Chapter 47 Emory
FORTY-SEVEN
EMORY
The night passed with dreams so strange the morning light couldn’t burn off the delirium.
Emory’s subconscious conjured things that would’ve made Dali envious; not nightmarish but disturbing in a hypnogogic way.
With Amelia snuggled against his chest and her breaths coming long and slow, the uneasiness drained away.
Emory brushed aside a fall of hair, kissed her cheek, and went back to sleep.
They woke for good an hour later. As Amelia showered, Emory packed. The soft-sided suitcase lay open on the bed, his clothes stacked or wrapped in taut bundles, their complementary shapes jigsawed for efficiency.
You could tell a lot about someone by their luggage. When he traveled, Emory made a game of matching suitcases to the assholes crowding baggage claim. Next to the conveyor belt, they threw javelin elbows to snap up monstrously large or hideously patterned suitcases.
Emory would stake out some space in the back and wait as his bag—solid black with a grey tag—puttered along. He’d snag it when convenient and be on his way. What did that say about him? Nothing of consequence and that was the point.
He gave Amelia his good bag, a large oxblood weekender that traveled by car and car alone. She packed in under twenty minutes, everything she’d amassed there fitting in a bag meant for weekend get-aways.
Emory found that deeply confronting. It wasn’t the statement of his innocuous black suitcase looming next to hers, but the punishing sense that he’d failed her.
They weren’t zipping up the coast to breathe in the salt breeze and make love by moonlight. They weren’t driving into pine-swaddled mountains or a sun-washed vineyard for a weekend of romance. She deserved the world, and he gave her far less, just a leather bag for their somber journey.
Amelia took that bag without complaint. In the room across the hall, she carefully folded each garment and placed it inside with the same quiet faith she’d placed in him.
And what did that say about her?
Everything he already knew. Everything he loved.
In the kitchen, Liam prepared breakfast with the stubborn notion that Emory should brief their plans to Corey, Pete, and Zulu over a hearty meal.
Liam served up thick slices of garden tomatoes, crispy bacon, and a steaming pile of scrambled eggs.
Mirabelle made blueberry muffins that ballooned over their baking cups, the sugar granules on top sparkling like fresh snow.
They gathered around the dining room table and, as the others ate, Emory detailed the plans.
Corey, Zulu, and Pete took it well but read the tea leaves.
It wasn’t tidying up loose ends for a cold spell but weatherproofing for a hard freeze.
Weeks would turn to months. Summer would collapse into autumn that perished with winter.
Emory reached for Amelia’s hand resting beside her teacup.
In the rosy light, her profile was serene and stunning.
She’d need warmer clothes. Sweaters and flannels.
Boots, socks, jackets, scarves. She could have everything she wanted, but one day her vessel would run dry, emptied of the grace she’d given him.
She’d want the things she already owned or perhaps just the chance to tidy up her own loose ends.
At the far end of the table, the sun streamed through the blinds and laid slatted shadows over Jack’s face with carceral effect.
He hadn’t spoken much, just a few grunts of agreement as he picked at his breakfast. Earlier, as bacon sizzled in the frying pan, he jumped with a startle at a pop of grease.
It wasn’t like him to be spooked by paper tigers.
After breakfast, Corey headed for Vegas to unseat Disco. Zulu and Pete returned to LA and would join Emory and Amelia in a week. The rest of them rounded up the last of their belongings.
Where Emory treated his room at Liam’s like a billet, Mirabelle had nested in hers with framed photographs and personal mementos. She packed with frazzled emotion as if being evicted from her sanctum. Amelia helped where she could while Emory hauled their bags to the garage.
Afterwards, he joined Liam in the basement lounge to wait for the others. By day, the space lost its saturnine charm. Purged of celebration, it stank of stale smoke and spilt beer. He and Liam settled across from one another at the oblong table typically reserved for holding court.
“It was nice having everyone at breakfast this morning,” Liam said and reached for a heavy-bottomed ashtray. “Don’t you think it was nice?”
“Very,” Emory agreed, though he didn’t find it odd that they’d shared a meal or spoke freely, sometimes meandering off-topic and ripping with laughter. Families did that every day. The only bizarre thing there was treating it like a novelty.
Liam lit the end of a cigarette and savored the first drag with eyes lightly shut and a hand resting on his belly. He would’ve dozed off, a perfectly good cigarette reduced to cinders between his fingers. He’s getting older, Emory observed for perhaps the first time.
“What the hell are you gonna do here all alone?” he asked, more pleading than curious.
Liam opened his eyes and ashed his cigarette. “I’ll be fine. It’s not exactly a shithole.”
With a chameleon quality, Liam looked less frail than he had a mere moment ago.
Emory suspected he’d only ever catch glimpses of Liam’s helplessness.
If pride was a boulder, then time was the wind.
When a man reached old age, time should’ve eroded pride to just a pebble in his palm, a bit of dignity to take into death.
Time hadn’t touched Liam’s pride, only made it more onerous for his aging bones to carry.
“I came across a busted vase in the kitchen trash,” Liam said wryly with smoke issuing from his lips. “Know anything about that?”
“I lost my head,” Emory admitted. “I’m sorry.”
Liam chuckled. “I think I started it.”
“I think you did too.”
“A lesson for us both then. Keep our heads.”
Liam’s residual smile evaporated as he examined Emory. The attention unnerved. Did he notice something Emory couldn’t see in himself, something malignant spreading uncontrolled? “Your soul is wrecked. Just like mine.” He almost asked, but Liam put out his cigarette and pushed the ashtray aside.
“Well, my boy, shall we leave it on the table?”
Emory nodded. “Seems fair.”
Only Liam ever used that phrase. It’d sound too much like a cheap imitation coming from anyone else. “Leave it on the table” meant no question was off limits and Liam expected no bullshit either.
“Do you regret this?” he asked and tipped his head to their surroundings but kept discerning eyes on Emory as if the truth might sneak by when he wasn’t looking. “I think you must.”
“I don’t regret the past,” Emory answered honestly. “I just want a better future.”
“Does Amelia know about the deal we made?”
“She does. I think she’s afraid it’s too good to be true.”
“Maybe it is,” Liam ventured carefully, as if minding bubbles liable to burst.
Heat spread at the back of Emory’s neck, and his fingers curled beneath the table. Then why dangle the fucking carrot?
“It’s not.”
Patience waning, Emory bit his tongue to clip the rest. Keep your head. Liam’s gaze flicked over Emory, his musings transparent. “This world doesn’t coddle idealists,” the look said.
“I only meant our darkest days are ahead of us, not behind.”
Emory had no response. The hackneyed statement didn’t need his commentary—he’d heard that fatalist drivel before—so he pressed his lips together and gave a shallow nod.
The door at the top of the stairs opened with what sounded like a struggle. Someone slapped the doorknob and fumbled with something heavy that clomped down each step. Ka-plunk, ka-plunk, ka-plunk, it went and left a chorus of giggles in its wake.
With his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, Jack wheeled Mirabelle’s large suitcase across the room. The girls followed with Mirabelle’s other bags, each more bloated than two months ago when they first arrived at Liam’s.
What did Mirabelle’s luggage say about her? That she could tolerate living out of suitcases better than most and had gained expertise in a nomadic existence. It cost her some shine, though. She sparkled less, her smile as wide as ever but her eyes sullen.
Liam refused to see them off in the garage, so they each took their turn saying goodbye and needling him with final appeals to leave with them. Graciously, he refused. After Jack and Mirabelle left for the garage, Liam thrust his hand in Emory’s with a business-like shake.
“We’ll be in touch.”
“If you need anything,” Emory said, “I want you to call.”
Liam rolled his eyes. “Quit fussing. I’ll be fine.”
As with Mirabelle, he reserved his affection for Amelia and pulled her into a tight hug.
“You take care, love.” Liam rested his hands on her shoulders and motioned to Emory. “Keep him in line. We’ll see each other again very soon.”
“I hope so,” Amelia said and took Emory’s hand.
He led the way along the bar where sorrows had been drowned and triumphs toasted. With a twinge of nostalgia, Emory passed the pool table in the back. God only knew how many nights he spent sinking stripes into the pockets as he and Jack pondered their existence.
Emory reached the heavy door at the back of the room, but Amelia hesitated at the threshold. Her grip on his hand tightened, and they started down the concrete corridor. The musty air was cool and dry, and the amber light struggled to fill the space.
“There aren’t any spiders in here,” Emory assured, half a joke, but he couldn’t promise that scorpions or other critters hadn’t wandered in seeking reprieve from the heat.
Amelia squeezed his hand. “It’s not the spiders I’m scared of.”
She didn’t elaborate. With her head down, the dark hid her face but couldn’t obscure the worry lacing her voice. Emory almost asked what she feared, but the question seemed both trite and obvious. Before he could reframe it, they reached the garage.
Emory squinted against the fluorescent lights. Liam kept the space free of clutter. Carved into a slope at the back of the house, it functioned as a staging area where Moriarty men could covertly come and go.
Jack crammed his and Mirabelle’s suitcases into the trunk of his car. Shapes mismatched, they didn’t quite fit. Jack forced the problem suitcase in place with a violent kick and slammed the trunk shut. With worried eyes, Amelia peered up at Emory, and the color drained from her cheeks.
“I know,” he whispered then approached Mirabelle. She returned the hug he gave her with the stilted rigidity he knew to be fear.
“I love you,” Emory said and rested his chin atop her head. “If you need me, call. Day or night, I’ll come running.”
“I know you will,” she laughed, nervous and tinny, and rolled to her toes to kiss his cheek. “I love you too.”
Amelia spirited Mirabelle to the corner where they could speak in private. Emory turned to Jack and issued a warning.
“Remember what I said.”
Jack stared reproachfully, as if Emory had fleeced him of joy. Poor Jack, swindled in a snake-oil scheme. Never his fault. No, not him.
“Care to clarify?”
“If my sister isn’t being treated right, I’m coming to get her. There will be no more of this.”
Emory gestured to the trunk and the suitcases forcefully wedged inside. With baleful insolence, Jack snickered at the suggestion.
“I would never hurt her.”
“You gonna stay dry then?”
“As a desert,” Jack said with a wink, but his face registered maudlin hurt.
Emory couldn’t smell the boggy peat of scotch or barrel smoke of whiskey on his breath, but, even stone sober, the drink had its reach. He edged closer, feeling as though they teetered on the knife’s edge of a breakthrough. One misstep could gut them both.
“I need you to take care of yourself.”
“I won’t let you down, boss.”
“I’m not talking about my deputy, Jack. I’m talking about my best friend.”
Jack stared at the floor between them, his hair hanging limp around his sallow face. He’d stopped greasing it back, and untamed growth sprouted in the hard part.
“I’m fine.” Jack popped his neck and stretched his arms overhead. He glared at Amelia, who sounded an alarm to Mirabelle in hushed but urgent tones. “We’ll be fine. Back to normal soon enough.”
“Normal,” Emory repeated, though the concept was lost to them, or perhaps they’d never known it at all.
Jack dug the keys from his pocket and flashed an ephemeral smile. “Well, see you on the other side, I guess.”
Emory didn’t like the finality of the statement or what it might suggest.
“You’ll see me soon,” he corrected but didn’t exactly know how long that might be.
The arrangement would surely accelerate what had already started; the two of them pulling apart in different directions. Like a rubber band stretched to its limit, sooner or later, it’d snap.
With no love lost, Amelia didn’t say goodbye to Jack. It wouldn’t have mattered. Jack climbed into his car, and Mirabelle did the same.
Emory started down the long drive from Liam’s estate and set a meandering pace through the neighborhood of colossal mansions that’d always struck him as nonsensical and gaudy.
I’m going home, he thought with a smile touching his lips. His elbow sunk into the center console, and he rested his hand on Amelia’s thigh. She shifted nearer, her cheek nuzzled against his bicep and her free hand caressing his forearm.
“What did you tell Miri back there?” he asked.
Amelia stirred against him. God, how quickly he’d come to know her body, the subtle movements that telegraphed her needs.
She’d crawl into his lap there in the car if she could and rest her head against his shoulder.
Instead, she craned her neck to kiss his jaw, the playful affection masking her palpable unease.
“I told her what I’m afraid of.”
At the neighborhood’s gated entrance, Emory turned left onto the two-lane road winding toward the valley.
“Well, are you gonna tell me too?” he laughed and slinked his arm across her shoulders.
He stroked her hair and counted her sharp breaths, three and then four. He knew her mind too, the heaviness she carried with secrets she’d rather not keep.
“I think you already know,” Amelia said.
Emory followed her eyes to the rearview mirror. In the reflection, he watched Jack’s car creep down the road in the opposite direction and disappear around a shadowed bend.
“I think I do too.”