In Your Dreams (Blue Heron 4)

Maybe she’d stay in tonight. She and Sarge could watch YouTube videos of hostage negotiators, eat Kraft Mac & Cheese (don’t judge, it was delicious). Maybe binge-watch The Walking Dead. She had a stack of books from the library, too. Or she could call around the Bitter Betrayeds, the name her book club had given itself, and see who else was climbing the walls.

Suddenly, the weekend spread vast and empty in front of her. No shifts till Monday. No plans other than a hockey game on Sunday—she played in the town league. She could do laundry and clean. Um...maybe buy some new towels. Go to the shooting range. That’d be fun, if solitary.

Her feet were getting numb. Time to get moving. Still, she stood there on the tiny town green, looking into the cheerful pub.

Maybe she’d drive to Penn Yan and see a movie, but it was a half an hour away, and there was more snow in the forecast. And after the big accident, everyone was feeling a little wary about winter driving.

Speaking of that, there was Jack Holland.

He stood outside O’Rourke’s, staring at the building as if he’d never seen it before. Maybe she should check on him. They played hockey together, and he was her boss’s brother-in-law and an EMT, so it wasn’t as though she didn’t know him.

He didn’t move, seeming to be trying to decide whether or not to go inside the bar.

Em crossed the street. “Hey, Jack,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Hi, Jack,” she said again. He jerked, then looked at her.

“Hey, Emmaline,” he said, forcing a smile.

“How you doing?”

“Great.”

He was so not great that her heart ached, looking at him stalled there, dead in the water.

Poor choice of words.

But he was clearly not great.

“You going in?” he asked, aware perhaps that too long a pause had elapsed.

“No. I’m headed home. I just got a puppy. Sarge. He’s a German shepherd. Very cute. Hopefully he hasn’t pooped on the floor.”

Oh, yeah, the babbling thing. See, in addition to all the above, Jack Holland was ridiculously gorgeous. As in, Hi, I’ve just dropped down from Mount Olympus. How you doin’? Tall and blond with eyes that were so clear and perfect and pure that they made a person think of all sorts of ridiculous synonyms for blue—azure and cerulean and aqua. His smile stopped traffic and made trees burst into flower and all that crap.

So yes, he rendered women stupid. Even women who were slightly prejudiced against very, very good-looking men. But everyone, including Emmaline, also knew that Jack was a tremendously nice guy.

“Jack? You okay?”

“Yeah!” he said too quickly. “Sorry. Just a little tired. You take care, Emma.”

No one called her that. More than likely, Jack Holland had just forgotten her name. He opened the door to the pub. There was a roar of “Jack!” and “Hey! The hero!” and general cheering. The iron bell behind the bar clanged; the O’Rourke twins rang it in times of celebration.

Poor guy.

Emmaline knew that the good folks of Manningsport—and America—had been quite dazzled with what Jack Holland had done. So had she. How many people could have done what he did, after all? It was dazzling.

Which didn’t explain the look on Jack’s face.

Well. He had a big family and a lot of friends. Everyone loved the Hollands. He’d be well taken care of.

With a deep breath of the frigid air, Emmaline went around the corner to her house, a little bungalow. She’d left a couple of lights on for the puppy, and her little house fairly glowed with welcome.

Emmaline wasn’t a Manningsport native, but she’d gone to high school here, living with her grandmother in this very house. Nana had died four years ago and left the house to Em and her sister, Angela, who lived in California. But to Em, the bungalow meant more than just home—it was where she’d found refuge and normalcy back in the day...and again when she’d moved here three years ago. She’d kept a lot of Nana’s furniture, bought some of her own, painted here and there, and the result was a pleasing mix of old and new, no real style per se, but comfortable and cheery, and it never failed to make her smile.

She scooped her mail from the little brass mailbox, unlocked the door and got down on all fours. “Mommy’s home,” she said.

The scrabbling of paws and yips of joy were happy music of the soul.

Sarge ran to her, Squeaky Chicken, his favorite toy, in his jaws as an offering.

Emmaline gathered the puppy into her arms and kissed his furry head. “Hello, puppy,” she said. She resisted the strong urge to indulge in baby talk to the dog to preserve his dignity and her own, but she couldn’t help laughing as he licked her face, wriggling like a little otter.

She stood up, did a few twirls, since he loved that, then encouraged him to go outside before he peed on the floor from excitement. He galloped out, chasing a leaf across the small, fenced-in backyard.

Em flipped through her mail. A flyer for a discount on heart-shaped cookies and cupcakes at Lorelei’s Sunrise Bakery—Valentine’s Day preorders now accepted. No need to save that, unless she wanted to buy herself some goodies (which she did, though her uniform pants seemed a little hostile these days). A bill from the cable company. A postcard from her sister. Saluti da Milano! Right. Flawless Angela had been in Italy at, yes, an astrophysicists’ convention.

Em flipped the card over. “Hello, sis! Hope you’re doing well. I haven’t been able to see much of Milan yet, but I hope to squeeze a few days of holiday after the convention. Hope to catch up soon! Love and kisses, Angela.”

That was nice. Her sister, younger by four years, was incredibly thoughtful. She was Daughter 2.0, adopted from Ethiopia when Em went away to high school. The kind of daughter Dr. and Dr. Neal hoped to have, though they never said anything like that. Angela was brilliant, kind, cheerful and also stunningly beautiful with her glowing brown skin and enormous, expressive eyes. She’d modeled in college, even. If Emmaline didn’t love her so much, it’d be really easy to hate her.

Sarge came back in through his doggy door, a clot of snow right on his nose. Ridiculously cute. She gave him his supper, then poured herself a Blue Point Toasted Lager. Yeah, yeah, the Finger Lakes were known for their vineyards, but there were plenty of great microbreweries, too.

>

Maybe she’d stay in tonight. She and Sarge could watch YouTube videos of hostage negotiators, eat Kraft Mac & Cheese (don’t judge, it was delicious). Maybe binge-watch The Walking Dead. She had a stack of books from the library, too. Or she could call around the Bitter Betrayeds, the name her book club had given itself, and see who else was climbing the walls.

Suddenly, the weekend spread vast and empty in front of her. No shifts till Monday. No plans other than a hockey game on Sunday—she played in the town league. She could do laundry and clean. Um...maybe buy some new towels. Go to the shooting range. That’d be fun, if solitary.

Her feet were getting numb. Time to get moving. Still, she stood there on the tiny town green, looking into the cheerful pub.

Maybe she’d drive to Penn Yan and see a movie, but it was a half an hour away, and there was more snow in the forecast. And after the big accident, everyone was feeling a little wary about winter driving.

Speaking of that, there was Jack Holland.

He stood outside O’Rourke’s, staring at the building as if he’d never seen it before. Maybe she should check on him. They played hockey together, and he was her boss’s brother-in-law and an EMT, so it wasn’t as though she didn’t know him.

He didn’t move, seeming to be trying to decide whether or not to go inside the bar.

Em crossed the street. “Hey, Jack,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Hi, Jack,” she said again. He jerked, then looked at her.

“Hey, Emmaline,” he said, forcing a smile.

“How you doing?”

“Great.”

He was so not great that her heart ached, looking at him stalled there, dead in the water.

Poor choice of words.

But he was clearly not great.

“You going in?” he asked, aware perhaps that too long a pause had elapsed.

“No. I’m headed home. I just got a puppy. Sarge. He’s a German shepherd. Very cute. Hopefully he hasn’t pooped on the floor.”

Oh, yeah, the babbling thing. See, in addition to all the above, Jack Holland was ridiculously gorgeous. As in, Hi, I’ve just dropped down from Mount Olympus. How you doin’? Tall and blond with eyes that were so clear and perfect and pure that they made a person think of all sorts of ridiculous synonyms for blue—azure and cerulean and aqua. His smile stopped traffic and made trees burst into flower and all that crap.

So yes, he rendered women stupid. Even women who were slightly prejudiced against very, very good-looking men. But everyone, including Emmaline, also knew that Jack was a tremendously nice guy.

“Jack? You okay?”

“Yeah!” he said too quickly. “Sorry. Just a little tired. You take care, Emma.”

No one called her that. More than likely, Jack Holland had just forgotten her name. He opened the door to the pub. There was a roar of “Jack!” and “Hey! The hero!” and general cheering. The iron bell behind the bar clanged; the O’Rourke twins rang it in times of celebration.

Poor guy.

Emmaline knew that the good folks of Manningsport—and America—had been quite dazzled with what Jack Holland had done. So had she. How many people could have done what he did, after all? It was dazzling.

Which didn’t explain the look on Jack’s face.

Well. He had a big family and a lot of friends. Everyone loved the Hollands. He’d be well taken care of.

With a deep breath of the frigid air, Emmaline went around the corner to her house, a little bungalow. She’d left a couple of lights on for the puppy, and her little house fairly glowed with welcome.

Emmaline wasn’t a Manningsport native, but she’d gone to high school here, living with her grandmother in this very house. Nana had died four years ago and left the house to Em and her sister, Angela, who lived in California. But to Em, the bungalow meant more than just home—it was where she’d found refuge and normalcy back in the day...and again when she’d moved here three years ago. She’d kept a lot of Nana’s furniture, bought some of her own, painted here and there, and the result was a pleasing mix of old and new, no real style per se, but comfortable and cheery, and it never failed to make her smile.

She scooped her mail from the little brass mailbox, unlocked the door and got down on all fours. “Mommy’s home,” she said.

The scrabbling of paws and yips of joy were happy music of the soul.

Sarge ran to her, Squeaky Chicken, his favorite toy, in his jaws as an offering.

Emmaline gathered the puppy into her arms and kissed his furry head. “Hello, puppy,” she said. She resisted the strong urge to indulge in baby talk to the dog to preserve his dignity and her own, but she couldn’t help laughing as he licked her face, wriggling like a little otter.

She stood up, did a few twirls, since he loved that, then encouraged him to go outside before he peed on the floor from excitement. He galloped out, chasing a leaf across the small, fenced-in backyard.

Em flipped through her mail. A flyer for a discount on heart-shaped cookies and cupcakes at Lorelei’s Sunrise Bakery—Valentine’s Day preorders now accepted. No need to save that, unless she wanted to buy herself some goodies (which she did, though her uniform pants seemed a little hostile these days). A bill from the cable company. A postcard from her sister. Saluti da Milano! Right. Flawless Angela had been in Italy at, yes, an astrophysicists’ convention.

Em flipped the card over. “Hello, sis! Hope you’re doing well. I haven’t been able to see much of Milan yet, but I hope to squeeze a few days of holiday after the convention. Hope to catch up soon! Love and kisses, Angela.”

That was nice. Her sister, younger by four years, was incredibly thoughtful. She was Daughter 2.0, adopted from Ethiopia when Em went away to high school. The kind of daughter Dr. and Dr. Neal hoped to have, though they never said anything like that. Angela was brilliant, kind, cheerful and also stunningly beautiful with her glowing brown skin and enormous, expressive eyes. She’d modeled in college, even. If Emmaline didn’t love her so much, it’d be really easy to hate her.

Sarge came back in through his doggy door, a clot of snow right on his nose. Ridiculously cute. She gave him his supper, then poured herself a Blue Point Toasted Lager. Yeah, yeah, the Finger Lakes were known for their vineyards, but there were plenty of great microbreweries, too.

Oops. There was one more piece of mail on the kitchen floor. She leaped for it, snatching it up just before Sarge pounced. He loved paper.

It was a wedding invitation, from the look of it. Thick ivory envelope, red calligraphy, a flower stamp.

It was postmarked “Malibu, CA,” her hometown.

Her knees gave a warning tingle.

She sat down at the little enamel-topped kitchen table. Opened the envelope to find another envelope inside. “Miss Emmaline Neal & Guest,” it said. She opened that, as well.

“Together with their parents, Naomi Norman and Kevin Bates joyfully request the honor of your company at their marriage ceremony.”

Sarge put his paws against her knee, and she scooped him onto her lap. “So,” she said to her dog, her mouth dry. “Looks like my fiancé is getting married.”

CHAPTER TWO

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Jack Holland drove from the hospital in Corning back to Blue Heron, the vineyard owned and run by his family. The radio was tuned to a talk show, though what the topic was, Jack didn’t quite know. Still, the voices were comforting.

It occurred to him that he was probably alone too much these days. That a battered cat was insufficient company. That he should be with people. But last night at O’Rourke’s had been a circle of hell, all those people clapping him on the back and offering to buy him beers. Asking how he was doing. How Josh was doing. Thanking him. Telling him he was one brave son of a bitch and the town wouldn’t stop talking about this for years, which made Jack’s hands sweaty.

Still, he’d smiled and thanked people for whatever it was they were saying, because he knew in one corner of his mind that they were saying nice things, or what they thought were nice things, and he knew that the longer he stayed away from regular things, the harder it would be. He was fine. It was all fine. It was okay.

He’d stayed as long as he could take it. Colleen O’Rourke, who was like yet another sister in addition to the three Jack already had, gave him a hug, and so far as he could tell, he’d returned it. But once he’d gotten home, he just sat on the couch, Lazarus next to him, not touching but still there.

So being with his family, doing normal things, that was a good thing. He loved his family. They weren’t a circle of hell. Well, not completely.

He put on his turn signal even though he was alone on the country road. Ever the cautious driver.

If only he could see Josh. Go when the parents weren’t around. Just to see him.

Shit. He might have to pull over.

Once, when Jack was building his house, a bobcat had wandered in, lured by the smell of Jack’s meatball sub there on the sawhorse. Jack came into the great room, and the animal panicked, ran straight for the closed slider and hurled itself against it again and again.

That’s what Jack’s heart was doing right now. Smacking and thudding against his ribs. His hands were slick on the steering wheel, but it was okay; it was fine—he didn’t have to pull over. He was fine.

There looked to be a thousand cars at Honor’s house. Jack and his sisters, Prudence, Honor and Faith, had grown up here in the New House, built in the 1800s. His middle sister, Honor, now lived with her husband, Tom, and Charlie, the teenager they’d sort of adopted. Jack’s father and stepmother, Mrs. Johnson (technically Mrs. Holland, though no one called her that), lived in a spacious apartment over the garage.

Today was Faith’s baby shower.

“Hey, Uncle Jack.” Pru’s son, Ned, approached Jack as he got out of the truck. “Why are we here again?”

“I have no idea,” Jack said. “Solidarity for Levi, I guess.”

Sure enough, the men of the family—Jack, his father and grandfather, his three brothers-in-law, and unofficial nephew, Charlie—were manfully hiding in the kitchen as a wave of feminine laughter came from the living room.

“Jack!” said his father. “Wine?”

“Thanks, Dad. Hey, Levi. How you doing?”

Levi looked pained. “They were just talking about nipple infections,” he said, nodding toward the living room, which was hung with blue streamers.

“I call them the Coven for a reason,” Jack said.

“Levi!” called Faith. “Come see this, honey. It’s a Diaper Genie!”

“Ooh. A Diaper Genie,” said Ned. “Grandpa, can I have some wine, too? Please? Quickly?”

“Are you old enough?”

“I am. Hurry.”

“Levi!”

“They’re calling for you, mate,” said Tom, slapping Levi on the shoulder. “Best not keep the pregnant wife waiting.”

“Your turn will come,” Levi muttered darkly. “The baby, I’m all for. It’s the...stuff...that’s making me nervous.” He sighed and went into the living room to admire the diaper thing.

“A new baby,” Dad said contentedly. “About time. Right, Jack? Another nephew for you.”

“We can only hope he’ll be as cool as Charlie and I are,” Ned said.

Jack smiled. His wine was gone, he noticed. Funny. He didn’t remember tasting it.

Mrs. Johnson bustled in, a towering plate of food in her hands. “I thought I heard your voice, Jackie, my darling boy! Would you like something to eat? You look thin.”

“Mrs. J.,” Jack said to his stepmother, “you look beautiful today. And every day, now that I think of it.” His voice was pretty normal, he thought.

“Oh, you terrible liar!” She cuffed his head and beamed. “Come. See your sister. Make haste, and then you can eat.”