A Town Called Valentine(68)
Emily spent the next two days in a fog of romance. Gorgeous cowboy Nate was desperate to date her. It made her want to hug herself and dance around her apartment. He was the perfect antidote to her low self-esteem after the way Greg had discarded her when she couldn’t give him a biological child. She was a woman in charge of her life, a woman who felt confident enough to date but didn’t need a man to be content.
By day, she plodded along ripping down damaged drywall or worked in the flower shop; in the evening, she baked for Monica, chocolate mousse cake one day, a peach cobbler the next. More furniture kept appearing—a plant in a lovely ceramic container from Monica in honor of her first day, the perfect decorative touch on the coffee table beneath her front window; a lamp to read by; then, to her surprise, a love seat that was well used but in good condition. She didn’t feel so . . . temporary anymore. Her brief sojourn in Valentine Valley was becoming part of her journey, not an ordeal she had to get through.
On the day of her afternoon hike with Nate, she attended the Music to Eat By program at the community center with Brooke and Monica. It was an old, converted, brick factory building, with conference rooms as well as a large banquet hall that could be used for wedding receptions. On the huge deck, overflowing with potted plants and vines laced through trellises, a bluegrass band played their guitars and harmonized beautifully for the crowd of twenty to thirty who’d gathered to eat lunch purchased from the Silver Creek Café. All the local restaurants took turns being the vendors for the Music to Eat By crowds. While eating her Chicken Caesar wrap, Emily followed the other two into the banquet hall, browsing the display booths set up to promote Valentine tourism: cooking-for-two school, a string quartet available to hire along with other musical groups, and romantic picnic baskets made to order.
“This is so cool!” Emily said. “What a great way to promote businesses that don’t have a storefront. It’s such a generous way to help other people.”
“They promote people like me, too,” Monica said, gesturing to the potted flowers and plants as they walked back onto the deck.
“You do such beautiful work,” Emily gushed.
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, let’s not get started.”
They took a seat at a picnic table vacated by a young family.
“Then we can talk about Emily’s creative talents,” Monica said, giving Brooke a fake frown. “Already, she’s good at putting an arrangement together, choosing interesting combinations of color and flowers. She’s the best hire I’ve made in a long time.”
“I’m the only hire you’ve made in at least two years,” Emily said, laughing. She glanced around at all the people talking softly or swaying to the music. “Monica, I’m surprised you didn’t ask your sister to join us.”
“Yeah, you haven’t mentioned her much,” Brooke added, watching her friend closely.
Monica shrugged, her smile fading. “She’s doing some writing for an assignment while she’s here. It’s hard for her to get away from work completely. It’s just such a challenging career,” she added brightly.
Brooke scowled. “You imitate your sister well, but maybe you’re taking what she says too seriously. Perhaps it’s not about you but about her own excitement for her job.”
“I can’t help taking it personally,” Monica said glumly, setting down her quesadilla wrap half-eaten. “I can no longer tell what she’s even thinking when she says some of this stuff. Emily, be glad you don’t have a sister.”
Emily blurted, “I don’t know—maybe I do.”
Brooke cocked her head. “What does that mean?”
Though she hadn’t intended to, Emily told her friends all about the revelation of her biological father and how Nate had been helping her.
“Never knew my brother was so sensitive,” Brooke said dryly, even as she studied Emily. “So . . . how are you taking this? It must be hard.”
“It is,” Emily said, her voice subdued. “I loved my father though I only knew him a few years. To think my mother lied to me all this time, and . . . and . . . I can’t even yell at her about it, or demand answers. I’m all on my own.”
“You know we’ll help any way we can,” Monica said. “And trust me, sisters aren’t all bad. I couldn’t have imagined growing up without Missy. We were the best of friends, and she made every step of high school bearable.”