Her mother regarded her with a bewildered expression. “But that can’t be. He had an appointment after we closed and he said he’d be home right afterward. I’ve been waiting and waiting.”
“Daddy’s gone,” Emma said quietly but firmly. “He’s dead.”
The unexpected sharp slap of her mother’s hand against her cheek shocked her.
“Don’t say that,” her mother said furiously. “He’s not dead.”
Emma was too shaken to respond. Her mother had never hit her before, had never really lost her temper. As kids, they’d always known when Rosa was angry. Patches of color would flare in her cheeks and her eyes would flash, but her words were always cool and reasoned. There had been times when Emma had wished that she would simply yell at them, because that icy disappointment in her tone had been devastating.
Touching her cheek gingerly, Emma stood up and moved away, wanting to cry, but terrified that once she started, she’d never be able to stop. Obviously her safe, secure world was never going to be the same again, not with her father dead and her mother so distraught that she would actually slap one of her own children.
“Emma, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Rosa said, sounding as shaken as Emma felt.
“It’s okay, Mama. You’re not yourself right now. None of us are.”
“It is not okay. I just…” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “I can’t think straight. I don’t want to think at all. Could you get me another one of the pills the doctor left? They’re in the bathroom.”
Emma retrieved the bottle and read the label. She had no idea what sort of medicine it was. “What are these?” she asked as she brought them into the bedroom.
“Sleeping pills,” her mother said. “They’re good. They keep me from remembering.”
“I thought you hated taking pills,” Emma said, worried by the eagerness with which her mother was reaching for the plastic bottle.
Her mother frowned at her. “I’ve never been in this situation before. The doctor prescribed them. It won’t hurt to take them for a few days, just to get through this.” She swallowed two and drank some water.
“You mean the funeral?” Emma asked.
“All of it,” her mother replied. “I want to sleep through all of it. I don’t want to wake up until the nightmare ends.”
Alarmed, Emma reached for the bottle, but her mother held fast. “You can’t hide from this, Mama. None of us can. There are decisions to be made.”
“Then you make them,” her mother told her, sliding beneath the covers and turning her back. It was like watching a turtle slowly retreat into its protective shell.
“What about Jeff and Andy? They’re going to need you. I need you.”
“You’re strong, Emma. You’ll do just fine. Maybe Kim can fly down and help you.”
“Kim has to work, Mama.”
“Then you’ll manage. I know you will.”
This was the second time someone had told Emma she was going to have to handle things. She wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility. Panicked by the prospect, she said urgently, “No, Mama. You’re the strong one. We’re counting on you.”
“Don’t,” her mother said flatly.
Emma stood where she was and stared at her mother’s back, feeling more shut out and alone than she ever had in her life. Her mother was overcome with grief, totally in shock. That’s what it was. It had to be. Rosa Killian wasn’t the kind of woman to turn her back on her family, on her responsibilities. All her life she had taught her children to be caring and generous with their support for friends in need. This retreat from reality wasn’t like her at all.
Was it possible that her mother had guessed it hadn’t been an accident? Was that what she really couldn’t face? Sooner or later, they would have to talk about it, all of it, but obviously not tonight.
Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to her mother’s damp cheek. “I love you, Mama.”
She waited for her mother to say, as she always did, “I love you back,” but there was only silence.
Outside the door to her mother’s room, Emma leaned against the wall and let the tears flow unchecked down her cheeks. She was beginning to fear that when her father’s car had gone into the lake, she’d lost not only him, but both of her parents.
Matt couldn’t make up his mind whether to go or stay. After Andy had charged past him, he’d considered leaving, but something told him that Emma was going to need him after she saw her mother. Rosa wasn’t herself. Not that anyone could blame her, but she was deliberately shutting everyone out, her kids included. Jeff and Andy had never needed her more, but she hadn’t reached out for them after Matt had delivered the news about Don. When Matt had refused to deny the news of Don’s death, she’d simply gone into her room and closed the door behind her. He doubted it would be any different with Emma. His heart ached for her, for all of them.
He’d been ready for the tears when he’d met Emma at the airport, but not the underlying vulnerability. The Emma he remembered had been strong, resilient, like her mother. She’d had a biting wit and a confidence that came from knowing that she was well loved. He’d figured the years would only solidify those traits. But if confidence had failed Rosa at a time like this, it was only reasonable that it would have failed Emma, too.
After all, this was hardly a normal circumstance. For all he knew, Emma could take on the world under most conditions.
He found the coffee in the kitchen cupboard and started to brew a pot, then decided tea would be better. Hadn’t he heard somewhere that tea was supposed to be soothing? Or was that just herbal tea? God, why didn’t he know these things? Why wasn’t he better prepared to help this family he loved get through this crisis? In his years on the police force, he’d somehow mustered the courage to deliver bad news, but he’d rarely been left to deal with its aftermath. With friends involved, however, he couldn’t walk away. He felt like he owed it to Don to stay and cope with the fallout from his passing.
He was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, boxes of tea spread out on the table, when Emma walked in. Her face was streaked with tears, her expression shattered. Matt would have reached for her as he had at the airport, but there was something about her rigid stance that told him she wouldn’t welcome his embrace a second time. In fact, she looked as if she were holding herself together by a thread. He didn’t want to do anything to shatter what was left of her composure.
“I was going to make…” He hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly and gestured at the boxes of tea and coffee he’d dragged from the cupboard. “Something.”
Her lips curved into a fleeting smile. “Couldn’t make up your mind?”
“It’s a little late to be drinking coffee. I thought tea would be better, but I don’t drink the stuff, so I wasn’t sure what kind to make. So, can I get you a cup of something? You tell me.”
“Chamomile tea would be wonderful,” she said, slipping into a chair at the table.
Matt noted the exhaustion in her eyes. “Would you rather go to bed? You’ve had a tough day. You don’t have to entertain me. I can take off.”
“No, stay, please,” she said urgently. “I don’t want to be alone just yet. I won’t be able to get to sleep.”
“Okay, then,” he said, pouring hot water over the tea bag, then setting the cup in front of her.
He pulled out a chair across from her. “How’d it go with your mother?”
“She’s in bad shape. She doesn’t want to deal with any of this. She says I should do whatever