Chapter 16
Emma
The text from Lawrence Vance arrives Saturday afternoon while I'm at home working, finalizing a new batch of base notes.
Vance: Pleasure meeting with you Thursday. As I said, I’ll be in touch early next week with my decision.
I read it three times, my heart racing. Early next week. This is happening. This is actually happening.
I screenshot the message and text it to Poppy and Grant. Poppy immediately calls me.
"Emma, oh my God, he's going to say yes. I can feel it," she shrieks in my ear.
"Don't jinx it," I say, but I'm grinning so hard my face hurts. "He hasn't actually committed to anything yet."
"But he will. That man’s going to write you a huge check." She pauses. "We should celebrate. Drinks tonight? Oh wait, what am I thinking? You can't drink. Mocktails?"
"Actually, I think I'm just going to have a quiet night. I’ve got some stuff I need to catch up on—"
My phone buzzes with another call. Mom. I stare at the screen, my good mood deflating.
"I’ve gotta go, girl. My mom's calling."
"Give Helen my love. And Emma? Seriously. You got this. You should be so proud of yourself."
I am, I realize. And it makes me smile.
I switch over to my mom's call. "Hey, Mom."
"Emma, sweetheart. How are you?" Her voice has that hesitant quality it always does, like she's testing the waters before diving in.
"Good. Really good, actually. Work's been—"
"That's wonderful, dear. Listen, I was hoping you'd come for dinner tomorrow. We haven’t seen you in way too long."
My stomach clenches. Sunday dinner at my parents' house. The weekly ritual I've been successfully avoiding since I started showing—too much work, feeling under the weather, prior commitment with Poppy, etc, etc. Mom and Dad have also been traveling some, so that’s helped.
"Tomorrow? I don't know, Mom. I have a lot of—"
"Please, Emma." Her voice shifts to something more urgent. "It's been too long. You know how your father gets when he feels ignored."
Yes. I know exactly how he gets.
Explosive. Controlling. Determined to reassert his authority over every aspect of my life.
"What time?" I hear myself ask.
"Six o'clock. I'll make one of your favorites—that chicken dish with lemon and rosemary."
Of course she will. Mom's love language has always been food, the one area where Dad lets her make decisions without interference.
After we hang up, I sink onto my work stool and press my hands against my stomach. At sixteen weeks, the swell is undeniable when I'm naked or wearing anything fitted. But under the right clothes, I can still hide it.
For now.
I’m just not ready to tell them yet…
My phone buzzes with a text from Grant.
Grant: That's fantastic news about Vance. Dinner tonight at Mazziati’s to celebrate?
I stare at the message, weighing my response. I should tell him about tomorrow. About dinner with my parents. About the fact that I'm going to spend an entire evening in the same house as my father, while hiding a secret that would make his head explode.
But telling Grant will make him worry. Or worse, he'll want to come with me and tell them about everything, and that's something I can't even contemplate yet.
Me: Rain check? I want to finish this formula while I'm in the zone.
Grant: Of course. Let me know if you need anything.
Me: Just you. Later. ;)
Grant: Always.
I set the phone down and try to refocus on my work, but the vetiver oil smells wrong again, and my concentration is shot.
Tomorrow. Sunday dinner. I just have to get through one meal without my father realizing his daughter is pregnant with his best friend's twins.
How hard can that be?
The answer, I discover as I stand on my parents' doorstep Sunday evening, is extremely hard.
I changed outfits four times before settling on a navy-blue high-waisted dress—loose enough to hide the small swell of my stomach, but not so shapeless that it looks like I'm deliberately trying to hide something.
The door opens before I can knock. Mom stands there in her usual Sunday evening uniform—cream slacks and a silk blouse, pearls at her throat, her graying hair styled in the same elegant bob she's worn for twenty years.
"Emma." Her smile is warm, but her eyes do a quick scan—checking for signs of whatever it is she's worried about. She gives me a quick hug and I make sure not to let her get too close. I don’t need her detecting my baby bump. "Come in, sweetheart."
The house smells like lemon and rosemary, just like she promised. But underneath that, I catch the familiar scent that I've always associated with this place—furniture polish and expensive candles and something indefinable that makes my shoulders tense.
Control. That's what this house smells like.
"Your father's in his study," Mom says, taking my jacket. "He'll be out in a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? I have that pinot grigio you—"
"Just water, please." I say it too quickly, and Mom's eyebrows rise slightly. "I've been trying to cut back a bit."
"Oh. Well, that's very sensible."
She leads me into the living room—all cream sofas and carefully arranged throw pillows and art that was selected by an interior designer, not because anyone in this house actually loves it. Everything is perfect. Pristine. Untouchable.
I sink onto the sofa and accept the glass of sparkling water she brings me.
"So," Mom settles into the chair across from me, her posture perfect as always. "Tell me about work. How's Essence coming along?"
This, at least, I can talk about safely. I tell her about the pitch meeting, about Lawrence Vance's positive response, about the new formulas I'm developing. She listens with genuine interest, and I start to relax a little bit.
It's nice. For a few minutes, it's actually really nice.
Then I hear my dad’s footsteps in the hallway, and my entire body tenses.
"Emma." Dad appears in the doorway, in slacks and a button-down shirt. He retired two years ago, but he still dresses like he's about to walk into a board meeting. "About time you showed up for Sunday dinner."
He says it with a smile, but there's an edge underneath. A reminder that I've been avoiding him, and he doesn’t like it.
"Hi, Dad." I stand, accepting his brief hug. He smells like expensive chemical-laden cologne and scotch. "Work's been crazy."
"Mmm. Your mom tells me you're still playing around with your perfume business." He moves to the bar cart, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey. "How's that going?"
He’s just never going to take me seriously.
"It's going well, actually. I just pitched to a major investor, and he seemed very interested."
Dad's eyebrows rise. "An investor? You're actually trying to make this into a real business?"
The dismissal in his tone makes my jaw clench. "It is a real business, Dad. I've been building it for over a year now. I have products, suppliers, a business plan—"
"And how exactly are you funding this venture?" He settles into his chair—the big leather one that's positioned to dominate the room. "Last I checked, you were living in that shoebox apartment and working at a restaurant?"
"I've been funding it myself so far. Through my work and savings."
"Savings." He snorts. "Emma, be realistic. Building a successful company requires capital. Real capital. If you're serious about this, you should let me—"
"I don't need your money." The words come out sharper than I intended. I force myself to take a breath. "I appreciate the offer, Dad, but I want to do this on my own."
"On your own." He studies me over his whiskey glass, and I feel like I'm twelve years old again, being interrogated about my report card. "And what happens when this investor realizes you don't have the experience or resources to scale? When you burn through whatever small investment he offers?"
"David." Mom's voice is soft, placating. "Let's not—"
"I'm just being realistic, Helen. Our daughter is twenty-four years old, pretending to be an entrepreneur and refusing any practical assistance.
" His attention returns to me. "What you need is someone with actual business experience to guide you.
Someone who can make the right introductions, help you avoid costly mistakes. "
Someone like him. Someone who would take over every decision.
Just like he did with Mom. Just like he does with everything.
"Dinner's ready," Mom announces, standing abruptly. "Emma, sweetheart, why don't you help me in the kitchen?"
I follow her gratefully, escaping Dad's scrutiny. In the kitchen, Mom moves with practiced efficiency, transferring the chicken to a serving platter, checking the roasted vegetables.
"Don't mind your father," she says quietly. "He just worries about you."
"He wants to control me. There's a difference, Mom."
Mom's hands still for just a moment. Then she continues plating. "He wants what's best for you."
"What he thinks is best for me."
She doesn't respond. This is what she's done their whole marriage—made excuses for him, smoothed over his controlling behavior, sacrificed her own voice to keep the peace.
This is exactly what I swore I'd never become.
I help carry the food to the dining room, where Dad has already seated himself at the head of the table. Mom takes her usual spot to his right, and I sit across from her, positioning my chair so the table obscures my midsection.
Dinner is exactly what I expected. Dad dominates the conversation, talking about politics, about the state of real estate in Manhattan, about various people he knows and their successes or failures. Mom makes small comments of agreement. I push food around my plate and try to look engaged.
"So," Dad says, cutting into his chicken. "Have you been seeing anyone? Dating?"
I nearly drop my fork. "What?"
"It's a simple question, Emma. You're twenty-four. I assume you have some kind of social life."
"I've been focused on work, Dad."
"Hmm. Helen, didn't you say Emma looked different? Glowing or something? Isn’t that what happens when you have someone special in your life?"