Mary Sullivan - Always Emily

There. She’d done as much as she could tonight.

Her breath whooshing in and out of her, she leaned against the tree for a moment to regain enough strength to get into the Cathedral and up those stairs to Salem.

She managed to make it to the building and stepped out of the rain that was coming down harder now. If nothing had changed in the years she’d been gone, she should be able to avoid banging into display cases and follow that sole yellow lamp shining on the third floor.

Beside the door, she found the felt slippers that all visitors donned to protect the glass floors and stairs from grit and dirt. She slid her old hiking boots into the oversize slippers.

When she pressed the elevator button, nothing happened. Shut down for the night, she guessed.

She climbed the stairs gingerly, but her headache still worsened with every step.

The second floor, she knew, housed displays of gorgeous beaded and quilled moccasins as well as artifacts the Jordan land had yielded to both professional and student archaeologists.

At the moment she didn’t care. She’d spent too much time in the past and not enough paying attention to the present, to her self slipping away from her so slowly and subtly she’d been stripped bare without knowing it, left skinned and vulnerable with nowhere to turn but here.

So dizzy her stomach roiled, she clung to the banister. Her hands shook again, this time more from greed than illness.

I want...

She wasn’t sure what.

She knew only that she was exhausted with the struggle to keep herself in one piece.

She forced one foot in front of the other. On the second-floor landing, she stopped to catch her breath, like an old woman on her last legs, so close to finally achieving...what?

On the landing on the third floor, she stopped and stared at Salem through glass walls.

He bent over his desk, over a book, his attention focused and disciplined, as was his way. His dark straight hair hung in a braid down the center of his back.

This close to him, peace enveloped her. It settled over her with the softness of a flannel blanket. She watched him. This, he, was exactly who she needed. She wanted to lay her head and her troubles on his broad chest.

When she swayed, it alerted him to her presence.

His jaw fell, his expression equal parts shock and anger. She knew she’d flitted into and out of his life too many times. Oh, Salem, I’m home. For good.

He stood, dropping the book onto the desk.

His simple male beauty stunned her. Why had she stayed away when perfection had been here all along?

He came to the door. “Emily?” His deepening frown reminded her of their argument.

When are you going to stop running, Emily?

Now, she thought. I’m not going anywhere anymore. Honest.

She felt herself slipping, falling.

“Emily!” He caught her before she hit the floor, his arms strong and dependable and oh so welcome.

“Salem,” she whispered. “I’m sick.”

Salem lifted her and carried her off. Her head fell against his solid shoulder. She didn’t know where he took her. It didn’t matter.

She’d made it home.

* * *

EMILY. LIKE FIREWORKS, or shooting stars, Emily was here one moment, but gone the next. What was she doing here now?

God or the devil or both had a wicked sense of humor. Why did they keep sending her back to him? It messed with the balance he strived so hard for in his life.

He’d told her to stay away. After first asking her to stay here with you. After nearly asking her to marry you.

A moment of temporary insanity, of wanting life to go my way, even briefly. Of needing an end to the loneliness.

That night in the moonlight, Emily had looked like heaven.

He loved his daughters and respected the daylights out of his father, but missed having a woman around. Worse, he missed Emily. He’d married one woman while he’d wanted another, and had spent his married life suppressing his desire and trying to be a good husband. He had paid a price, and the currency had been longing, yearning and too much time spent alone.

He’d spent his married years tamping his emotions into a hard brick of denial, constantly controlling everything he said to his wife, and everything he did with Emily.

Then Annie had died.

That night last year, he’d gotten this crazy thought. There had been a long period of mourning, out of respect for the mother of his children. That time had passed. Now he and Emily could be together.

He had thought she would return his feelings and want to be with him, but despite telling her how he felt, she’d left anyway.

He’d blurted his heart’s desire. Thank the Lord, she’d said no. He’d dodged a bullet.

In his smarter moments, he knew it would never work between them. Emily loved adventure.

Salem glanced longingly at the book he’d been studying. Reason, intellect and learned discussion were his gods.

But now here she was, despite him telling her to never return, and everything inside him rebelled against turning her away sick. Em was smart. She would have known that when she came here. He disliked being used. But he couldn’t let her go.

He tamped down the emotions twisting in his belly like warring snakes, because she looked like hell. He didn’t want to worry about this woman who weighed next to nothing, but he did. She angered and frustrated him, but he couldn’t turn her away.

He laid her on the sofa in his office, where she had spent so many hours over the years when she came home from her digs sitting and pouring out her heart about Jean-Marc and his latest escapades. He’d heard her anger and pain, but he’d never interfered. Back then, he could never say, Leave him and come to me.

On all of her visits, he’d held a chunk of himself back—to protect both his peace of mind and his marriage. He might not have been in love with his wife, but he had been committed to her.

And so, restraint had become his middle name, and the act a habit, but sometimes these days, the restraints chafed and he wanted to bust out so badly.

When he finally did ask Emily to be with him, she’d said no. End of story.

“What’s wrong, Emily?”

When he tried to let her go, she grasped his shirt.

Even through her clothing, her skin burned. Just like Emily to come here like this, to bring mayhem into his well-ordered existence. She liked drama. He liked peace. She liked chaos. He needed order.

“Emily,” he said, keeping his voice low to soothe her as he would a skittish animal. “I need to get water.”

She nodded. “Yes. Water.”

Even so, she didn’t ease her grip.

“Let go.” He became stern. “I’ll come back.”

“Promise?” Her insecurity tore at him. Trouble roiled in her witchy blue-hazel eyes.

Where was his confident, brash Emily? What happened to you?

“I’m always here for you, Emily. You know that.” Even when it was hard, and even when he had vowed to break away from her, to sever all ties. She called to a part of him he had trouble denying.

She smiled so sweetly it broke his heart. Yes, he was always here for her, but she wasn’t always available for him.

He cut off the anger and bitterness. Now wasn’t the time.

At this moment, she needed him, and that was all that mattered. He would get rid of her when she was well.

She released him and he retrieved water and damp towels from the washroom. Just before he left the room, he noticed muddy handprints on his shirt where Emily had gripped it. Strange.

When he returned, he asked, “What is it? The flu?”

She shook her head. “Malaria.”

“Malaria?” He stilled his panic long enough to swab her face. “Isn’t that bad?”

She lifted a shaky finger to smooth the frown from his forehead, the smattering of freckles across her nose stark against her sickly white skin. “It’s okay. I’ve seen a doctor.”