since maybe the last time he'd seen Sam. His life had gone steadily downhill from there. Handing the snow globe back to Emma, he said, "It's a beautiful piece."
"Come on." Emma put it back on the mantel, then steered him toward the kitchen. "The coffee's hot. I know it's closer to noon than morning, but I was on the train all night. I slept some this morning, and now I'm starving. I was about to make breakfast. Have you eaten?"
"No," he lied, not sure if he could choke down a single bite—but he wanted to stay.
Emma sat him down on a stool at the breakfast bar and poured him a cup of coffee, strong and black, just the way he liked it, then poured one for herself.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked.
He took about two seconds to consider it, then said, "Any way you want to make 'em."
It would keep him here for a while longer, and he could probably keep her talking while she cooked.
She made great eggs, scrambled them with three kinds of cheese and some peppers, served them up with a toasted English muffin and blackberry jam she said one of her great-aunts made.
Great-aunts who made jam? It sounded so damned normal.
He'd grown up in a small town much like this. But now he lived in a big, anonymous place where hardly anyone knew his name or where he was from or what he'd done. He liked it that way. Emma seemed to fit right in here, in a pretty, old house with all her relatives out making jam and probably baking fresh bread. She seemed as wholesome a woman as he'd ever met in his entire life.
It was like a trip back in time to the childhood he'd left behind. He sat there for the longest time just watching her move through the kitchen and letting her chatter while she worked, mostly about Sam's business. It sounded like the man did well for himself, and the woman she called her mother did stained glass. Stonework couldn't quite compare, but it was construction and at the best of times a bit of artistry.
Under any other circumstances, he thought they all might have something in common.
"So, you think Sam won't be back for a week?" he asked, once he'd cleared his plate not once but twice and thanked her for the meal.
"I'm not really sure. It depends on what happens with Ann," she said, getting up and taking her plate to the sink. He followed her, doing the same. "Even if the baby doesn't come now, she might be in the hospital for weeks, and she has a three-year-old and a six-year-old. Sam and Rachel might bring them back here. I know that would be hard on Ann, but Rachel has tons of family here. Two other sisters, a sister-in-law, and two great-aunts. That way everyone could pitch in and help take care of the kids. Ann and Greg wouldn't have to worry about anything but the baby."
He nodded. Sam McRae seemed to have an abundance of family.
"I'm sure they'll be back in time for Christmas," Emma said, reaching for the dishwasher to load the plates and the silverware. "Can you wait that long?"
He thought about it. What else was he going to do? "I can wait."
"Well... Do you have a place to stay?"
He frowned. Surely she wouldn't invite him to stay here. Surely she knew better. He might have to stay just to make sure nothing happened to her.
"I'll find something," he said, as she pulled jam and salt and pepper off the table. He took them from her, put the jam in the refrigerator and the salt and pepper in the cabinet from which she'd taken them.
"Well... It's kind of hard with the festival and everything. The town just fills up, and it's not like we've got that many motels anyway."
"I'll be fine, Emma."
"You could head toward Cincinnati," she said, wiping off the breakfast bar with a hand towel. "It's not far."
"I'll do that," he said.
"Okay... If you're sure. But..."
Rye grinned as he figured it out. She thought he was down on his luck. Granted, his pickup looked beat-up. It probably needed to be washed after driving so long through all that wet, muddy snow. But it wasn't that old, and it was beat-up because it
"Come on." Emma put it back on the mantel, then steered him toward the kitchen. "The coffee's hot. I know it's closer to noon than morning, but I was on the train all night. I slept some this morning, and now I'm starving. I was about to make breakfast. Have you eaten?"
"No," he lied, not sure if he could choke down a single bite—but he wanted to stay.
Emma sat him down on a stool at the breakfast bar and poured him a cup of coffee, strong and black, just the way he liked it, then poured one for herself.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked.
He took about two seconds to consider it, then said, "Any way you want to make 'em."
It would keep him here for a while longer, and he could probably keep her talking while she cooked.
She made great eggs, scrambled them with three kinds of cheese and some peppers, served them up with a toasted English muffin and blackberry jam she said one of her great-aunts made.
Great-aunts who made jam? It sounded so damned normal.
He'd grown up in a small town much like this. But now he lived in a big, anonymous place where hardly anyone knew his name or where he was from or what he'd done. He liked it that way. Emma seemed to fit right in here, in a pretty, old house with all her relatives out making jam and probably baking fresh bread. She seemed as wholesome a woman as he'd ever met in his entire life.
It was like a trip back in time to the childhood he'd left behind. He sat there for the longest time just watching her move through the kitchen and letting her chatter while she worked, mostly about Sam's business. It sounded like the man did well for himself, and the woman she called her mother did stained glass. Stonework couldn't quite compare, but it was construction and at the best of times a bit of artistry.
Under any other circumstances, he thought they all might have something in common.
"So, you think Sam won't be back for a week?" he asked, once he'd cleared his plate not once but twice and thanked her for the meal.
"I'm not really sure. It depends on what happens with Ann," she said, getting up and taking her plate to the sink. He followed her, doing the same. "Even if the baby doesn't come now, she might be in the hospital for weeks, and she has a three-year-old and a six-year-old. Sam and Rachel might bring them back here. I know that would be hard on Ann, but Rachel has tons of family here. Two other sisters, a sister-in-law, and two great-aunts. That way everyone could pitch in and help take care of the kids. Ann and Greg wouldn't have to worry about anything but the baby."
He nodded. Sam McRae seemed to have an abundance of family.
"I'm sure they'll be back in time for Christmas," Emma said, reaching for the dishwasher to load the plates and the silverware. "Can you wait that long?"
He thought about it. What else was he going to do? "I can wait."
"Well... Do you have a place to stay?"
He frowned. Surely she wouldn't invite him to stay here. Surely she knew better. He might have to stay just to make sure nothing happened to her.
"I'll find something," he said, as she pulled jam and salt and pepper off the table. He took them from her, put the jam in the refrigerator and the salt and pepper in the cabinet from which she'd taken them.
"Well... It's kind of hard with the festival and everything. The town just fills up, and it's not like we've got that many motels anyway."
"I'll be fine, Emma."
"You could head toward Cincinnati," she said, wiping off the breakfast bar with a hand towel. "It's not far."
"I'll do that," he said.
"Okay... If you're sure. But..."
Rye grinned as he figured it out. She thought he was down on his luck. Granted, his pickup looked beat-up. It probably needed to be washed after driving so long through all that wet, muddy snow. But it wasn't that old, and it was beat-up because it
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