about those kinds of guys made Emma very nervous. No wonder there was that sign on her door. Something had happened to her that involved a big man. That much Sophie was sure of. Thank God Josh and Arty were not imposing guys.
“Remember Marty Stephens from elementary school?” Sophie asked.
Emma drew her brows down in a frown and finally nodded. “He wasn’t even as tall as we were, and he had trouble learning.”
“Josh is kind of like that, maybe five feet three inches tall, only he’s brilliant. He’ll be our landlord—he owns the park. Arty told me he has the IQ of a genius, but he’s really shy and kind of keeps to himself. Don’t let that fool you, though—he’s so kind. He’s an artist, too. He works with pencil and ink instead of paints, though, and sells his stuff at the gift shops in that area. He’s never made it big, but he doesn’t care, because he hates crowds. I wanted to set him up with a gallery showing, but he told me that money wasn’t all that important to him, either. He’s got family money, so he doesn’t depend on his art for his income.”
“Marty was awkward, too. I felt sorry for him,” Emma said. “The kids picked on him something awful.”
“Until I knocked a couple of them on their butts.” Sophie laughed.
Emma didn’t laugh with her, but at least her hands went still. Sophie remembered that Emma had been so excited about her art classes and her freedom that first semester of college. Those were the days when she was still hoping to be a famous artist someday, and Sophie had had no doubt that she would be. She had the money from her parents to back her until she got a start, whereas Sophie had had to work anywhere from two to four jobs to support herself until she finally sold a couple of paintings.
“I was so focused on getting you out of that place that I didn’t think to ask if you are on medicine that we needed to pick up at the desk or get refilled,” Sophie said.
“The whole reason for me going to the center was so I could get off my pills and only take supplements. Mother is on a healthy kick these days. No sugar, no carbs, lots of exercise and vitamins,” Emma said. “I won’t be missing anything but more of those therapy sessions when they try to get me to remember something that I have locked away in my brain, and a sleeping pill at night that never works anyway.”
“Why do you need sleeping pills?” Sophie asked.
“So that I don’t have nightmares and wake up in a cold sweat. I didn’t tell Nancy that the pills weren’t working. I’ve never told anyone.”
“Why not?” Sophie shrugged. “Maybe they could prescribe a better pill.”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t want any of that stuff, or any of the therapy sessions, either. I’m not sure I want to remember what it is I’ve got locked away. The only thing I’m sure about is that the only good times I’ve had were when you and Rebel were in my life. I want that feeling back. If Nancy knew I was having bad dreams, she would tell Mother, and I wouldn’t ever get out of there.”
“Where is home now? Do you have a house, an apartment?” Sophie asked.
“I still have my suite upstairs in my folks’ house,” Emma said.
“Pink satin and white lace?” Sophie asked.
Emma almost smiled again. “You remembered.”
Sophie reached across the console again and laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Of course I did. I always thought it was a beautiful room, and to tell the truth, I wanted one just like it.”
“You can have it. I hate it.” Emma’s tone could have put frost on the windshield.
“What kind of room would you want if you could change it?” Sophie asked.
“I’ve wanted a tiny house of my own for years, and I want it decorated in neutral shades with some orange and yellow accents to brighten it up,” Emma answered. “But Mother says that will make my problems even worse. You remember she always said bright colors are bohemian.”
Sophie laughed and gave Emma’s bony shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Stick with me, and you can have a tiny house—and it’ll even have orange countertops.”
“I think I’ll like that just fine.” Emma really smiled that time.
Josh Corlen took the time to turn on the air conditioner for Sophie and then went to his own