Now and Then Read online

  Now and Then

  By Brenda Rothert

  Chapter 1

  The color blue had a bad rap, Emma Carson decided as she pulled her paintbrush away from the canvas, studying it. Sure, blue symbolized feeling, well … blue, but painting with it always reminded her of a clear summer sky, full of promise. Few colors could convey such a wide range of emotions just based on shade. Pale blue felt light and serene. Bright blue was bold and striking.

  The insistent blare of a car horn outside snatched her back to reality, and Emma turned toward the clock, groaning when she saw how late it was.

  Shit. Painting before work isn’t a good idea.

  She slipped into her shoes and grabbed her bags, cursing the deadbolt that only stuck when she was trying to open it in a hurry.

  Halfway down the final flight of stairs from her third floor apartment, she realized she’d forgotten her phone. She glanced at her watch, swore under her breath, and raced back up.

  Her heels pounded loudly on the wood stairs while she fished through her purse for her keys. Lipstick, beaten-up paperback, the paintbrush she’d lost … a spoon? And finally, the keys.

  “Vincent, move!” she ordered the gray cat that headed for her ankles when she pushed the door open. He gave her a look of feline indignation and stalked away. Emma dug through a scattered pile of paperwork on her kitchen counter, pushing aside a stack of folded laundry and vowing to clean her apartment that night.

  No phone. She shook her head with frustration at how utterly and completely reliant she was on the thing. Her train left in seven minutes, and running -- in heels -- was the only way she’d make it. If she didn’t fall and break any bones on the way.

  “The charger!” she cried, running to her bedroom and sighing with relief when she saw her phone at the end of its plug on her bedside table. She swiped it and ran for the door.

  By the time she made it down all three flights of stairs for the second time, a layer of sweat coated her skin. She held her bag against her body, preparing to break into a run, when her phone sang out the melody that signified a call from her sister. She rolled her eyes as she pressed it to her ear.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Why didn’t you answer the first time I called?” Layla demanded.

  “I don’t know. I might have been asleep, or maybe because I forgot my phone and had to go back for it.”

  “Are you running? You sound out of breath.”

  “Yes, I’m running,” Emma clipped. “I’m super late and I’m about to miss my train.”

  “Em, you need a fucking car. I don’t know how you survive in this city without one.”

  “Well, graphic designers make less money than attorneys, Layla. I can’t afford a car.”

  “Did you oversleep again?”

  “Kind of. I meant to get up earlier, and then I started painting and I lost track of time … excuse me!” Emma called to a cluster of people blocking the sidewalk as she dashed past.

  “I’ve been up for four hours. I did a spin class at five and got to the office at seven.”

  “That’s great, Layla. Is that what you called to tell me?”

  “No. I was going to tell you about my date last night, since your love life exists vicariously through mine these days.”

  “Can I … sorry. I’m sorry. Can I get by you?” Emma asked a couple in her path. “Shit, I’m gonna miss the train!”

  “So I went out with Paul again, the guy I met at my gym. And it was okay, I guess. He’s not that deep, but he has an amazing body. I didn’t plan on sleeping with him, but we reached that point in the night where there was nothing left to talk about, and he gave me one of those expectant looks, so I said fuck it and slept with him--”

  “Agh! No!” Emma cried, sprinting toward the closing train doors. She dove inside, pulling her laptop bag in behind her in the nick of time.

  “You okay?” a silver-haired man asked, steadying her by the arm as she panted.

  “Yeah…thanks,” she said.

  “—sleeping together really implies exclusivity anymore, do you?” Layla continued. “I mean, it’s okay for me to still be seeing other people, right?”

  “I think so,” Emma said, sinking into a train seat and pushing her long, dark hair out of her face. “But what’s the point? If you’re into him enough to sleep with him, why would you want to see anyone else?”

  “You know why, baby sister. I’m not just dating, I’m interviewing. I will be married within the next two years and I haven’t met my husband yet.”

  “Why does it matter if it happens within two years?” Emma asked, exasperated.

  “Because of my list. I’m 26, and the list says I’ll be married by 28.”

  The list. Emma rolled her eyes skyward at her sister’s mention of it. She had immortalized her life goals on a piece of Hello Kitty paper at the age of 16, and the tattered sheet was still stashed in her wallet.

  “You just finished law school and started working. Give yourself time to settle in,” Emma said.

  “The list hasn’t failed me yet. I have to go, I’ve got a meeting. Are we meeting for drinks tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have a good day, Em. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  She hurried off the train when the doors whooshed open, running the short distance to Wright Design. Just as she reached the front door of the tall downtown office building, her phone rang. Emma cringed when she saw her boss’ name, Aaron Wright, on the screen of her phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Emmaline.” His deep voice always sounded smug and a little too smooth.

  “Good morning.”

  “I can’t stand the thought of drinking the road sludge from that coffee machine in the break room. Can you stop by the place across the street and get me a large black coffee?”

  “Sure,” Emma said, turning around.

  “Make it snappy and I won’t even notice you’re late,” Aaron said. Emma didn’t have to see his face to know he was smirking. He often smirked from the oversize leather chair in his office while staring through the large glass wall that overlooked the open work area.

  Emma forced a laugh as she ended the conversation, hurrying across the street to the chain coffee shop. It was a late summer day in downtown Chicago, still muggy but holding a promise of relief soon.

  The coffee shop’s line of customers was long but moving quickly. Emma checked out news headlines on her phone while she waited, ordering her coffees when she reached the counter. She took in the deep aroma of the shop, intoxicated. While going to school in Paris, she’d become hopelessly addicted to good coffee. Good pastries were now a weakness too, but she was trying to resist them so she could lose the five pounds she’d put on in the past couple months.

  “There you go,” a baseball-cap clad young woman said, pushing a carrying tray of two drinks over the counter.

  “Thanks,” Emma said, sliding a bill into her tip jar. She balanced the drink tray in one hand while taking a sip of her latte.

  She wove her way back through the long line of fellow caffeine addicts, her mind on the design samples she needed to finish. As she reached for the door, a hard shove in her back sent her lurching sideways, and with her hands full, she had no way to steady herself.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” a large man muttered as he exited the shop.

  It happened in slow motion in her mind, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. The tray of coffee launched into the air before smacking into a bystander standing in line. Emma fell against him, squishing the tray of scalding brews between them.

  She pulled her hot, wet shirt away from her chest, too embarrassed to look at the man she’d spilled into.

  “Are you okay?�
� he asked.

  “Yeah. God, I’m so sorry,” she said, wishing she could crawl into a hole as other patrons stared at them.

  “It’s okay … Em?” he asked, disbelief etched on his face. Equally shocked, she stared into the gray-blue eyes that still captivated her, though she hadn’t seen them in years.

  “Cole?”

  Then -- 12 years earlier

  Emma bounded down the stairs with the Carson family dog, Hugo, on her heels.

  “Mom, can I go to the mall with Layla?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush.

  “Layla’s going to the mall?” her mother asked. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “She’s coming down to ask you. Amy’s Mom is taking them. Can I go too?”

  “Mom,” Layla said as she entered the kitchen. “Can I go to the mall with Amy?”

  “Sure. Emma wants to come, too.”

  “Mom,” Layla said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t want to drag a 12-year-old around all day. We’re looking for ribbons for cheerleading camp.”

  “Em, you stay here with me,” their mother said. “I’ll take you to the mall soon. You can help me bake cookies for the neighbors moving in across the street.”

  “They’re moving in?” Emma asked, excited. “Do they have any girls? Did you see any?”

  “I saw one, but she’s older than you, maybe 18 or so. There’s a boy, too.”

  “Is that it?” Emma’s disappointed whine elicited a glare from her mother.

  “She’s pretty,” Layla murmured, looking out the window at the house across the street. Emma wandered over to stand beside her sister and they both eyed the blonde girl on the front porch swing. She sat with her legs curled up under her, a blank expression on her face.

  “Why is she just sitting there while the rest of them are moving stuff?” Emma asked Layla.

  “I don’t know,” Layla said, shrugging. “It’s kinda weird, though. Mom, can I have some money?”

  “Sure, get some from my purse. Take enough for the ribbons and some lunch.”

  Emma glared at Layla, still wishing she was going to the mall, too.

  “Emma, do you want to mix?” her mother asked, glancing at her.

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “Dani’s not getting back from camp for two more weeks, and I’m bored.”

  “Want me to take you to the library later?”

  “Okay … what does ‘denouement’ mean?”

  “Denouement?” her mother asked, surprised. “Um … where did you hear it?”

  “In a poem from a book I got at the library.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. Your Dad probably knows, you can ask him when he gets home. What kind of poetry book was it?”

  “Poems by Sylvia Plath.”

  “Sylvia Plath?” her mother turned, concern etched into the fine lines on her face. “Isn’t she a little dark? You’re awfully young to be reading that kind of thing.”

  “I like it,” Emma said, sneaking a taste of the sweet cookie dough. “It’s different than other poetry.”

  “Don’t eat the raw dough, Emma! You’ll get sick! Honestly.”

  Emma mixed quietly, considering what books she wanted to check out from the library. After the cookies had baked and cooled, her mother lined them up neatly in a decorative box, folding a sheet of tissue paper around them and finishing the box with a neat white bow.

  “Won’t they just have to untie that to eat them?” Emma asked, confused.

  “Well, yes,” her mother said, slightly agitated. “But it’s about the presentation.”

  Emma nodded, wanting to understand.

  When they walked across the street together, Emma eyed the furniture being unloaded by movers. The family who had moved out of the brick two-story only had young children, and she’d been glad to see them go. Their five-year-old daughter once told Emma she looked like a boy after she got her hair cut short, and she never liked her after that.

  “Hi!” a woman with shoulder length brown hair called as they walked up the sidewalk to the porch. “I’m Jenny Marlowe.”

  “Hi, I’m Eliza Carson, and this is my daughter Emmaline. We brought you this.”

  “How nice, thank you! Nice to meet you, Emmaline. How old are you?”

  “12.”

  “You’re younger than our kids. Cole is 15 and Shay is 19. She’s on summer break from college.”

  Shay was still on the porch swing, and Emma saw that Layla had been right – she was pretty. She was tall and willowy, her long hair in need of brushing. Emma shrank back when Shay’s bright blue gaze pierced her. There was no warmth there, and it was unnerving.

  “Is there anything we can do to help you get settled?” Eliza offered.

  “I think we’re doing okay, thanks … Tom, Cole, come meet our new neighbors!”

  Emma’s gaze locked onto the teenage boy who approached. He was tall, with long limbs, shaggy dark blond hair and eyes that reminded her of the sky on a cloudy day.

  “Hi,” he said, grinning and reaching for their hands to shake them. Emma’s eyes widened as she stared at him, transfixed.

  “This is Mrs. Carson and her daughter Emmaline,” Jenny Marlowe said.

  “We have a 14-year-old daughter, too – Layla,” Emma’s Mom said. “We don’t want to keep you. But once you get settled in, we’d love to have you all over for dinner.”

  “Thanks! It was so nice to meet you both.”

  Emma turned as they walked back down the flower-lined sidewalk. Cole was wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He was the cutest boy she’d ever seen. When he’d smiled at her, she’d felt like her insides were melting. Maybe it was okay that her new neighbor was a boy after all.

  Now

  Emma forgot her coffee-soaked shirt as she gaped at Cole. It didn’t seem possible, but he had gotten better looking. His tall, broad frame was more filled out than she remembered. His blond hair, which he’d worn long and shaggy in high school, was now cropped in a short, GQ style. But the blue-gray eyes that had first melted her heart all those years ago hadn’t changed a bit.

  She shook her head with frustration when she saw the large, dark stain on the starched white shirt he wore beneath his tailored pinstriped navy suit.

  “I’m so sorry, Cole, you’re a mess,” she said.

  “It’s no big deal, I keep an extra suit at the office. I’m sorry that asshole knocked you over.”

  He followed her to a tall table, where she tried to soak the coffee out of her shirt with napkins, to no avail.

  “It’s been so long,” he said, smiling warmly. “You look incredible.”

  “Thanks,” she said, flushing. “You, too. Do you work nearby?”

  “I’m at Murphy and Kline, a law firm a block over.”

  “My Mom mentioned you were going to law school. That’s great, Cole.”

  “Do you work in the area?”

  “I’m across the street at Wright Design.” Emma was conscious of touching her breasts in front of him as she tried to wipe coffee from her shirt.

  “Small world, right?” he smiled. “I haven’t seen you since your high school graduation party. How long has it been?”

  “I guess that was … six years ago. I was in Paris five years for school and I’ve been back here for a year.”

  “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you. I’ve been at Murphy and Kline almost three months, and I come here all the time.”

  There was a pause, and Emma looked down at the pile of wet napkins on the table. Her heart pounded uncontrollably, and she tried to remember what her hair and makeup looked like. Probably not great, given the rush she’d been in this morning. Cole Marlowe’s effect on her was unchanged. She’d regressed into an awkward, stumbling adolescent.

  “Do you have time for some coffee?” he asked. “It’d be great to catch up with you.”

  How many times had she dreamed of Cole Marlowe asking her to get together? Hundreds. She
’d played out so many scenes during her high school years where he realized that his dream girl was actually his neighbor from across the street, though she was three years younger than him.

  The woman who had served Emma’s coffee walked out with a fresh tray, handing it over.

  “I saw what happened and made you these,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Emma said, reaching into her purse.

  “No charge,” the woman said, waving.

  “Thanks. At least take this,” Emma said, handing her a five. She pocketed it and smiled as she disappeared behind the counter.

  “I’m actually just on a coffee run for my boss,” Emma told Cole, gesturing at the tray. “He’ll be upset if I don’t get back with it.”

  “Sure. Do you need help with that?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  Cole followed her to the door and held it open.

  “Good to see you, Em,” he said. She nodded and grinned foolishly.

  As she left the shop, she exhaled deeply, trying to calm her thudding heart. Cole Marlowe hadn’t crossed her mind in a while. But just one look into those blue-gray eyes and she was weak in the knees again. She thought of his broad smile and deep, warm voice the entire way up to her office.

  Aaron winked at Emma when she handed over his coffee, and she smiled politely.

  “How are you this morning, Emmaline?” he asked, taking a sip from the thick paper cup.

  “I’m good, how are you?”

  “Not bad. Ready to get this new campaign in gear. I’m glad you’ll be working on it. I like your eye. I want to meet about it at … maybe 11?”

  Emma nodded. Aaron was around 50, and she’d liked him from the first minute of her job interview with him almost a year ago. She’d been honest – her passion was painting, not graphic design, but she needed a job to pay the bills. Aaron had seen a degree from the Sorbonne on her resume and been intrigued. He’d hired her on the spot.

  It was working out well for Emma, who used her artistic skills to design logos, graphics and other materials for businesses. It didn’t fulfill her the way painting did, but it was fun at times and it got her into a social setting, unlike painting alone in her studio apartment.