anything—look after Tessa or whatever—I’ll be there for you. Just don’t ask me to lie to Dave.”
“Never. Thank you. And I so want to be your birthing partner. Please don’t cut me off.”
“I won’t. So will you have another child at all?”
“Someday, maybe. You must have passed the first trimester by now. Are you showing yet?”
Emma lifted the hem of her T-shirt and smoothed her hand over the slightly curving skin. She’d only had a touch of morning sickness this time and it was almost over. “I’m starting to get a baby bump. Probably no one else would notice, but I do.”
“Are you going to find out what gender it is?”
“No, I don’t care. As long as it’s healthy it doesn’t matter if I have a girl or boy.” Emma picked up an empty teacup from the coffee table and carried it into the kitchen. “Hey, how about you and I go to dinner and a movie one night, just us girls?”
“I would love that! Let’s make it Friday. It’s the only day Dave doesn’t work late and can look after Tessa.” Alana hesitated. “Are you sure you can spare the time?”
Emma felt bad. She was guilty of the thing she’d resented about Darcy, not making time for family.
“Of course I can.” She went to her computer and clicked to the first spreadsheet. Virtually every day was blocked in solid. But if she shaved off an hour from study time and an hour from the gym and went to bed a couple of hours later... Damn, she had to get up at six o’clock Saturday morning for work. She glanced around the room at the mess she needed to clean up. She hadn’t done housework all week.
What the hell. Vacuuming could wait and sleep was overrated. “Friday would be great.”
She hung up and focused on her spreadsheet, making small amendments here and there. Just a few more minutes at this then she might start reading her textbooks. It had been years since she’d studied theory, and a refresher would stand her in good stead once classes started in a couple of weeks.
The phone rang again. She was never going to get finished. If it was Tracey, she would tell her she’d talk to her at work tomorrow. “Hello?”
“Emma, it’s Marge.” Her ex-mother-in-law’s voice was gentle, hopeful, caring. Quietly assertive. Only she could wrap so much emotion into a few words.
Emma hadn’t seen or talked to Marge in months and then only in passing when she ran into the other woman in the post office. “Darcy told you.”
“I wanted you to know that if ever you need anything, you can call on me.” She paused. “It takes a village to raise a child. Or at the very least, an extended family.”
“So I’ve heard.” Emma sighed. Marge had been wonderful when she’d had Holly. And she agreed with Marge’s saying, We women have to stick together. But if she took her up on her offer, she would get sucked into the Lewis family. Which she loved, but it would mean frequent contact with Darcy. As much as she cared about Marge she didn’t think she could handle that if she and Darcy weren’t together.
“Um, thank you,” Emma added. “That’s really kind of you. I’ll let you know.”
There was a short shocked pause as Marge absorbed her brush-off. “All right, dear. I’ll be here.”
“Say hi to Roy for me.”
“He’ll be pleased you thought of him.”
Emma ended the call, feeling guilty. Marge cared about her and had always been supportive. Whereas Emma was being a wee bit selfish for wanting things her own way. She was doing it to protect herself, but that didn’t make her feel any better.
July, midwinter
DARCY STOOD IN the doorway of the pub and watched workmen unload red velvet couches and chairs, antique coffee tables, long gilt mirrors and old-fashioned oil paintings. The wine bar was going to look like a brothel.
For months builders had worked feverishly on the site. They’d gutted the interior then replastered, painted, put in new flooring and lighting. In spite of all that activity, part of Darcy hadn’t really believed it was going to happen. And yet, tomorrow was the grand opening.
A flyer drifted along the sidewalk with a gust of wind. It was an advertisement offering free finger food and fifty percent off all drinks on opening day. Darcy picked it up and stuffed it in the overflowing garbage bin. The damn things had been littering the town all week.
Fifty percent. His profit margin