In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(110)

“Hey, Pops,” Jack said.

Pops’s eyes fluttered open. He gestured weakly to his face, and Jeremy leaned over and took the mask off. “Proud of you,” he whispered, looking at Dad, then Jack. “So proud of my boys.”

Then his eyes closed again, and the beeping of the monitor slowed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

TO SAY THAT Emmaline was writhing in guilt would not have been an exaggeration.

Shit. How could she have decided to mute Jack’s phone? Without even asking him? For the tenth time that morning, she scrubbed a hand over her face.

She was still at his house, though she had to go to work in half an hour. But she’d stayed, hoping to see him first. The coffeemaker was set up, and she’d even baked somewhere around 4:00 a.m.—an almond coffee cake, her grandmother’s recipe, and one of the few things Em could bake from memory. She’d imagined Jack coming home and telling her his grandpa was okay, what a night, had she baked, all was certainly forgiven, no worries on the phone thing.

But he didn’t come home, and he didn’t call or text, either, and she didn’t dare interrupt. She wasn’t family, after all.

The rain had turned to snow at some point, the fat, heavy, discouraging snow of late winter, not enough to be a real storm, more than enough to be depressing.

Sarge erupted into excitable barks, and Emmaline jolted from the table where she was sitting. Sarge’s tail wagged and he whined and pawed at the floor-to-ceiling window.

It was Hadley, walking up Jack’s driveway, wearing a shiny black raincoat.

Super.

Emmaline opened the door just as the other woman knocked. “Surprise!” Hadley said, opening the raincoat.

She was wearing a fire-engine-red bustier and tiny scrap of panties.

“Hi there,” Em said. “Nice underwear.” That was a perfect body, all right. Em guessed her thigh and Hadley’s waist had about the same circumference.

“Where’s Jack? I need to talk to him. Right now.”

Uh-oh.

Hadley was drunk.

Her eye makeup was smeared, and while she didn’t quite look like Heath Ledger as the Joker, it was close. Her red, red lipstick had been crookedly applied, and the usually smooth and perfect blond hair was matted in the back. Despite the cold, she wasn’t wearing stockings. Or sensible shoes...those had to be four-inch heels, and her feet were nearly blue.

“Come in,” Emmaline said. “Jack’s not here.”

“Well, I was already at Blue Heron, and no one’s there, so don’t you lie to me! I wanna see him! He’s my husband, after all!”

“Not anymore he’s not,” Em said. She wasn’t about to tell Hadley about poor Mr. Holland. She’d end up going to the hospital, and Em didn’t think Jack would want that one bit.

But you know what? This was good practice for crisis negotiations. Half the calls they got were because someone was under the influence. First rule of negotiations: establish rapport. “Come on in, Hadley. Those shoes are amazing, but your feet must be freezing.”

“I don’t hafta do what you say,” Hadley slurred.

“No, of course not. But are you sure? It’s nice and warm in here. There’s coffee.”

“Take a bite of my pink...Southern...ass.” She poked a finger against Em’s chest with each of the last three words.

Em smothered a smile. Hard to commit to active listening and empathy with a statement like that. “You must be pretty frustrated,” she said.

“Go to hell. Where’s Jack?”

“He’s not here. I promise.”

“Are you two sleeping together?”

Ruh-roh. Emmaline paused.

“No!” Hadley shrieked, guessing the answer. “How dare you steal my husband, you Yankee slut!”

Clearly, stating the obvious wasn’t going to help here. Em opened the door wider. “Hadley, come on inside and we can talk. You, uh, you have a point.”

“No! You’re not the boss of me! And if I can’t have Jack, then I may as well go off and die!” She burst into noisy sobs.

For the love of the baby Jesus. “Hadley. Let’s have some coffee, and you can, um, see Lazarus. Right? You must miss him. You’re a cat person, right?”

“I hate that animal! I hate him! Jack! Jack! I need you! If you don’t come out right now, I swear I’m gonna make you sorry!”

With that, she picked up a rock and threw it at the house, and it was like she was channeling Derek Jeter firing to first base, because there was a smash as a window broke.

Clearly, that hadn’t been planned, because Hadley’s mouth dropped open. She cut her wide eyes to Emmaline. “Oopsy,” she said, then bolted, wobbling crazily in her ridiculous shoes. Instead of down the driveway toward the road, she ran into the woods.

This was just great. With a curse, Em ran after her. This was not how she wanted to spend her morning, and God forbid Jack come up the driveway to see his girlfriend (who’d turned off his phone to make sure their shagging wouldn’t be interrupted, preventing him from being with his family during a crisis) chasing his ex-wife (who was drunk off her pink Southern ass and nearly naked).

For a drunk, Hadley was fast. “Hadley!” Em yelled. “Knock it off! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Or freeze to death. It was raw today. Hadley’s coat flapped like awkward wings. And what was that about making Jack sorry, huh? Aside from breaking his window, that was?