Chapter 11
M arcus
I give Emma a dozen chances to come clean for the rest of our time on the beach and as we drive back to her grandparents’ house, but she says nothing about the news she received.
Or at least I’m hoping she received; it’s possible Clara Metz didn’t take the bait, though the realtor I sent to talk to her this morning said Emma’s landlady definitely seemed intrigued.
But no.
My little redhead looked upset when she got off the phone—far more than warranted by the brief separation from her cats.
I feel bad about causing her distress, but I see no other choice.
I have to get Emma to move in with me, and what better way than getting her to move, period?
Besides, even if I hadn’t sent the realtor to enlighten Emma’s landlady as to the rising property values in her neighborhood, Metz would’ve caught on eventually and told Emma to move out so she could spruce up the place and take advantage of the seller’s market.
I’m merely expediting the inevitable.
The idea occurred to me this morning, while Emma slept, and I wasted no time implementing it.
When I asked her to move in with me at JFK, I told her she could keep her studio if she wanted, but I’ve since changed my mind.
Not only does my kitten need a major push to overcome her hesitations about us, but once I actually get her into my place, I don’t want her to be able to leave on a whim.
So this is the strategy I’ve settled on: get a realtor to speak to Clara Metz and encourage her to put the townhouse up for sale, so Emma would have no choice but to move.
If need be, I can go further and actually buy the townhouse myself, but this is better…
subtler. I don’t want Emma to discover my involvement in this—just as I don’t want her to know about the private investigator I hired to get me all the information on her, including her flight number.
It’s best if she remains in the dark on this.
It would scare her to realize the lengths to which I’d go to make her mine.
* * *
When we get back to the house, we shower off the sand and change. Since we still have a half hour before dinner, I’m tempted to grab Emma for a quickie, but she slips out of the room to help her grandmother before I get the chance.
I decide to use the time to fire off a few more work emails instead—during my shower, I had some thoughts on how we can take advantage of tariff-induced stock market volatility—and by the time I’m done, it’s five o’clock and the table in the dining room is all set and ready.
There is a plump, golden-skinned turkey laid out on a silver serving dish, and about a million sides surrounding it, each more delicious-smelling than the next.
Inhaling appreciatively, I tell Mary how excited I am to try everything, and Emma beams at me as her grandmother flushes with pleasure and her grandfather puffs up with pride—probably because he’d had the good sense to choose such a great wife way back when.
We sit down to eat, and as the meal progresses, I realize that this Thanksgiving dinner is the kind I’ve seen on TV but have never experienced myself.
Everything about it, from the homemade food to the genuine warmth between Emma and her grandparents, makes me feel like I’ve been dropped into a Hallmark movie.
Each recipe seems to have a story behind it, with many having been passed on to Emma’s grandmother by her grandmother, and the conversation at the table revolves around that, as well as the latest happenings in Emma’s and her grandparents’ lives.
It’s nothing like the tense, awkward holiday meals during my childhood—on the few rare occasions when my mother was sober enough to remember what time of the year it was and had enough cash to buy Chinese takeout, that is.
As if picking up on my bitter memories, Mary sets down her fork and turns her attention to me. “Marcus, you mentioned that your parents passed away when you were young,” she says, her gaze warmly sympathetic on my face. “How old were you when that happened?”
“My father died when I was two, and my mother passed away when I was eighteen,” I say with practiced casualness, even as my chest tightens unpleasantly. “Liver disease.”
Ted pauses with a spoonful of cranberry sauce halfway to his plate. “Both of them?”
“No, just my mother. My father was killed in a fight.” A prison fight, to be exact, but they don’t need to know that.
This is already more than I’ve disclosed to anyone in years—well, anyone except Emma.
I’d felt compelled to share the whole ugly truth with her, and now it seems like the same impulse is at play with her grandparents.
Some irrational, illogical part of me wants these kind, genuine people to know all the dark, fucked-up parts of me…. to know and to like me anyway. To let me be a part of their warm, tight-knit family despite the cesspool from which I’ve come.
Disgusted with the pathetic urge, I open my mouth to change the topic, but Mary is not done. “So how did you manage?” she asks me softly. “How did you get through college entirely on your own?”
Shrugging, I spear a piece of turkey with my fork.
“Same as most students: with scholarships, loans, and part-time work.” Lots of part-time work—so much that my total work hours exceeded two full-time jobs during some weeks.
I don’t say that, though, as Emma’s grandparents already look concerned for the college-aged me.
“Most students have family they can rely on for incidental expenses and such,” Ted says, frowning. “It must’ve been incredibly hard, not having that safety net. Did you graduate with a lot of debt, like our Emma? She wouldn’t take a penny from us after high school, either.”
I glance over at her, and she looks away, her face reddening as if from embarrassment. Is this part of her money hang-ups?
Does she not want people to know about her student loans?
“I had some debt, yes,” I tell Ted. Very little and nothing I didn’t manage to pay off within a month of graduation, thanks to the success of my early investments, but I keep my mouth shut about that as well.
I don’t want my kitten to feel like her strained finances are something she needs to hide.
Mary must sense her granddaughter’s discomfort, because she smiles and says, “Well, you’re clearly a long way off from those days, so all is well that ends well.” Reaching across the table, she picks up one of the dishes and looks around. “More stuffing?”
I gladly accept, and the conversation returns to lighter topics. Ted starts telling me all about Emma as a baby, which causes her to laugh and blush furiously, and Mary keeps urging everyone to try this dish and that, to have an extra serving here and another bite there.
My pants won’t button tomorrow, but it’s totally worth it to see the smile on the older woman’s face each time I accept the offering and shower her with praise.
We’re almost done with dessert—a made-from-scratch pumpkin pie—when Ted innocently steps on a landmine.
He asks when exactly we’re planning to have Emma move in with me.
She stiffens right away and shoots me a Death Star glare, her hand squeezing my knee in a silent warning. I know what she wants—for me to stay quiet while she spouts off some bullshit about how we’re not sure yet, blah, blah, blah—but I’m not about to let this opportunity slide.
“By the end of next week,” I say before she can get a word in. “We’ll start packing up Emma’s place as soon as we get back to New York.”
“Oh, that’s so wonderful!” Mary’s smile is brighter than a solar flare. “The sooner, the better, am I right?”
“That’s right.” I grin, ignoring Emma’s fingers digging into my leg under the table. “I can’t wait to have her with me all the time.”
Her grandparents look like cats lapping at a saucer of cream, while Emma’s hand on my leg turns into a vicious claw and her narrowed gaze tells me she’d like to murder me. Slowly. After first roasting me over a campfire, marshmallow-style.
“There are still a number of logistics we need to straighten out,” she says through clenched teeth. “So I don’t think next week would work.”
I give her my most innocent look. “Are you talking about movers? Because I told you, I’ll take care of that. Besides, you don’t need to bring any of your furniture; my place has everything we need.”
“Emma, sweetheart…” Mary lays a gentle hand on her granddaughter’s forearm.
“You don’t have to be afraid of this. I know change is uncomfortable for you, but this is the good kind…
the moving-forward kind. Your grandfather and I thought we were close when we were dating, but it was nothing compared to how we felt once we got married and started living together.
This is a risk for you, I know, but it’s one you can’t avoid.
Not if you want to build a life together. ”
As she speaks, Emma’s face goes from pink to white to a blotchy shade in-between. “Grandma, please. We’re not—”
“Mary, leave the poor girl alone,” Ted cuts in. “You’re embarrassing her in front of Marcus, can’t you see? They’re adults; I’m sure they’ll figure everything out on their own.”
“We will,” I say, smiling at the elderly couple. Gathering Emma’s stiff hand into my palm, I move our joined hands from my leg to the empty spot between our plates. “I promise you, we’ll figure it all out.”
And ignoring the tension in Emma’s arm, I lift our clasped hands and press a kiss to her tightly clenched knuckles.