It was true. It was the reporter in her.
“Sorry.” And she was, sort of, as she gave him a long look. Really looked at him, willing herself to feel something more than sisterly affection. Fred was a nice guy, and he’d be a great dad. They’d been best friends for such a long time. It could work, maybe. Couldn’t it?
“Em?”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to try to talk me into being part of whatever crazy story you told your sisters.” He was blushing again. “Not going to happen.”
She dropped her gaze, nibbled at the crust of her sandwich.
“You know I’m here for you,” Fred said. “Always have been, always will be.”
She tipped her head back and took a sip from her water bottle, then hastily dropped her gaze, so Fred couldn’t see her eyes getting watery. More tears? This was getting ridiculous.
“You should be happy, Em. You deserve to have someone special in your life, too.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He isn’t in my life. He went back to Chicago the next day, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“You’re joking.” Fred handed her a paper napkin to stem the waterworks. “You mean he...? And he didn’t...? I think he and I need to have a talk.”
“No, you don’t. I’ll talk to him myself, I just have to find his phone number.”
“You can’t pick up the phone and call him.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Em, this is huge. We’re talking life-changing huge. You owe it to him to break the news in person.”
“I was thinking I don’t actually owe him anything. He didn’t call me, so apparently he doesn’t think he owes me anything, either.”
“He owes you eighteen years of child support, but that doesn’t let you off the hook. This kind of news must be delivered in person.”
“He hardly ever comes to Riverton.”
“Then you’ll have to go to Chicago.”
“I don’t know where he lives.”
It sounded lame as she said it. Apparently, Fred thought so, too.
“Ever heard of a little thing called the internet? Or you could ask his mother.”
She had already tried the internet and hadn’t come up with anything, not that she’d tried terribly hard. And there was no way she was going to ask Norma Evans—her baby’s grandmother!—for her son’s phone number. She would demand to know why Emily wanted it. What would she tell her? Hi, Mrs. Evans. Remember me, little Emily Finnegan? Your son and I hooked up a while ago, and now... Oops... I’m having his baby.
“I am not asking his mother.”
“Fine, don’t. I’ll ask her. I’ll even go to Chicago with you.” Fred made a fist and hit the palm of his other hand to indicate how he intended to handle the situation if called upon.
Emily couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “You know you can do some serious time for assaulting a police officer, right?”
Fred grinned. “How you handle this is up to you, but if he doesn’t do the right thing, then I’ll have something to say.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need anyone to fight my battles. And this is something I need to do alone, as soon as I figure out what I’m going to say to him.” Then she’d need to think about the future, one for which she was completely unprepared. “But no matter what he says or does, I’m scared,” she whispered, finally finding the courage to confess what she truly felt. “I have no idea how to be a mother.”
“Sure you do.” Fred reached across the table and took her hands in his. He was the only person who knew her secret wish, that after all these years her mother would finally come home and be a mother. “You have Annie. She’s a great role model.”
True. Problem was, Annie made it look easy. What if she, Emily, was a total disaster like their mother had been?
“Don’t go there, Em. You’ve always been great at everything you’ve ever chosen to do. In school, at the university, your work for the newspaper, your Small Town, Big Hearts blog.”
She knew he was trying to buoy her, but this was different. Raising a child wasn’t like writing a newspaper story or a blog. She had chosen to do those things, but she hadn’t chosen to become a mother. Motherhood had chosen her.
They were interrupted by the rattle of the barbershop door.
“My next customer. Lunchtime’s over already.” Fred sounded reluctant to wrap up their little tête-à-tête, as though she might not be able to move forward on her own. “You going to be okay?”
“Of course. I’ll be fine. I have to get back to work, too.” She needed to finish her article about this week’s town council meeting, put the finishing touches on centenarian Sig Sorrenson’s obituary and check her blog for comments. She waved Fred out of the back room. “Off you go. I’ll tidy up in here.”
Emily slipped out of the shop several minutes later, avoiding eye contact with Fred as he swirled a black plastic cape around the shoulders of his first customer of the afternoon. When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she narrowly missed a head-on collision with Mable Potter, her former high school English teacher and Riverton’s favorite octogenarian. The woman was struggling with her oversize purse, a large bag of groceries and the leash of her energetic mutt, Banjo.
“Hi, Mrs. Potter. Here, let me give you a hand.”
“Oh, could you, dear? I didn’t realize how many things I had in my shopping cart until it was rung through the checkout. I was getting low on milk, and I needed a dozen eggs and another bag of flour because my daughter, Libby, is coming all the way from Minneapolis tomorrow, and she loves my red velvet cake. I always bake one for her when she visits.”
“Your daughter’s a lucky lady.” Everyone in Riverton had sampled Mable Potter’s delicious dessert at one time or another, and everyone loved it. Emily shouldered her own bag and settled Mable’s grocery bag on one hip, surprised by its heft. “Come on, I’ll carry this home for you.”
“Thank you, dear. You’re good girls, you and your sisters. I ran into your father at the post office the other day, and he was telling me about what you’ve been up to. He’s awful proud of the three of you.”
Emily walked with Mrs. Potter, dawdled, really, for a block and a half down Main Street, then three blocks along Second Avenue. The route took them past Jack’s parents’ place, one of several stately two-and-a-half-story redbrick homes, complete with carriage houses that were a throwback to Riverton’s horse-and-buggy days. She kept her head down and her eyes averted, praying Jack’s mother didn’t appear. There’d be no avoiding a conversation. To her relief, they were able to slip by and make their way to Cottonwood Street, where Mrs. Potter lived.
As the dog sniffed every light standard, fence post and hydrant along the way, Emily only half listened to Mrs. Potter’s chatter about the weather, her daughter’s impending visit and Sig’s funeral. Luckily, the woman didn’t expect a response, which was just as well because Emily was now preoccupied with thoughts about her father. She adored him, and the prospect of telling him about her current situation was almost as terrifying as telling the baby’s father. In the absence of a mother, she had always looked to her dad for encouragement, support and validation. Jack was not going to be happy with this news, but his anger would pale in comparison to her father’s disappointment.