Страница 14

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes."

He took his own seat, still doubtful. "Do you need me to massage it?"

The suggestion made her eyes go wide. "No! No, really, there's no need to bother."

"I have strong hands: I could take care of it in a flash. It'll be gone before you know it."

She grimaced. "I doubt that. Trust me, it's going to be fine. Let's have our salads, shall we?"

He let it go, turning his attention to his plate. It was mixed baby greens with thin slices of pear, crumbled gorgon-zola, and candied pecans. He'd had something similar in a restaurant, and Emma's version was just as good. "This is delicious."

"Thanks."

After this scintillating start, conversation lagged. Russ racked his brain to come up with something that might be of interest to a twenty-six-year-old woman.

Twenty-six-year-old? He couldn't come up with anything to say to a woman, period. His life revolved around work, hockey, a bit of charity fund-raising, and sitting in his re-cliner reading the paper. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything significantly different. He used to have hobbies: he used to play classical guitar; used to play a mean game of backgammon; used to camp and hike and had backpacked around Europe and southeast Asia for six months; he even used to dink around in his wood shop, making bad furniture.

Emma made a little noise in her throat, and he realized that the silence had gone for much longer than it should have. "Shall I put on some music?" she asked.

"Sure." Anything to fill up the silence. It would probably be teeny bopper music that he'd never heard. Just as long as it wasn't rap or hip-hop.

When she'd chosen a few disks and pressed play, though, Dean Martin's "Sway" came out of the small speakers.

He laughed. "This is way before my generation. I hope you don't think I'm that old!"

"Stop with the 'old' stuff, will you?" she said, sitting down again. "You're in your freakin' thirties. Big deal."

"I stand corrected."

"Good." She smiled. "And I happen to like old standards, and this song in particular."

"It's a great song."

"My mother used to play it and dance 'round the living room with our pomeranian in her arms. I'm not sure the dog thought much of the experience. It was a terrible dog; peed on everything."

"So your mother loves Dean Martin?"

"She says it was 'their' song, hers and my dad's. He died when I was nine."

"I'm so sorry." He imagined her mother dancing around the living room with the lapdog in her arms, swaying to the voice of Dean Martin as she longed for her husband. The image cut to that part of him that still grieved for James, and he felt his throat tighten. "So sorry."

Emma shrugged, her smile sad. "Life's full of surprises."

"How's your mother now?"

"She remarried a few years ago and lives in the Midwest now. She's happy."

"It must have been hard for you, losing him at such a young age."

"It was bewildering. Frightening. Mostly I remember the feeling of chaos; that all normality had been destroyed. I was afraid we'd have to move."

"Did you?"

"No. Grandma came to live with us. She somehow made us all feel safe; that things were going to be okay. And we were, mostly. My brother got into a lot of trouble at school and had a few wild years, but he turned out okay. He lives in Kirkland now, with his wife and baby daughter."

"Is your grandmother still around?"

She shook her head. "She died a couple years ago."

"That's a lot of death to have experienced, for someone as young as you."

"I think it helps me to appreciate the present. At least I tell myself it does. What about you? Have you lost anyone you cared about?"