SMELLING ROSES

Chapter Twenty-Two

The long, gray stone driveway looked like it never been touched as she glided her car to a stop. Moments like these were when I wished I knew how to drive. Save myself the painfully silent ride.

My phone buzzed when I got out.

Wren: Don't let her piss you off. Call me as soon as you're done. I'll take you home.

Thank God. I'd rather walk home than have her take me. An unseasonably cold breeze made me shiver. Emilia's eyes dropped to my phone. She stepped forward like she wanted to see, but hesitated. Turning on her heels, she walked up the steps, and I followed behind.

Her home was huge. With large windows decorated by ruby shutters, you could take a peek inside. I could see the fireplace and white and black theme.

The outside greenery balanced the front of the house and framed the walkway. Two flower beds laid on each side of the steps. The stone steps matched the driveway and led to the front door. My heel sunk into one of the cracks as she looked down at me. Quickly finding my balance, I rushed up the stairs. I could see all her thoughts through her eyes. How I was gangling, disheveled, and in over my head. I offered her a look back, hoping it read: I think you're fugly.

She ushered me inside, and my stomach growled again. It smelled like my mother's meatloaf and instantly brought back memories of my childhood. I wish she was here with me. She would handle this so much better than me. She could rise above anything, but even on my best day, I didn't possess that superpower. Especially when I was pissed.

Emilia kicked her shoes off in the middle of the floor and scurried around the corner into the kitchen.

"I trust you haven't eaten yet," she called from the stove. "I made supper. It'll be ready in a few."

Suspicious. She completely changed. Now, she wanted to be hospitable and treat me like a guest. Why? What was her angle?

As dishes clattered from the kitchen, I took a mini tour. She had an open floor plan. Her glass sliding door overlooked the lawn. It was official. She loved gardening.

Her kitchen had black and white checkered tiles and monochrome marble counters. The breakfast bar was the only seating available. No dining room, but numerous nooks for reading or day drinking. She kept an overwhelming wine collection at the top of her kitchen cabinets.

On the right, a small personal chair sat in the middle of a gray area rug. A forgotten glass of white wine laid on the coffee table. Not to mention the seventy-five-inch television and fireplace to keep her company. I figured Wren didn't visit but did her daughters?

She was alone, it seemed, all the time.

Just above the television was a huge family photo. Oddly placed, but probably perfect for her. Wren's three sisters stood side by side, shortest to tallest. One sporting a missing tooth, another with an iPod attached to her arm, and the eldest, smiling with all her heart.

Behind them, Emilia stood with her voluminous brown curls and in a silk white dress. She laughed. Eyes closed, head back, and beaming smile. I could almost hear it. And by her side was her husband. He had shaggy, blonde hair. He wore a cut-off sleeved shirt and ripped jeans. And up in the air was Wren. Just a toddler. He looked down at his father with the biggest smile. His dad held out his hands, ready to catch him before he fell.

I'd imagined Emilia probably sat and looked at that picture more than she watched television.

"Not what you were expecting?" She looked from the breakfast bar with her hair tied back in a bun. Two meals and giant cups of lemonade sat side by side.