Martha’s left eyebrow shot upward. “Why, yes. Didn’t you know?”
“I, um, haven’t talked to Wade in a few days. What’s wrong?”
“Flu. A bad case, from what I’ve heard. And of course, with that housekeeper of theirs moving back to Atlanta last week, that’s left the poor chief to deal with the boy on his own. And Officer Montgomery told me that when she called to check on them yesterday, the chief didn’t sound so good, himself.”
Emily sprang to her feet without thinking. “You mean they’re both ill? And Cecilia isn’t there to help them?”
“Why, no. I just assumed you knew, dear. You and the chief seemed so close. Have you quarreled?”
If Martha was there to dig up the dirt on Emily and Wade’s relationship, she was destined for disappointment. Emily had no intention of discussing her personal business with the woman.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Martha, but I have a great deal to do this afternoon,” she said, moving purposefully toward the front door. “So, if there’s nothing else I can do for you...”
“Actually, there is one little thing.” Martha stood, but didn’t move immediately toward the door. “You know those little cranberry-glass dessert dishes that belonged to your father’s first wife? Were you planning to sell those, by any chance?”
“I—”
“Because if you were,” Martha went on without waiting for Emily to answer, “I’d like to buy them from you. There’s no need to put them into your sale. And the price I’m prepared to offer is quite reasonable, I assure you. The collector books would probably list them higher, if you’ve checked, but you know those prices are always inflated. You can trust me.”
“I’m sorry, Martha. The cranberry glass isn’t for sale.” Emily opened the door.
“But, Emily, you said yourself you don’t need all these things. And it isn’t as if you have a sentimental attachment to them. They belonged to your father’s first wife, not to any of your relatives.”
“They aren’t for sale, Martha.” And neither is anything else—at least, not to you, Emily wanted to add.
“Well.” Insulted, Martha lifted her nose and stalked out the door. It was the first time that Emily had ever refused her anything. Maybe the first time anyone had had the nerve to refuse her anything.
Hardly giving Martha another thought, Emily closed the door behind the incensed woman.
Clay was ill. Wade, too, perhaps. And the housekeeper had left them to fend for themselves.
Why hadn’t Wade called?
She never stopped to consider how ironical it was that she was downright angry over his neglecting to call her for help, when she’d spent so much time complaining about people doing just that. She simply grabbed her purse and marched out the door, her movements every bit as royally offended as Martha’s had been.
WADE LOOKED like hell. His brown hair appeared to have been styled with a hand mixer. There were purple hollows beneath his eyes and the tip of his nose was red. A flush of fever stained his unshaven cheeks. His shirt was wrinkled, half-buttoned, and hung untucked over his jeans. He just stood there, blinking at her.
Emily’s first instinct was to put him straight to bed. Her second was to crawl in with him.
“Where’s Clay?” she demanded, stepping past him.
“He...uh...he’s taking a nap. What are you doing here?”
“Which way’s his bedroom?” she asked, glancing around in dismay at the tiny, incredibly cluttered living room. Tissues, newspapers, toys, magazines, books, dirty socks, empty soda cans—Wade was a slob.
“It’s...uh...” He looked for a moment as if he wasn’t quite sure, and then he pointed. “That way.”
“Lie down before you fall down. I’m going to look in on Clay, and then I’ll be back to check on you.”
“Emily...”
“Go lie down, Wade,” she said a bit more sympathetically, watching as he swayed slightly on his bare feet. “I’ll be right in.”
She found Clay sound asleep in his bed, his Star Wars sheets rumpled around him, his stuffed tiger clasped in his arms. She brushed a lock of damp red hair away from his face, and laid her hand lightly on his cheek, satisfying herself that, while he was a bit warm, he wasn’t dangerously feverish. He was sleeping so soundly that she thought he must have passed the worst of his illness and was now getting the rest he needed for full recuperation. Wade, however, was a different matter.
Emily smoothed Clay’s sheets, then leaned over to brush a kiss on his soft cheek. How could she have ever imagined that taking care of this child would be a chore?
She would be back soon to wake him and encourage him to drink a glass of juice, but first she had to see about his father.