In Your Dreams (Blue Heron 4)

“Thanks. You must have things to do.”

“Message received. I’ll keep an eye out for your guy.” Colleen smiled and bustled away.

Colleen’s pushiness aside, Em was hugely relieved. Colleen would be at the wedding, and Lucas, too. Angela, as well. She’d have allies, in other words. Her parents were in the neutral column. It depended on their moods.

Hannah O’Rourke brought her the beer, and Em took a sip. Jerked her chin at the Manningsport Fire Department, who’d trickled in for their weekly meeting, which consisted of poker and dirty jokes.

So. What was she supposed to do at this very moment? She hadn’t been on many dates since the breakup. She’d been on, oh, let’s see now...two.

It had taken a while to get over Kevin, of course, the only man she’d ever dated, slept with, kissed or even held hands with. And those two dates had been pretty terrible. One guy had had to go to the hospital to pass a kidney stone; Emmaline was going to wait with him, but he told her to leave before his wife got there. The other guy had asked her to pick him up, then invited her in, flopped onto a couch, picked up his bong and asked if she wanted to get high and watch SpongeBob. “You have the right to remain silent,” she’d said, and so the evening had ended in his arrest.

Also, men weren’t really beating a path to her door. She’d read the books, the ones that instructed her to feign idiocy and let the man do all the work and be feminine and unavailable and all that, and she was more than willing to try. It was just that not many guys asked.

Em got it. She was a police officer who played hockey and had a smart mouth. Not unattractive, not drop-dead gorgeous, either, not like Colleen or Faith or anything. Shoulder-length brown hair. Blue eyes that were not sapphire, ultramarine, cobalt, turquoise or cerulean. Just ordinary blue. Her body was average, she guessed. She was in good shape in that she ran and took a kickboxing class from time to time. Then again, she’d eaten an entire Pepperidge Farm coconut cake just last night.

Kevin’s parting words to her had been about her weight.

Sigh. Mason Maynard was forty-seven seconds late. Not that she was counting.

She’d been clear in her email to him that she was looking for a wedding date and nothing more. She’d pay for his flight and hotel for the weekend, of course, and all she wanted was an amiable companion. Someone to talk to and sit with and, when interrogated by her parents, to simply say they were friends.

She’d been to weddings without a date before, of course. But those had been the weddings of nice people. Tom Barlow and Honor Holland, Faith and Levi last year.

She looked at her watch again. Allison’s ex-husband’s cousin’s friend was now three minutes and fourteen seconds late. She took a sip of beer, but not too much, because she didn’t want Mason Maynard to think she’d been waiting too long or was the type to chug like a frat boy.

It was possible that Mason would be lovely. That at the age of forty-one, eight years her senior, he’d have a heartbreak story, too. That he’d completely understand why she needed a date, and, at the wedding, he’d be charming and self-deprecating. That they’d come back to Manningsport and he’d say, “You know, I had a great time. Want to have dinner sometime?”

Because, yes. Emmaline had always wanted to get married.

It’s just that she’d always wanted to get married to Kevin.

That’s what happened when you met the love of your life when you were in eighth grade.

“Emmaline?”

She looked up so suddenly she practically dislocated her neck. “Hey! Hi! Yes. That’s me.”

Mason Maynard was better-looking than his photo.

Much better-looking.

Now there was something that didn’t happen every day. He looked like Michael Fassbender. Hopefully in every way.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a faint smile. Emmaline’s stomach did a flip, and she felt the start of a dopey grin.

He had beautiful dark eyes and graying hair, and he looked...he looked like a husband. Not that she was getting ahead of herself.

“Yeah. You, too,” she breathed.

His grin widened. Yep. Husband.

“This is my sister,” he said, stepping aside. A thin, similarly graying woman stood there, hatchet-faced and grim. “Patricia, this is Emmaline.”

“Hello,” Patricia said in a toneless voice.

“Hi,” Em said.

Crap.

But no, no, this didn’t mean anything. After all, it wasn’t weird that a guy would bring his sister on a date, right?

Fine. It was freaky. But maybe there was a good reason. Maybe her car had broken down, or she had dropped by unexpectedly. Or, from the look of her, she needed a keeper.

“She wanted to meet you,” Mason said, winking.

“No, sure. That’s...that’s great.”

Colleen came over. “Hello! What can I get you?” she asked merrily.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Mason said. “And my sister will have water with a very, very thin slice of lemon, please.”

“You bet,” Colleen said, shooting Em a look. “Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you,” Mason said, as he and his sister sat down. “We’re just here for drinks.”

Emmaline wavered. On the one hand, weird already shimmered in the air. On the other, she was so hungry her stomach was growling. “I’ll have the nachos,” she said, food slut that she was. Patricia slid lower in her seat. “You can share, if you like,” Em added.

Mason smiled. Emmaline smiled. Patricia didn’t smile. Colleen walked back to the kitchen.

“So,” said Em. “This is great, meeting you both.”

“I have a small phobia about being alone with women,” he said smoothly.

“So I always come with him,” Patricia said. “Always. Every time.”

“Ah.” Dear God, where do You hide the normal people? Love, Emmaline.

Mason laughed warmly. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

p>

“Thanks. You must have things to do.”

“Message received. I’ll keep an eye out for your guy.” Colleen smiled and bustled away.

Colleen’s pushiness aside, Em was hugely relieved. Colleen would be at the wedding, and Lucas, too. Angela, as well. She’d have allies, in other words. Her parents were in the neutral column. It depended on their moods.

Hannah O’Rourke brought her the beer, and Em took a sip. Jerked her chin at the Manningsport Fire Department, who’d trickled in for their weekly meeting, which consisted of poker and dirty jokes.

So. What was she supposed to do at this very moment? She hadn’t been on many dates since the breakup. She’d been on, oh, let’s see now...two.

It had taken a while to get over Kevin, of course, the only man she’d ever dated, slept with, kissed or even held hands with. And those two dates had been pretty terrible. One guy had had to go to the hospital to pass a kidney stone; Emmaline was going to wait with him, but he told her to leave before his wife got there. The other guy had asked her to pick him up, then invited her in, flopped onto a couch, picked up his bong and asked if she wanted to get high and watch SpongeBob. “You have the right to remain silent,” she’d said, and so the evening had ended in his arrest.

Also, men weren’t really beating a path to her door. She’d read the books, the ones that instructed her to feign idiocy and let the man do all the work and be feminine and unavailable and all that, and she was more than willing to try. It was just that not many guys asked.

Em got it. She was a police officer who played hockey and had a smart mouth. Not unattractive, not drop-dead gorgeous, either, not like Colleen or Faith or anything. Shoulder-length brown hair. Blue eyes that were not sapphire, ultramarine, cobalt, turquoise or cerulean. Just ordinary blue. Her body was average, she guessed. She was in good shape in that she ran and took a kickboxing class from time to time. Then again, she’d eaten an entire Pepperidge Farm coconut cake just last night.

Kevin’s parting words to her had been about her weight.

Sigh. Mason Maynard was forty-seven seconds late. Not that she was counting.

She’d been clear in her email to him that she was looking for a wedding date and nothing more. She’d pay for his flight and hotel for the weekend, of course, and all she wanted was an amiable companion. Someone to talk to and sit with and, when interrogated by her parents, to simply say they were friends.

She’d been to weddings without a date before, of course. But those had been the weddings of nice people. Tom Barlow and Honor Holland, Faith and Levi last year.

She looked at her watch again. Allison’s ex-husband’s cousin’s friend was now three minutes and fourteen seconds late. She took a sip of beer, but not too much, because she didn’t want Mason Maynard to think she’d been waiting too long or was the type to chug like a frat boy.

It was possible that Mason would be lovely. That at the age of forty-one, eight years her senior, he’d have a heartbreak story, too. That he’d completely understand why she needed a date, and, at the wedding, he’d be charming and self-deprecating. That they’d come back to Manningsport and he’d say, “You know, I had a great time. Want to have dinner sometime?”

Because, yes. Emmaline had always wanted to get married.

It’s just that she’d always wanted to get married to Kevin.

That’s what happened when you met the love of your life when you were in eighth grade.

“Emmaline?”

She looked up so suddenly she practically dislocated her neck. “Hey! Hi! Yes. That’s me.”

Mason Maynard was better-looking than his photo.

Much better-looking.

Now there was something that didn’t happen every day. He looked like Michael Fassbender. Hopefully in every way.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a faint smile. Emmaline’s stomach did a flip, and she felt the start of a dopey grin.

He had beautiful dark eyes and graying hair, and he looked...he looked like a husband. Not that she was getting ahead of herself.

“Yeah. You, too,” she breathed.

His grin widened. Yep. Husband.

“This is my sister,” he said, stepping aside. A thin, similarly graying woman stood there, hatchet-faced and grim. “Patricia, this is Emmaline.”

“Hello,” Patricia said in a toneless voice.

“Hi,” Em said.

Crap.

But no, no, this didn’t mean anything. After all, it wasn’t weird that a guy would bring his sister on a date, right?

Fine. It was freaky. But maybe there was a good reason. Maybe her car had broken down, or she had dropped by unexpectedly. Or, from the look of her, she needed a keeper.

“She wanted to meet you,” Mason said, winking.

“No, sure. That’s...that’s great.”

Colleen came over. “Hello! What can I get you?” she asked merrily.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Mason said. “And my sister will have water with a very, very thin slice of lemon, please.”

“You bet,” Colleen said, shooting Em a look. “Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you,” Mason said, as he and his sister sat down. “We’re just here for drinks.”

Emmaline wavered. On the one hand, weird already shimmered in the air. On the other, she was so hungry her stomach was growling. “I’ll have the nachos,” she said, food slut that she was. Patricia slid lower in her seat. “You can share, if you like,” Em added.

Mason smiled. Emmaline smiled. Patricia didn’t smile. Colleen walked back to the kitchen.

“So,” said Em. “This is great, meeting you both.”

“I have a small phobia about being alone with women,” he said smoothly.

“So I always come with him,” Patricia said. “Always. Every time.”

“Ah.” Dear God, where do You hide the normal people? Love, Emmaline.

Mason laughed warmly. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No. She doesn’t.” Mason smiled again. “Only the first time. I realize it’s a little strange.”

“It’s because of our mother,” Patricia said.

“Let’s not discuss it,” Mason said.

“You should tell her, Mase,” Patricia barked. “Keeping things bottled up is dangerous! It’s dangerous!”

The fire department was now staring openly. The firefighters loved this kind of thing.

“It’s fine,” Em said. “Some things are too personal to discuss with strangers.”

“He has boundary issues,” Patricia said urgently. “We both do. Boundaries become very fluid in communes.”

“Did you say commune?” Em asked.

“And the cats. Jesus.” Patricia shuddered.

“So many cats.” Mason’s voice broke. He took a steadying breath, then tried to smile at Emmaline. She tried to smile back.

“I’m more of a dog person myself,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching over to grip her hand. That was a little uncomfortable, given that he was staring intently into her eyes...and that his sister was now trying to get something out of her back molar. “You’re very kind. So! About this wedding. Difficult circumstances, I’d say.”

“You know, I’ll probably just go alone. I mean, it’s fine. But thank you.”

“He was your first love, you said in your email.”

Shit. Why did she tell him that? “Yeah.”

Patricia finished digging around in her teeth. “Mase, tell her about your first love. Do it. Tell her.”

“You don’t have to,” Em said. “Really.”

“No, no, I’d love to share the story. It’s actually quite beautiful.” He was still gripping her hand. “Lisbeth. She was so lovely, so very lovely. A friend of my grandmother’s—”

“It was the commune. We should’ve run away from there long before we did, Mase.”

“As I was saying,” Mason continued, “Lisbeth was a beautiful woman. Oh, sure, maybe a little mature for a seventeen-year-old boy, but—”

“She was seventy-four,” Patricia said, waggling a shaggy eyebrow at Emmaline. “Seventy. Four.”

“Here are your nachos!” Colleen said, setting down the veritable trough of food. Why had Em been so gluttonous and ordered them? Because now she had to at least pretend to eat.

Hang on. She was a cop. She always had an excuse.

“You know what?” she said. “I forgot to mention that I’m on call tonight. Just in case I’m needed. Patricia, I’m a police officer, and it’s such a small town that—”

“Actually, Levi’s on tonight,” Colleen said.

Dear God, could You please throw me a bone? Love, Emmaline. “No, I am.” She gave Colleen a pointed look.

“No, I’m sure of it. Faith came in for dinner because Levi’s working. So you’re off—oh.” Colleen seemed to realize she’d just bludgeoned a hole in Titanic’s last lifeboat. “Sorry.”

“No! That’s...that’s great. I thought I was on call. But I guess I’m not. Good! Fine. That’s good.”

“Eat your dinner,” Mason said with that broad, easy grin. Creepy, really. “Go ahead—enjoy while it’s still hot. We never had hot food in the commune, so I love it now.”

“Uh, would you like some? Feel free.” Do not. Do not feel free.

“We’re vegetarians,” Patricia said, taking a nacho and examining it. “Though I order ham from time to time. Did you know the French for ham is jambon? I find that fascinating.” She put the chip back on the plate. “Jambon. Jambon. Jambon.”

“Back to Lisbeth,” Mason said. “She and I were soul mates. It was so refreshing, not having to hide who I was anymore, not being blinded by what was traditionally considered beautiful. Which is one reason I think you and I will work out just fine, by the way.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So Lisbeth’s age was no concern. You see, at the commune, we didn’t believe in aging.”

Em took a nacho. “Really. How did that work out for you?”

“She died!” Mason cried. “Lisbeth died, dropped stone-cold dead when she was weeding the basil plants!” He burst into tears. “I never saw it coming!”

“Oh, Mase,” his sister said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Don’t cry!” Apparently, her brother’s tears were too much for her, because she began sobbing, as well.

Emmaline glanced over to the bar. Colleen had her hand over her eyes, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Coll?” she called. “Can I get these to go, please?”

CHAPTER FOUR

WHEN HADLEY WANTED something, as Jack well knew, nothing could sway her. Not the opinions of other people, not common sense, nothing. And right now, she wanted Jack.

Which was an utter waste of her time.

“Marry in haste, repent in leisure,” Jack’s grandmother had intoned when he’d told her he was getting married.

“What’s wrong with being a bachelor?” his grandfather had asked. “I wish I was a bachelor. I’ve been wishing that for six decades.”

“So call a lawyer,” Goggy had replied. “I’m ready when you are, old man.”

In hindsight, they both had a point.

But Jack had been thunderstruck by love, and Hadley Belle Boudreau was unlike any woman he had ever met.

She was soft-spoken and smart and funny, and though Jack’s three sisters would bludgeon him to death if they heard him say it, she had manners the likes of which Yankee women—or at least Holland women—just didn’t have. Pru wore men’s clothes and smelled like grapes and dirt, same as their father did, and had enjoyed tormenting Jack with gory, detail-filled talk of periods and ovarian cysts for the past several decades. Honor was brisk and unsentimental. Faith, the youngest, liked to punch him (still, even though she was pushing thirty).