Page 55 of The Emma Special

In the few minutes it took to return to the golf clubhouse restaurant, Emma put herself back together on the outside. Inside? A jungle of emotions that threatened to block out the sun. Rather than hack at the vines with a machete until she keeled over, Emma built a fortress around it.

Katie brought her through the employee entrance in the back of the building and sat her at a small table near the kitchen. “Nobody will bother you here. Get out a book, I’ll bring you a drink, and you’ll look like a wife blissfully awaiting her husband to finish all eighteen holes.”

“Katie, I’m afraid you’re going to get in trouble. Are you allowed to bring in guests?”

“I’ll worry about me.” Katie pulled Emma into a tight hug. “And today, I’ll worry about you. Your job is to sit here, read a book, and eat the food that’s brought to you.”

Emma dutifully sat in the cream striped upholstered chair with an oval back. The set of four matching chairs probably cost more than she’d made in one month of work.

As promised, food was brought, and Emma ate. A simple house salad—better than anything she’d ever tasted. Why did expensive spinach have to taste so much better? A warm roll with melting butter almost washed away all of her troubles. Until she finished the last bite.

Then, with a sneaky smile, Katie dropped off a massive dessert plate. “For you today, the chef has prepared a chocolate marquise with vanilla chantilly cream, luxardo cherry, and cherry compote.”

Emma gasped at the feast. “Katie, I can’t eat all of this.”

“Enjoy.”

The plate was a picture of culinary extravagance and Emma snuck out her phone to snap a discreet photo. Before she’d taken her second mouth-watering bite of rich chocolate, the device buzzed with a call from her mom.

Emma stared at the screen until the call went through to voicemail then turned it off. There was absolutely no way she could hold her composure if she tried to talk to Mom right now. Why was she calling anyway? She wouldn’t be able to answer if she were at work.

Even with another mouthful of cherry sweetened chocolate, Emma couldn’t push the scrambled thoughts of work aside. What was she going to do? She would need to increase her exposure for the parties. Walk more dogs. Clean more houses. Maybe she could find something steady with a local shop. Oh! Maybe this place needed a dishwasher. She could wash dishes. Probably.

Leave it to her, she’d mess that up too.

“Emma Glass? What a wonderful surprise to see you here.”

Emma blinked up into the expressive face of Sharon Moore.

Wrapping a pleasant smile over her exhausted self, Emma stood to greet the older woman. “Hi, Mrs. Moore.”

“Call me Sharon. May I join you?” Without any fanfare, Sharon pulled out the chair opposite Emma and waved her hand for Emma to sit. “Don’t get up. I’m so glad to run into you. I was about to have lunch all by myself, but this will be much nicer. Are you meeting someone? My boys are preoccupied today.”

Emma curled in her shoulders. “I’m—I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

Sharon’s countenance shifted with a snap. Soft and friendly disappeared. Her spine lengthened and she leaned forward, eyes wide. “Oh no. What in the world has happened?”

Emma closed her mouth.

Sharon signaled a waiter halfway across the room. When the young man arrived, Sharon gestured to Emma’s plate. “May I have what she’s having, please? And a lemon tea for us both.”

“Your usual table is ready for you by the window, ma’am.”

“I’m sitting with my friend Emma. Thank you, Wayne.”

Sharon waited until the man was out of earshot and cocked her head to the side—the movement so much like James when he was thinking. “Something has happened.”

Emma nodded just the tiniest bit while drawing in a fortifying breath. The whipped cream dolloped on the side of her plate had lost its stiff peak. Emma tapped the edge with one tine of her fork, wondering how long she’d be subjected to this torture.

Suddenly, Sharon’s warm hand rested on her forearm. “It’s gonna be okay, honey. Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Emma found the courage to look into Sharon’s inviting eyes. “I messed up—and I’m no longer employed with your husband’s firm, and I lost them a fortune.” By the end of her confession, Emma’s voice was barely a whisper.

Sharon’s hand added pressure and then patted a couple times before she sat up straight. “Ah, that is terrible news.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s go shopping.”