The Husband Hour(44)

“A little business venture,” Nora said. “What do you think of them?”

Lauren bent down, looking at the first in the pile. It was a black-and-white shot of an empty beach and the ocean, mounted on white in a simple black frame. She flipped through, looking at the rest. All were in black-and-white, all various nature scenes around town.

“Simple. Nice. What’s the business angle?”

“The photographer offered me a commission if I hang them on the walls here for sale. They go for a couple hundred apiece so it could be a nice chunk of change for me.”

“Do you even have space on the walls?”

Nora handed her a scribbled list of the day’s specials. “Can you please get these on the board for me? I have to check on the pastry delivery. They were stale yesterday. Did you have complaints?”

“No, not from my tables.” Lauren walked to the chalkboard and realized all of Henny’s signs were gone from the main dining room. “Nora, what happened to Henny’s signs?”

“Yeah, that’s the catch in the photography deal. I need to take those down.”

“Oh no! Henny is going to be devastated.”

“She’ll be fine. She doesn’t make more than twenty bucks or so a sign. It’s a hobby, but this place is a business. If I can generate some income off the wall space, I gotta go for it.”

Lauren knew it was tough to run a business year after year. Just look at what her parents went through with the store. Still, she felt bad for Henny. She would try to remember to buy a few of the signs before the end of the day. It was difficult, though, to think of anything once the breakfast rush started. When she was in the zone, her life and thoughts outside of the rhythm of taking orders, filling drinks, and delivering plates to the tables didn’t exist.

That’s why she was oblivious when her past walked through the door.

She rounded the counter, holding two full pitchers of iced tea, freshly sliced lemons floating on top. She didn’t notice Emerson Kincaid until she nearly collided with him, at which time she promptly dropped both pitchers, soaking herself and the floor. Lauren was vaguely aware of busboys and Nora scurrying around her, containing the mess. All she could do was back away, useless.

She was never more thankful than she was in that moment that he and Rory didn’t look very much alike. It was not like seeing a version of Rory walk in the door. But it was very much the physical incarnation of a different life, of a time that had begun to feel more and more like it existed only in her memory. The idea that players from that particular drama still roamed freely, still had lives beyond the brief moment when their worlds intersected with hers, was almost too much to think about.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day of the memorial. A conversation that haunted her.

“I need to talk to you,” Emerson said.

“Why?”

He looked older than she remembered. He was completely gray with deep lines under his eyes like his mother had. Lauren did the math; he was in his mid-forties. But he was still clearly in good shape, his shoulders broad and arms muscular under his T-shirt.

“You still wear your wedding band,” he said.

“I have nothing to say to you, Emerson.”

“This will take five minutes. Where can we talk?”

Lauren, feeling trapped, glanced around the packed restaurant.

“Sir, would you like a seat or are you looking for takeout?” Nora asked, holding menus. Nora obviously knew he was not there for food, that this was personal. Lauren thought of the first time Matt had shown up here and cornered her. That was a cakewalk compared to this.

“I’m so sorry, Nora. He’s a…family friend. Can I take five? Aside from the iced tea, everything else is in order. Just waiting on tickets.”

Nora gave her an Are you sure? look and Lauren nodded.

Lauren felt guilty that her personal drama kept showing up on Nora’s doorstep. But, well, for the past four years, Nora had been telling her she needed to have a life. And this was what Lauren had been afraid of; this was what her life looked like.

Emerson followed her outside and half a block down the street, safely out of earshot of the sidewalk tables.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Remember a few years ago I warned you that someone was trying to make a documentary about Rory? Well, he’s still at it. I just found out he interviewed the Villanova coach last month. I want to make sure you’re not talking to him.”

“Your own mother spoke to him.”

He looked at her in disgust. “I can’t believe it. You are talking to him.”

“I didn’t say that. What I said was that your mother spoke to him.”

“My mother was extremely upset at the idea of some New York film guy exploiting Rory’s legacy. But since we had no legal recourse to stop him, she at least wanted to do her part to represent him in the way we want him represented.”

“You just have an answer for everything. As always.”

Emerson narrowed his eyes. Rarely, in all the years she’d known him, had she been anything less than respectful to the great and powerful Emerson, the man who could change her life with a single conversation. Had changed her life with a single conversation. Yes, there had been a time when she had seen him as a confidant, when she had sought his counsel. When she had bought into Rory’s reverence for him. Her mistake. A tragic, costly mistake.