Chapter 6
Miles
Idropped Emma off at the house to take a nap and circled my way back to Celtic Knot. Now, Ryan's giving me his CEO interrogation stare across Celtic Knot's table. "You know what's going on with Emma. I can tell. What is it?"
I take a deliberately slow sip of the Merlot I'm supposed to be reviewing. "She's busy. Big caseload."
"Bullshit." Ryan leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Full SEAL mode. "She hung up on me the other day—said she was in a supply closet but I clearly saw a toilet in the background."
Brennen slumps in his chair across from us, looking like someone killed his dog. "She dumped my competition wine all over a table! A two-hundred-dollar bottle, Miles. She didn't even taste it. Just swished it around and said it was 'wine-y.'"
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. "Wine-y isn't a descriptor?"
"NO." Brennen drops his head into his hands. "And then she ran away. At my exhibition. In front of distributors. What am I supposed to think?"
"That your sister had a rough day?"
"A rough day? Miles, she called the wine 'grapey.' GRAPEY."
Ryan's still studying me like I'm a hostile witness. "You're deflecting. You do that when you're protecting someone."
"I'm drinking wine. That's not deflecting."
"It's definitely deflecting."
Sophie appears from the back room carrying a tray of wine glasses, Alex trailing behind her with his ever-present clipboard. They're mid-conversation, but Alex's voice carries.
"—sick women get weird about wine," Alex says casually, checking something on his clipboard. "That's probably why Emma won't taste anything."
He keeps walking like he didn't just drop a bomb.
Three men freeze.
Ryan straightens in his chair. "What?"
Brennen's head snaps up. "Sick?"
I set down my wine glass very carefully.
Sophie stops, realizes what Alex said, and shoots him a look that could kill. "Alex."
"What?" He glances up from his clipboard, then at the three of us staring at him. "Oh. Was that supposed to be a secret?"
"Very much a secret," Sophie says dryly.
Ryan stands. "Is Emma sick?"
Brennen's on his feet too, panic written all over his face. "Like seriously sick? Why didn't she tell us? Is it bad? How bad is it?"
"Guys—" Sophie starts.
"She looked pale at the exhibition," Ryan continues, his mind clearly racing through worst-case scenarios. "And exhausted. She's been exhausted for weeks."
"She wouldn't return my calls!" Brennen's voice rises. "I thought she was avoiding me about the vote, but what if she's avoiding us because she's sick? What if it's really bad? Oh god, what if—"
"Brennen." I stand, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe."
"Don't tell me to breathe! My sister might be dying!"
"She's not dying."
"How do you know?" Ryan turns his interrogation stare on me. Full intensity. "You said you'd tell me if something was wrong. Is Emma sick?"
Three pairs of eyes lock on me. Ryan's suspicious. Brennen's panicked. Alex looks mildly guilty for starting this.
I choose my words carefully. "Maybe you should ask her directly."
"That's not an answer," Ryan says.
"It's the only answer I'm giving."
Ryan studies me for a long moment. Then: "You know something."
"I know Emma's stressed and overworked. I know she's carrying too much on her plate. I know she's dealing with major decisions about her practice and Celtic Knot and probably a dozen other things she hasn't told either of you about."
All of which is true. Just not the complete truth.
Brennen sinks back into his chair. "But she's okay? Like, not sick-sick?"
"She's fine," I say firmly. Which is also true. Pregnant isn't sick. "She's just going through something and needs space to process it all."
"Space," Ryan repeats, not buying it.
"Yes. Space. Which means not interrogating her husband in a winery."
Sophie steps in, bless her. "Miles is right. Emma will talk to you when she's ready. Pressuring her won't help."
"But the vote—" Brennen starts.
"Will happen when it happens," Alex finishes. "Trust your sister. She'll make the right decision."
Ryan and Brennen exchange a look—some silent brother communication I'm not privy to. Finally, Ryan nods.
"Fine," Ryan says. "But if something's seriously wrong—"
"I'll tell you," I promise. "When it's time."
Ryan claps me on the shoulder. "Take care of her."
"Always."
They finally disperse—Brennen to check the fermentation tanks, Ryan to take a business call. I'm left with Sophie and Alex, who both look at me with knowing expressions.
"So," Sophie says carefully. "How far along is she?"
I nearly drop my wine glass. "What?"
"Emma. How far along?"
"I don't—she hasn't—" I stop, realizing denial is pointless with Sophie. "How did you know?"
"I’m a girl. We know things. Besides, I caught her eating pickles behind my ficus earlier. While avoiding wine tasting. At a wine exhibition." Sophie smiles. "Plus, she's been dumping wine in my plants for weeks. That poor ficus is going to be drunk."
"Does anyone else know?"
"Not that I'm aware of. But the 'Emma is sick' rumor started yesterday in town. Half of Pelican Point saw her looking green at the exhibition."
I run a hand through my hair. This is actually good. Better for people to think Emma's sick than pregnant. At least until she's ready to tell her brothers.
"She hasn't told me officially," I say. "So, I can't confirm or deny anything."
"But you know."
"I know."
"And she knows you know?"
"She doesn't know I know."
Sophie blinks. "That seems complicated."
"It's very complicated."
"Does she know that you know that she doesn't know you know?"
"Sophie."
"Sorry." She grins. "But seriously—when is she planning to tell you?"
"When she's ready. I'm not pushing the subject."
Alex looks up from his clipboard. "That's very patient of you. I’m not sure I’d be so patient"
"I'm a very patient person. They kinda pound that into you in BUD/S."
"You once told me you counted down from a thousand by sevens during a hostage situation to stay calm."
"Your point?"
"Just noting the advanced patience techniques."
Sophie elbows him. "Be supportive."
"I am being supportive! I'm noting his patience!"
I grab my jacket. "I should go. Emma's probably awake by now."
"Tell her we're here if she needs anything," Sophie says. "And that my ficus can handle the wine. It's thriving, actually."
I leave Celtic Knot with my mind spinning. The "Emma is sick" rumor is spreading. Her brothers are worried. Sophie and Alex know but is keeping quiet. And Emma still hasn't told me officially about the pregnancy.
I need to make it easier for her. Create space where she feels safe talking to me so she tells me before the first day of kindergarten.
I stop by the bookstore on the way home—Jordan's still open late. The bell chimes when I enter.
"Miles!" Jordan looks up from her register, grinning. "Back again? That's three times this week."
"Wine review research," I say, heading for the wine section. I grab two professional journals I actually need. Then I make a loop through the pregnancy section and grab a couple of periodicals.
Jordan's still grinning when I check out. "These for you or Emma?"
"Me. Why?"
"No reason. Just noticed you've been in here a lot lately. Researching something specific?"
Everyone in this town is too observant.
"Just staying current with industry trends."
"Uh-huh." She bags the stuff. "Tell Emma I said hi."
I drive home planning dinner in my head. Something bland. Something that won't upset Emma's stomach. Something so boring it's practically medicinal.
Plain pasta it is.
Emma has the porch light on when I arrive, which means she's awake. She used to work until midnight. Now she's home by six, exhausted and stressed and carrying secrets.
I find her on the couch, laptop open but screen dark. She's staring at nothing.
"Hey." I set my bag down. "You eaten?"
She blinks, focusing on me. "Not yet."
"I'll make something."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
I head to the kitchen and start the most boring meal in history. Plain pasta. No sauce. No seasoning. No garlic. Just pasta and butter and maybe some salt if I'm feeling wild.
Emma joins me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Her hair's falling out of its bun. She looks exhausted and beautiful and like she's carrying the weight of the world.
"How was your nap?" I ask, draining pasta.
"Terrible."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Okay."
I plate the pasta—plain, boring, pregnancy-safe—and set it in front of her. She looks at it for a long moment.
"This is the most boring pasta I've ever seen," she says.
"I'm trying a new recipe. It's called 'plain.'"
"Innovative. Sad."
"I thought so."
She picks up her fork and takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Takes another bite.
She doesn't question why I made the world's most boring meal. Doesn't ask why there's no sauce. Doesn't comment that this is completely unlike my usual cooking.
She just eats it. Gratefully.
Because it's exactly what she needs right now.
We eat in comfortable silence. When we're done, Emma returns to the couch with her laptop. I clean up, then join her, settling into the chair across from her.
She's staring at her screen again. Not typing. Just staring.
"Want to talk about the Preston offer?" I ask carefully.
Her fingers freeze. She looks up, and there's something in her eyes—fear, relief, panic, all mixed together.
"You didn’t just see it. You read it."
"I saw it sticking out of your briefcase. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." Her voice is small. "I should've told you about it anyway."
"You don't have to tell me everything, Em. But if you want to talk about it—"
"I don't know what to do." The words rush out. "About Preston. About Celtic Knot. About—" She stops abruptly.
"About what?"
Her mouth opens, then closes without sound. Tears form in her eyes.
"I don't know what to do about anything."
The tears spill over and I'm across the room before I consciously decide to move. I sit beside her, pulling her into my arms.
"Hey. It's okay."
"It's not okay." She's crying into my shoulder, her voice muffled. "Nothing's okay. Everything's falling apart and I can't hold it together anymore."
"Then don't. Let me help."
"You can't help with this."
"Try me."
She pulls back, wiping her eyes. "The Preston offer—it's good. Really good. Partnership, resources, support staff. Everything I should want. But accepting it means admitting I can't handle my practice alone."
"Emma, you've been running a solo practice for years while handling billion-dollar cases. You're not failing. You're just realizing you can't do everything by yourself forever."
"But that's exactly what I'm supposed to do. I'm Emma Dawson. I handle everything."
"Says who?"
"Everyone. Me. The universe."
"I told you, the universe needs to lower its expectations, as do you." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "What about Celtic Knot?"
"Brennen wants to expand. It's his dream. But the corporate buyer's offer is safe. Guaranteed money. Security for everyone."
"Which one feels right to you?"
"I don't know." More tears. "And I have to decide by tomorrow. Everything has to be decided by tomorrow. Preston wants an answer. Brennen needs my vote. And I—"
She stops again. Right on the edge of telling me.
"And you what?" I ask gently.
She looks at me with those terrified eyes. The words are right there, nearly forming on her lips.
"I'm tired," she whispers finally. "I'm so tired, Miles. Of carrying everything. Of pretending I have it together. Of making everyone think I'm fine when I'm not fine. I'm not fine at all."
"Then stop pretending." I take her hand. "Whatever it is—the Celtic Knot vote, the Preston offer, anything else—you can tell me. We're a team. You don't have to carry everything alone."
"About Preston? Or about something else?"
The words are right there. I can see her gathering courage.
And then she breaks.
"I don't know what to do about anything," she sobs.
I pull her close again, holding her while she falls apart. "Then let me help. Whatever it is. All of it. Let me in."
She's crying, really crying now, and I'm just holding her. She's trying to decide whether to tell me. Trying to find the courage. Trying to let me in.
She's not ready. Not quite yet.
But she's close. So close.
I can wait a little longer.
"I'm here," I say quietly. "Whatever is going on. I'm not going anywhere."
She nods against my shoulder, crying harder.
And I hold my wife and wait.