Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(19)
“That is not what I’m doing.” Although it totally was and they both knew it. “Between Violet getting suspended and my dad interviewing, I won’t have time to be a gofer.”
“You won’t be a gofer. We’re talking stocking the refrigerator and picking up prescriptions,” Harper said, making it clear she knew exactly what kind of interview she’d sent her on. “And what if it gets you your truck faster?”
“There’s always next year.” Wow, saying that hurt.
Harper lowered her voice to that disappointed level that made Emerson squirm. “Two years ago you didn’t apply because your mom was sick. Last year it was because your family needed you.”
“They did,” Emerson defended. She couldn’t even imagine what would have happened to her family if she hadn’t stepped in and picked up the pieces. She thought Harper would have understood that. “Violet wasn’t even talking to humans, my dad slept all day and stared at the garden all night, and—”
Harper placed a silencing hand on Emerson’s arm. “I know. I know what it was like, what you went through, and how incredibly selfless you have been. Just like I know that if you don’t make some space for yourself, you’ll be in this same place in five years. Maybe even ten.”
Wasn’t that exactly what she’d told her dad the other day?
“As your best friend, I can’t let you do that.”
Not one to be told what she could or couldn’t do, Emerson was about to explain where Harper could shove that BFF entitlement when Harper reached behind the counter and pulled a weathered notebook out of her backpack.
Emerson felt her stomach bottom out.
It wasn’t just any notebook. It was small, leather bound, and the spine was worn from use. Across the front in blue script was The Greek Streatery Fleet.
“Where did you get this?” She took the journal and ran a finger down its side. She didn’t need to open it to know what lay beneath the cover. Every family recipe, every idea, and every dream she and her mother had made for their streatery was in her palms. “I thought I had lost it when I cleaned Mom’s things out of the attic.”
“Your mom gave it to me before she passed,” Harper said quietly. “Made me promise that if you had the chance to do something amazing, I wouldn’t let you talk yourself out of it. So I’m playing the mom card, Em. What would Lillianna want you to do?”
Emerson swallowed hard as she opened the cover, and her eyes burned. There on the first page, framed by chef’s-hat scrapbooking trim, was the hundred-year-old handwritten recipe that had started it all: her great-grandmother’s baklava. Beneath the recipe was a photo of a young Emerson, standing on a kitchen chair, helping her mother glaze the phyllo layers with honey. And beneath that, in beautiful script, was her mother’s favorite saying:
If ever in doubt, eat the whole tray.
It was still dark when Dax awoke, hot and sweaty and tangled in the sheets, gasping for breath as if he’d just had a weekend-long sex marathon with a bossy little chef. And he wished to hell it had been a smoking-hot sexathon that had his heart pounding out of his chest.
He threw the covers off and grabbed for his knee, hoping to catch the cramp before it settled into his entire leg. Too late. His muscles tightened and a thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body.
Dax looked at the bottle of pills on his nightstand. Completely full, not a single one missing. He could take one now. This was the exact kind of situation the doctor had prescribed them for, to take the edge off the pain. Problem was, it would take the edge off everything—and pain was the only thing keeping him grounded.
It was also an acceptable alternative to the memories.
He swung his legs over the bed and sat up, letting the cold air from the open window roll over his body, every sharp gust bringing his heart rate closer to normal. He straightened his left leg, nearly passing out as a shot of bone-gritting heat exploded from behind his kneecap. He rotated it to the right, then holy hell to the left, just like his doctor showed him, and gave the stretch exactly two minutes to overpower the cramp.
When that didn’t work, he cursed his weakness, kissed the extra two hours of sleep good-bye, and grabbed his running shoes.
The only thing that was going to help was a fast ride on his bike. Not turning his leg like some ballerina.
Giving his knee a few minutes to adjust to holding his weight, Dax pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed a T-shirt from the hamper, and—smelling the pits first—tugged it on while heading toward the front door. One step outside and he knew he’d made the right decision. Sitting idle, being surrounded by walls and memories, was slowly driving him crazy.
He stepped off the front porch of his rental, a 1920s Craftsman bungalow that sat right off Main Street, and grimaced through the stiffness as he headed down the driveway.
The early morning dew still covered the ground and glistened off the oak trees lining the road, leaving the air cool and fresh, almost cleansing to his lungs. When Dax had been in the Middle East, roasting in an army-issued bunk, he’d dreamed about mornings like this. When the only people awake were the vineyard workers, and the hot air balloons were slowly rising off the valley floor, and the world seemed at peace.
Only now that Dax was home, surrounded by what seemed to be a snapshot of one of his favorite memories, he wasn’t sure how to tap into that peace.