again.” She sat up and took a sip of water with George’s assistance and then sighed and her eyes drifted shut.
He sat, trying to think, trying to figure Emma out. He did judge her too easily, but it was hard not to when he was still being bombarded with texts from Harriet with invitations to get together. He’d politely turned her down each time, but the woman was persistent, and he didn’t have it in him to tell her off once and for all. If she texted hello, he texted back. But Emma was another story. He wanted to know why she hadn’t put a stop to it like he’d asked.
From the other room, he could hear their conversation.
“I love this shirt,” Emma said. “It was missing a button but I found a perfect match in my button bag.”
Betty made a noise of agreement. “Buttons are so fun to collect. They’re practical and they don’t take up space, but I just like looking at them and running them through my hands. Is that silly?”
“Not silly at all. My mother had a button collection, and Granny found me playing with it when I was ten. I thought I was in trouble, but she gave me the whole bag. I’ve been collecting buttons ever since.”
George had never heard that story. Emma rarely ever talked about the loss of her parents. It also occurred to him if she was replacing buttons on shirts, these items she’d found were not from her normal boutique, high-end places. And how did Mrs. Bates know Emma burned everything?
“The pizza!” Emma squeaked.
George came out of the bedroom, just in time to see Emma fanning the pizza before pulling it out of the oven.
“Oh, you’re just a little bit crispy,” she whispered to it. “Just a little brown.”
He and Betty exchanged glances and Emma caught them. “I checked it when the timer went off, but it wasn’t ready yet.”
“It looks delicious,” Betty assured her.
The three sat at the table to eat, and for a few minutes, there was no need to talk as they sliced it up and divided the pieces.
Betty spoke first. “I’ll just say in Emma’s defense, I was the one who asked if she’d give me a closet consult. I wore her down with my begging, I’m afraid. It’s not like I had anything to pay her with.”
Emma smiled at her fondly. “I beg to differ. Thanks to your baking lessons, I can make granddad’s favorite cookies.”
George rested his chin on his hand. It was a good performance, but he still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a pet project for her, benevolent as it may be.
“Harriet asked me out to dinner,” he said, turning his water glass to catch the light from the tiny kitchen window.
