Page 112 of Talk Wicked to Me

“He did. He’d be missing you something fierce, and he’d buzz me on the intercom and say, Mal, give me a name. I’d tell him he had meetings all afternoon and didn’t have time for a cookie break, and he’d say, Yeah, yeah. Have we used Ken yet? I’d consult my list, because God forbid we use the same name twice. He always said you two were too smart for that.”

Emerson laughed. “I can’t believe he did that.”

“Honey, your father was a busy man, but nothing came before his family. In all the years I worked for him, he never once missed one of your school events. He’d have me rearrange his whole week if that’s what it took to make sure he was there for you. He had a few unhappy clients because of things like that, but he was a darn good attorney and an even better friend. I miss him every day.”

“Me too,” Emerson managed through her tears.

“I think he’d approve of your gentleman friend, and I know he’d be in love with your son. Do you remember going to a father-daughter dance when you were in sixth grade, and…”

An hour later, Emerson’s heart overflowing, she took the call from one of her mother’s editing clients, Alison Breacher, a thin blonde with sharp features and kind eyes. “You look vaguely familiar.”

“I was at your parents’ funeral,” Alison said.

“That must be why.”

“I am so sorry that you lost them, Emerson.”

“Thank you. How long did you work with my mom?”

“Five years. You were ten when we first connected. I remember because my daughter, Heather, was nine, and I had written a character who was the same age. Your mother’s notes were so spot-on and in line with my thoughts on parenting and young girls, I felt like I had met a kindred spirit. She’d send me cookies when my books were published, and she’d always include a few special ones for Heather. We found out that we had a lot in common. We were both from small towns with successful husbands and careers of our own. Your mom used to say we had small-town hearts in a world of big-city hype.”

“That sounds like her. Did you see her outside of work?”

“That’s the funny thing. We didn’t get together outside of work, but I felt like I knew her better than friends who I spent time with in person. We used to share pictures of you and Heather and commiserate about life with young girls. She’d text or email and say, Top this, and then she’d tell me something you did, like skipping school or arguing about cleaning your room, and I’d share Heather’s latest blowup. And we’d laugh about how we felt so unprepared to be parents. Some days were so hard we’d cry, but at the end of every conversation, we always said we wouldn’t trade being our girls’ moms for anything in the world.”

“Really?” She grabbed more tissues.

“Yes. Emerson, when Baz contacted me, I was so thankful, because I have something for you. The night your parents were killed, I got an email from your mother with the subject Top this!” Tears slid down her cheeks. “She told me about the argument you’d had over your curfew and how you’d stormed out to go sleep at your friend’s house. She said she knew this was all part of parenting and testing boundaries and that she hoped one day you’d realize that she only argued because she loved you so much.”

A sob stole Emerson’s ability to speak.

“I missed her so much after…” Alison took a moment to dab at her tears and recompose herself. “I couldn’t bring myself to delete any of our emails. I have them all, and I’ll forward them to you if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much.” Emerson was so overwhelmed with gratitude, it was hard to speak. “Thank you.”

Half an hour, and many tears later, she took a call from Al Hartness, the owner of the convenience store around the corner from where she’d grown up. He used to smell like cigars, and his personality was as rough as sandpaper, but there was something endearing about the heavyset man with the thick New York accent that had always drawn her to him. Maybe it was that such a rough-around-the-collar guy loved his two miniature dachshunds so much, he brought them to work with him every day. He was bald now and not quite as beefy as he was back then but every bit as gruff.

“I never got to tell you how sorry I was about what happened to your parents. They were good people, and sorely missed.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that your old man’s sweatshirt?” he asked.

She looked down at it, fidgeting with the edge of the sleeves. “Yes. You remember it?”

He scoffed. “He wore it damn near all winter long, and he didn’t make a stranger of himself. He’d come into the store five minutes before closing a couple of times a week because your mom had a hankering for chips or ice cream or a candy bar.”

“He did?” She could imagine him doing that.

“Yes, ma’am. We’d get to talking, and I would get home half an hour late, and my old lady would give me hell.”

Emerson laughed. “I’m sorry. He was a talker.”

“I enjoyed our talks. He was proud of you. Always talking about things you said and did. Your boyfriend told me you’re still making those cookies. That’s a good thing. No one makes ’em like you and your mother did. She was a special lady.”

“Yes, she was. I’d be happy to send you some cookies.”

“I’d like that, but you better not. My wife gives me grief if I eat too much sugar these days.”