Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [13]
Sherry waited, hands on hips. In her typical tailored business suit, Sherry looked very much the professional she was. She kept her light blonde hair neatly bobbed, and the intelligent eyes that peered at them through tortoiseshell-framed glasses were without makeup. What softened Sherry’s entire look, however, was her wide grin and outstretched arms. “Been looking forward to this since we set it up. Give me some hugs, you two.”
The three linked arms as they walked up the sidewalk. Vanessa conspiratorially winked at Maureen. “The Clarkson family is into decrees these days—more on that topic later, Sherry,” (eliciting another laugh from Maureen) “so I’m gonna propose yet another one: Today, no salads allowed. Only glorious, fatty entrées for us. And dessert. Something tells me we’re all gonna need the happiness that only fat can bring.”
“Sounds like a divine idea,” Sherry agreed, and all three were laughing together as a smiling host held the door for them.
The cozy, intimate restaurant was a converted home from the late 1800s, and was one of their favorites. As the three walked in, they noticed the intermingling smells of spices and freshly baked bread, at once enticing and soothing. An assortment of brightly colored flowers—large baskets of pansies—looked welcoming on windowsills and tables scattered throughout the gracious interior. They glanced at each other and grinned in anticipation, hugging each other closer within their locked arms.
The host, mirroring their happiness, gushed, “Welcome to The Cottage, ladies.”
“Thank you. We’re meeting one more, Emilie Esteban. I think she’s arrived?” Vanessa inquired.
“Yes, I believe she has. Follow me right this way, please.”
Leading them to a corner table, he motioned to a secluded niche where they would have a good deal of privacy. There was still much bustling about as they distractedly greeted Emilie, decided who would sit where and settled in, at last giving Emilie their total attention. And then simultaneously, as though choreographed, all gaiety came to an abrupt end.
Emilie appeared stricken, shrunken, weak. Her shoulders were slumped over, head tilted down, hands clenched together in her lap. When she did glance up, they saw that her eyes were red and swollen, her face raw and chapped, every flaw of her deathly pale skin—wrinkles, sags, lines—highlighted. Emilie looked like an old woman.
Maureen reached over and clutched Emilie’s hands. “What is it? What’s happened, Em?”
Emilie lifted her chin, but closed her eyes as she slowly shook her head. The silence was unbearable. And so they filled it, voices overlapping with peppered questions.
“Is it one of the kids?”
“Is it Ed? Is his business in trouble somehow?”
“Has someone been in an accident?”
“Oh, Em … is it you? Have you been to a doctor? Is that why you missed the meeting this morning?”
“Let us help.”
“Tell us what to do.”
“Emilie?”
When she finally spoke, the flatness of Emilie’s voice was like a generated recording, devoid of personality and emotion. “Ed’s met another woman. He’s moving out.” She glanced down at her wrist, checked the time on her watch. “Right now, as a matter of fact.”
They stared at her, mouths open. And though they didn’t realize it, each one held her breath, features frozen in disbelief.
“He told me just as I was about to go out the door this morning. Oh, sorry I wasn’t there today, Maureen.” An aside, eerie in its calm. “Says he’s in love—for the first time in his life. And so he knows this is what God wants him to do. Go to be with her, of course.” Emilie began to speak faster, slurring one word into the next. “After all these years … he was living for me and the kids, he says … sacrificing his own personal happiness … and finally it’s his turn in life to be happy. So he says now … with God’s blessing, he says … that …”
Emilie stopped then, allowing the words to slip away as though she were a music box that gradually wound