Emma Begins

By Gary Kemske

Meet Emma, a twenty something who's trying to shake the disasters and tragedies from her past and become a human being again. The knockdowns, bumps and bruises started before she was even a teenager and with the dysfunctional things her parents did, especially during their nuclear divorce, Emma could barely be anything to anybody but angry, distrusting and combative. To her small group of her close friends for life, and the shrink she saw for seven years, her anger often came out as sarcasm, taunts and disrespect. But somehow, through all of this, her support system got Emma to adulthood in mostly one piece. Then, the fireworks really began.

 

Emma's story is a tender one of heartache, healing, romance and heartbreak, all the while she tries to climb mountains higher than any young woman should have to face.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Kemske
• Release date: Oct 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201446628

Book preview

Chapter 1

Emma’s Journal: Friday , September 12, 2003

Today is the day he’ll see me differently. Yep. I’m not necessarily proud of it, mind you, but that’s just the way it is. I’ve been seeing him pretty steadily for a little more than seven years now. We’ve laughed together, cried together and naturally, I’ve shared plenty of life’s most complicated moments with him. Yes, of course, there have been times where we’ve just stared at each other with intense judgement, or even smoldered on the edge of severe anger. Through all of it, he has always maintained his composure with me, but that’s just him. It’s what he does. I, on the other hand, have been prone to have wicked outbursts only he can tolerate.

He’s tolerated my hatefully bad attitude and eternal emotional ugliness while most of my peoples have thrown in the towel with me years ago. Yeah, I have a few loyal beings that hung with me, but not without rules, conditions and a few second and third chances along the way. I’m that bad. I really am. Well, I’ve been that bad. But suddenly, I’m starting to see it’s been my badness that pushed most of the brave souls away from me who were only trying to help. Maybe, he’s got a little to do with this new awareness that hit me like a baseball bat upside my head.

Until now, he’s probably been the most important influence in my life but I never appreciated him much. And today, I still don’t. It’s all me that figured this whole thing out. Not him. And I know when I tell him, I’ll shock him.

He’s been a safe zone for me, a sheltered cocoon. While deep into the security of this cocoon, he has gotten me to say things you couldn’t imagine unless you were there with me. For seven years I’ve been so many different teenage girls to him and he countered me beautifully every step of the way. To his credit, he tried many times to coax me out of my cocoon, but I never made more than a feeble effort to do so. He has been the keeper and nurturer of my cocoon and that’s why I’ve stuck with him for seven and some odd years. The only reason.

But today is different. A week past my nineteenth birthday and I’ve come to realize I don’t need him and certainly don’t want him. I don’t need the cocoon or the comfort of his security. I tell this to myself over and over as I slow my eight-year-old Ford Escort just past the front entrance of a small building on Roslin Road marked with a sign:

Dave S. Robertson, PhD

Psychology/Family Counseling

I wheel into the lot behind the building where I always park. I check my look in the visor mirror and touch up my make up. My hair looks great today. I look great all over, except for the small bandage hiding the six stitches closing a deep cut over my left eye. While my accident last week totaled my car, prompting me to get an ancient Ford, and changed my life forever, those six stitches are the only visible reminder of me ever being in harm’s way. I emerge from the car, push a little bit on the bandage over my eye and walk toward the secluded back door.

This is strange. I am conscious of each step I take. I’ve done this walk so many times before but never with the purpose in mind that I have today. I open the nicely wood carved door, listen to the familiar door chime and step into the reception area of the office. I can see the outline of Declan sitting at the reception desk behind the opaque glass, as usual. I walk up to the window and stare impatiently at Declan’s silhouette behind it, which has not made any effort to open the glass and greet me. I tap on the glass to get the silhouette’s attention and it slides the glass open with a bit of an attitude.

Hi Emma. Declan says to me in his usual dry and condescending manner. Dr. Robertson will be with you in a few. He’s running behind because the last person that banged on the glass got a lecture and a psych profile in aggression management since he also ignored the sign right here which says ‘PLEASE DON’T BANG ON THE GLASS!’

Yeah, Declan. Dude, when are you going to learn to properly greet me when I come in the door? I say to him with more than just a twinge of attitude, then add, besides, what a ridiculous sign for a shrink’s office. You can at least make us crazies feel welcome. Declan continues to stare at me with a painful look on his face, so I keep going. You know, by now, you should be like Pavlov’s dog bro. You hear the chime, slide open the glass, smile and welcome me into your goofy ass kingdom.

I take a moment to slowly inhale and exhale so I can think of my next sentence and I guess I take too long. The pause gives Declan a chance to interject. Darn it. Yeah. Yeah, I hear you. Have a seat and be patient for once, he snidely says and rudely slides the glass closed.

Sure, I mumble compliantly to myself. Untypical of my usual behavior, I give up any fight and shuffle over toward the chairs. I can tell Declan isn’t in the mood for any banter from the patients, not even me.

I sit down near the TV catching a glimpse of the meaningless breaking news stories. As I sit there looking around the waiting room, I realize this office hasn’t changed during the entire time I’ve been coming here. Ridiculous. I’ve been coming weekly for more than seven years. Seven years! Yet, you would at least expect that the good doctor would have bought a new couch by now or upgraded to a flat screen TV. Nope, it's just the same old same old in this little monkey wrench boutique.

Continuing to look around, I think of the awful day my crazy mother drug me in here for my very first visit. Maybe that was the reason behind keeping everything in this office so stagnant. Perhaps, it’s the shrink’s way of making you see yourself change over the course of your treatment since your own soul and mind are the only un-forsaken things in this time warp office which exhibit even a dribble of change. Is this deliberate or is the wizard just a lousy cheapskate? Hmmm.

I settle deeper in my chair and notice that the third chair to the right of Declan’s window is missing the same leg bumper on its front leg that was missing on my very first visit. Of course, I’m the reason it went missing so many years ago. When I was here with my egotistical mother on my first visit, she aggressively lectured me on all the things I couldn’t say and all the things I had to say. Of course, I only half listened. I sat there smoldering in tension while my mother droned on and on to make me say things that would make her look like the good parent. Staring at the floor, anywhere but at her, I peeled the chair leg up and down with my foot hoping she would just quit talking or disintegrate or something. Then all of a sudden, the bumper popped off of the chair and my mind just snapped and revealed my now famous temper.

I was so pissed at my mother and was sure through some kind of warped telepathy she willed that darn bumper to come off. I had to blame someone and my father was nowhere around. When the bumper came off, I just snapped and shouted all kinds of obscenities at her. I got out of my seat, picked the chair leg bumper off the floor, squealed and then turned and whirled the little black rubber missile at her freaky face.

Unfortunately, I suppose anyway, I missed and it smacked square into Declan’s precious glass with a loud thud. Missing my target, or hitting the glass, not sure which, frustrated me beyond my wits end and spiked my temper so high it was like I was having an out of body experience. My mother started quietly cursing me out and tried to grab me, you know, to keep it dignified. Ha ha. I pushed her away and I punched at anything that got into my personal space. As she took a swing at me, I nailed her arm good. She flinched backward and starting screaming at the top of her lungs, and she wasn’t even one of the shrink’s patients... yet, anyway. With all of the commotion, Dr. Robertson and Declan busted into the waiting room to try to stop my mother and me from beating the snot out of each other.

And there I was, an overly combative twelve-year-old bitch of a daughter of divorcing parents. It took at least an hour to settle me down that day. The doctor finally told my mother to leave and he would call her when it was time to pick me up. Once she left, I began feeling better almost immediately. What a brilliant doc. Then of course, the good doctor spoke to me in calming tones while I sat red-faced, wet-eyed and out of breath in his own waiting room.

While he was talking to me, I barely paid attention to what he was saying but kept looking at the bare chair leg, wondering if I had to fix it. Well, the chair leg never came up then, and never since that day. The big byproduct of that day, my very first visit, was that I was immediately known as the girl with the crazy temper and was placed on the doctor’s list of very challenging patients.

So today, waiting for the good doctor to honor his time commitment to me - he’s late by the way, I think all about that first visit. He took all that time with me, sitting in the waiting room talking to me so gently. It was only after he settled me down that I got to walk down the corridor to his office and sit on his horribly ugly sofa that could make the eyes of a blind man bleed.

I think about how far I’ve come, only because that stupid chair is missing the same rubber leg bumper that I winged at my mother’s mean mug years ago. It’s crazy that everything in this room is the same, except me. I remember that first visit as if it was only yesterday. I can see how silly my feelings were then, how unpleasant my temper was and how I constantly forced myself to be so uncooperative with everyone, all the time.

Would I realize how far I’ve come if the furniture had upgraded along with the leaps and bounds of my socio-emotional improvements? Ah, who knows? But when I think again about what took me back to my first visit and then brought me forward to today, I realize it’s that darn chair leg rubber bumper that went missing. I sort of smirk to myself at the absurdity of all of this reflection and then become aware of my reality as Declan partially slides open his security blanket barrier, the opaque glass window, and motions for me to go back. I quickly snap out of it as I get up and walk through the inner reception door and swing myself into the third room on the left with the terribly offensive gold sofa draped with ratty old deep red fringes coming off its arms, back and skirt.

Plopping myself down on the repulsive old piece of crap, I breathe in hard and await the arrival of the wizard. I press again on the bandage over my left eye and acknowledge that I’m confident. I’m in charge of today’s session. Yes, I am. I know the good doctor is going to cancel the rest of his appointments today to give me all of his attention. I can’t wait to see his face and hear his voice when I tell him what I am finally ready to tell him. God this is fun.

Chapter 2

The sign hanging under the green and white awning had the words ‘Portofino Pizza Company’ written in large red letters. Inside, it was noisy and warm and smelled delicious. In the back of the establishment there was a brightly lit work area separated from the dining room by clear glass partitions where a couple of pizza makers twirled and tossed their famous pizza crust while they joked and needled each other.

The middle of the dining room had tables for four set out neatly in rows. The entire left side, along the front-facing floor to ceiling windows, held a connecting row of darkly stained wooden booths. The occupants of the booths had lively views of the status symbol cars and cosmo pedestrians tooling by on Ocean View Drive. Beyond the main drag, across the street from the pizza shop, was the trademark of Windsong Beach, the finely manicured sands and sparkling surf capitalizing on the Atlantic’s warm Florida waters.

The last booth, farthest from the front door, was usually occupied by a larger group. But now, the oversized booth only held a cute and casually dressed young lady sitting across from an athletic young man whose noticeable lean muscles filled out his upscale navy V-neck tee. With the young woman’s face visible from all corners of the restaurant, it was easy to tell she was well acquainted with the tall young man whose head and shoulders rested well above the back of the booth.

The young woman was animated. Her bright eyes were open wide, her smile was big and her smooth, youthful hands continually pushed her long, dark hair out of her face. In between hair resets, her olive tanned arms constantly moved through the air as she laughed, talked and excitedly shifted her body from side to side.

Ah come on Cooch, you really think that’s a good idea? The young man pushed the empty pizza tray far to the side and leaned across the table. I don’t see how, even remotely, that we should take Emma out there for the weekend. Man, c’mon, she really needs her privacy right now.

No, you come on! I mean what do you know anyway? Cooch’s smile faded and she sat her body hard against the back of the booth. "Look, Emma needs us and needs a break from all of this with her dad, her mom, shit... all her parents, and all that shrink stuff. When I left her this morning, she was pouring over that journal she kept during all those years in therapy. It’s been two years since she last saw that shrink and now, she's a total basket case. She needs a change up."

No, no, no Cooch. She-

Stop it! Cooch loudly interrupted with fire in her voice and held up both hands. Quite a few of the other patrons turned their heads to see the commotion. Just let me finish already, she said firmly and clear. Now everyone in the pizza shop was watching the back of the young man turn rigid and his whole body froze except for his head, which nodded obediently. ...as I was saying, Cooch continued. She’s hit bottom again. It’s too much. She needs a break.

Cooch began to sound convincing as the two just looked at each other in silence until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Helloooooo...August. Say something!

August took his arms off of the table and turned his head away from Cooch to stare out toward the surf. He wasn’t really focusing on the beach scene outside as much as he was thinking of his next sentence. He rubbed his hands together under the table. Carefully, he turned back to Cooch and looked very serious for a moment before he spoke. Okay, Cooch, listen. Emma called me this morning. His words were a bit edgy. Must’ve been sometime after you left. I think she had worked a few things out. She said she was happy, despite all the setbacks, and understands who she is now and how the mistakes she’s made brought her to this point. You’re right, she was reading that journal over again. It spoke to her. It helped her. Said she made the commitment to herself, to us, to everyone, you know, two years ago to look at things differently. Two years ago! That’s right, like you said... it was her last visit with that doctor. Two years ago, and she’s still stuck in second gear. She said more stuff, but she was crying a lot and it was hard to understand her.

"Well, strange. Maybe she’s finally ready to... begin?

I don’t know. I guess. Said she wanted to set everything straight, for real this time. So maybe this weekend getaway thing is a good idea.

Cooch nodded. And if it goes well with her, maybe you and me could let her know what we’re doing. We should tell her together.

Oh boy.

Cooch took a draw from her iced tea and after she put the glass down, she stared for a moment at her hands fidgeting on the table. That’s actually kind of scary. I mean, what do you think she needs to set straight? She doesn’t know about what we’re doing, right? Cooch gave no recognition to August doing a one-eighty on his previous position of not taking Emma away for the weekend.

Who knows? August said emphatically.

The two just looked at each other in silence for a moment until Cooch’s fiery attitude reloaded and she spoke out again. So, what the hell? What’d you say? How’d you leave it?

August took a deep breath. Well, I really freaked out with her crying. Heartbreaking. That’s all I could focus on. Cooch rolled her eyes and looked impatient. Told her we all love her and we’ll check in later today.

"Shit Aug, you’re like... lost in space! Cooch huffed and puffed. Okay, look, this is what we’re gonna do. Cooch had August’s full attention as he shuffled his feet from side to side under his side of the table. Your folks’ condo is just sitting here empty. After we finish up early tomorrow, we can all pile in the car and hit The Oar House happy hour, then hang at the condo all weekend." Her animated delivery again attracted the attention of the other pizza lovers in the shop.

You think you’ll get her to go? August rubbed his eyes.

Hey, I know Emma can’t ever turn us down. Cooch’s smile was both devious and contagious. She can’t miss out.

August was nodding along with Cooch’s words even though he was focused outside on an athletic roller girl doing figure eights on the wide sidewalk. Sounds good to me. Nothing like a little peer pressure. He turned his head to look into Cooch’s eyes. Think you can get her to bring her guitar? We can use the bonfire, sing, stuff like that, get a little loose. You know, like last time.

What the hell, August? For a guy that was gonna fight me a minute ago, against going, now you’re the event planner! What are you thinking of anyway? That Smashmouth song we used to swim to, you know, guitars around the bonfire, singing, clapping. Geez, you’re pitiful. Cooch let out a good, loud laugh and just shook her head.

Consuela Olana Cherubini! I take exception to that.

Good grief, only my mom had the right to call me that. Cooch chuckled. And for real, August? You call me that more than she ever did. Enough already. She reached over the table and tried to smack him in the head but he effortlessly shifted back just out of reach and let out a devilish laugh.

With his huge smile still lingering he looked at Cooch like he was making a confession. "Yeah, well I’m on board. Really didn’t stand a chance. Can’t turn you down."

Cooch sat back on the bench seat like a trial lawyer who just made a pertinent point to the jury and went back to her seat to rest her case. Then, suddenly, she shot up and leaned into the table and grabbed August’s hands. Know what? Yeah, let me call Lizzy and Bishop, see if they’re in. Cooch’s face exploded with excitement. You get Madison to come and bring that puny little friend of hers. They love Emma and it gives her a chance to shine being a role model for the younger ones. Yeah, we’ll do your silly bonfire thing, you’re ‘Walking on the Sun’ fantasy thing, cookout, walk the strip, the beach. Heck yeah! Then we’ll tell her together.

Chapter 3

Emma’s Journal: Friday , September 12, 2003

Feels like I’m waiting forever on this ugly sofa before the door opens a crack and the doctor puts in one foot and the back of one shoulder while he whispers instructions to someone in the hallway. His jibber jabber is going on forever. It takes all of my unnatural discipline to not yell, ‘enough already, let’s go!’ But miraculously, I just sit there and patiently await the wizard. Finally, the door opens the rest of the way and Dr. Robertson is his usual know-it-all self, and he strolls into the session room. He greets me with the familiar eye contact and smile-less nod and plops down on his big, formal looking chair next to his desk.

I bet you’ve got something different on your mind today that we need to delve into, that right Emma?

Hi Dr. Robertson. I think it’s important to properly greet people. Yes, but I bet you it’s not what you think it is, I say with a little chuckle at the end.

What makes you say that?

Always the analyst, aren’t you? Geez ace, take a break some time. I tease him but he doesn’t seem to like it very much.

We are what we are. I’m the doctor and you’re the patient and you’ve come to me for support and healing.

Ah, no... I came to you because the stupid judge in my shitty parents’ divorce court ordered me to.

Well, he spoke for you because you were just a minor.

Oh brother, I shake my head a few times.

C’mon, let’s acknowledge. The court spoke for you years ago and you came here seeking options, a safe place, and a state of mind where you could exercise your emotions, you see, and make your emotional composition stronger, more fit.

I’m just listening to this psychobabble stuff like I’ve never heard it before and hope he quickly moves on. Obviously, hope isn’t a good strategy - he keeps going.

And you, the patient, should push yourself deeper, and deeper into the dark corners of your mind where you don’t often, or never go. Like a wilderness guide, or a Sharma on the Mount Everest of your emotions, I coach you, guide you, encourage you, and protect you. But all the while, I take you through the vast outback of your emotional landscape.

Wow. I say to him with such an attitude it makes him level that cold stare of his on me for what feels like one forever.

I truly sense this session will be quite enlightening. He says to me while he tilts his head up to stare down the bridge of his nose at me.

I snap. Oh, puke pickles! You’re irritating the living shit out of me. Can’t you just talk like a person? This is about me, not you, Freud. I’m surprised I say all this aloud, because I don’t really think I was meaning to.

Now this nut job looks at me with an almost cocky smile and waits for me to start talking. But no way I’m falling into that trap. I’m here to tell him specifically about me and my dad, but I’m sure he’s trying to push me somewhere else. So, I wait. I stare at him as he stares back at me. I refuse to cave. To keep me from speaking first, I decide to analyze him, his style, his lousy choice of clothes. Goodness sake, can he look any more like a dick? That’s what’s going through the vast outback of my emotional landscape. And actually, my emotional landscape is pissing itself trying not to laugh hysterically at this clown. Can’t imagine he really looked in the mirror this morning and said to himself, ‘Dang, nailed it!

He’s big and tall and kind of awkward looking. He wears big brown leather, beat up cowboy boots with jeans. Old looking Lee jeans, not Lucky or Hilfiger or anything like that. No, his jeans are the kind you wear to clean out the garage. And then the top half of him is wearing a white shirt with a wrinkled gray tie. Lord knows how one can wrinkle a tie. Cripes! And the tie was something both my dad and my dad’s dad would have rejected. At least that was one thing about my selfish A-hole dad. He had style. He looked good in suits, casual clothes, bathing suits, whatever. More than once I caught one of my mom’s friends eyeing him up when mom wasn’t looking. I think that’s why some of mom’s friends were secretly glad to see Mr. J walk out on mom and me. And of course, they didn’t hide their gloating very well behind mom’s back. Jealousy is such a pain in the ass to witness. But, back to this clown.

I continue to size him up so I can win this game of who blinks first. He still stares. I wait. I examine. He seems to have a permanent tan with a completely shaved head and a short, scraggly, full-face snow-white beard. He looks like a negative. Dark where light should be and light where dark should be. He continues to eyeball me and I stare back. I still wait. I know he wants me to talk, but screw him. I’m not playing his game. Not today.

Ah, he finally breaks the silence. Emma? He says, then follows up with another long pause and a stare.

Determined to wait him out, I purposefully don’t acknowledge he said my name. He starts again. I smile. I win. Ha ha.

You know, he begins slowly, deliberately. Sometimes when we’ve got a long way to go, get outside your comfort zone, you know, get you to stretch emotionally, so to speak, it’s best to start at the very beginning and gain momentum as you bring your thoughts to the present state. Let the momentum carry you forward and push you outside of your protective little cocoon.

Wow! I say sarcastically again and this time he just ignores me. He’s always been really good at that.

Think back, he pauses and looks up to the ceiling. Remember your first visit with me?

Holy snot, really? You’re talking like a hypnotist or something. Hellooooo - I’m not staring at a swinging shiny thingy, bro. I realize he’s making me fall back into habits where I act like I always did, not the way I want to be. I have to stay focused on the new me. After all, I’m nineteen now. Frustrated with myself, I zip it.

He looks down at me again. That stare is full of nothing. Geez. Ignoring my outburst, and he seems somehow pleased with my outburst - this dude is really a weirdo - he continues. Think back to that first visit. Do you remember where we started and where we finished? Think back Emma.

I touch the bandage on my head and it brings back the focused strength I had when I first walked in here today. Undeterred by whatever psychobabble BS he slings at me, I discreetly suck in a short burst of air before I respond. It’s funny you mention my first visit. I was just thinking about that. I just noticed out there that the chair leg rubber bumper is still missing from the leg of the third chair past Declan’s window. It made me think of that very first time my crazy mother pushed me in here to spill my guts to you. Or, more appropriately, how she tried to manipulate me to spill to you the lies and misrepresentations she cooked up to make her look like the goody-goody in all that divorce drama. But I now know that you quickly figured that out. Funny, he got me talking then, just like he’s getting me to talk now. Proudly, I want to relive the event. I remember. Me and mom were about to claw each other’s eyes out until you and Declan storm-trooped the waiting room and pulled us apart. As I speak, I feel a devilish gleam in my eye as I start to recount the nasty little soap opera.

Okay, you’re remembering. Clearly. That was the waiting room, that’s right. He speaks rhythmically and calm, and as usual it’s disarming me so easily. But now, Emma, think back. Go past the waiting room. After we all calmed down, we went to my treatment room, this room as a matter of fact. We talked about all the things you hated about your mother and father and what you were so mad at them for and all the things you wanted to say but no one was listening. As he speaks, I’m remembering that visit like it happened this week though I hadn’t thought about any of this in years.

Sensing my intense focus on him, he continues. Then remember, I said to you, you keep saying the word ‘hate’ whenever you talk about your parents?

Yes, I do remember that actually, very well. I fully engage in the conversation now. I remember you said that hate only happens with people you love. At some point I must’ve loved my parents and you wanted me to try to remember some of my earliest memories with them, you know, the ones I was happy about.

That’s right. You can’t hate someone you didn’t love. And hating anyone is a waste of your time and energy. It’s a bad reflection on you. He really hits his groove now and I follow him like an old lady with a checkbook in a preacher’s revival tent listening to a sermon about how giving heals the heart.

I want to jump back into the conversation. Not sure why, but I think I want to let him know how much I learned since that day and how I now have the emotional tools I need to make the decision I made earlier this week. So, I willingly keep the dialog going. Yeah, I remember. Clear your conscious and give the ball back to the other guy. And, you told me that I could still love my father and still be disgusted with him. I really remember this conversation vividly. I remember telling you that I never wanted to see my father again since he did that to us. And I was so pissed at my mother for being such an unstable tramp that not even my father could put up with her and all her dramatics. I pause to reflect on the two very different paths my mother and father ended up on. I guess we can see now how my father moved on successfully after getting out from under my mother’s dark cloud of evil, while my mother kept on with her ugliness and is still there.

Right, that is now. Now we know. But we didn’t know any of that then, did we? But back then, where did we go next, once you acknowledged how mad you were with your parents?

Well, let’s think for a sec. I stare at the ceiling trying to get my facts in order. He patiently waits for me to continue. Okay, next, I think, you told me we would work on my mother later, but first we had to understand where this burning hatred for villain numero uno, dear old dad, came from, so we can address it and I could clear my mind... and move on and begin to live my life. Something significant strikes me about me and my dad and Dr. Robertson notices it in my facial expression, but I’m not able, nor willing, to express it to him just yet.

Moving on to get to where he wants me to go, he continues with the slow watermelon crawl down memory lane. Do you remember how you told me memories, fond ones, of your life as a little girl with your parents? How you walked me through the highlights of your early childhood?

Yes. I do remember that. I nod slowly as I answer.

Do you remember the first memory you told me about? The doctor is so on today.

Yes. I respond, thinking about my first visit and all the things I said. I start to put together why I suddenly paused earlier. All this time, seven years, and I think I’m finally solidifying the conclusion I’ve come to about me and dad. But I stop myself from talking about it now. I’ll wait until the good doctor takes me there.

Chapter 4

Seconds after August shut off the engine, everyone piled out of the SUV parked in the designated place in the condo’s garage. Madison and Harper got out of the back and were still giggling at the last story Emma told them before they pulled in. August popped the hatch and they all gravitated toward the rear of the vehicle.

Hey, you think that Jared person will actually come out to the bonfire? Madison steadied the video camera dangling from a strap around her neck and looked up at her brother.

Oh, he’s so cute, Harper squeaked out with a mushy smile.

And those eyes, oh, ummmm. Madison added.

C’mon girls, he’s a new friend of mine and way too old for either of you, said August.

Madison lightly punched Harper on the arm. But he’s not too old for Emma, is he! Madison and Harper giggled and gave each other a knowing look.

Oh goodness girls. I’m out of the boy dating business right now. I’m working on me, remember? Emma set them straight.

But his songs were so good. And his voice... Harper rolled her dreamy eyes and was simply beside herself.

Yeah, I’ll give you that. He sang really well. Emma reached for her bag, picked up her guitar case and gave the younger girls a nice smile.

Here Madison, pass this to Harper and take yours. August said as he grabbed his bag and locked up the car.

They all walked over to the elevators with August and Emma in the front and Madison and Harper sloshing behind, bumping each other and giggling while they whispered to each other.

Chapter 5 

The air was unusually still on the beach. The glow from the moon hit the ocean and bounced long, silvery streaks of light across the sand. With the bonfire roaring in front of them, there was enough light and warmth to give a nice cozy feel to the cool, late autumn evening. Harper and Madison just returned from a short stroll down to the pier and sat on a blanket next to Emma’s guitar. Madison pulled her video camera off her shoulder and sat it on the blanket.

Emma? Can you play a song for us? Harper quietly begged. She picked up the guitar and gave a handoff motion toward Emma.

Sure sweetie. What would you like to hear?

I like old stuff. Anything from the nineties.

Nineties, old stuff, this is only 2005! Emma sneered with a tease. Am I that much older than you?

No, no you’re cool. I just like that stuff, hardly hear it anymore.

Okay, well, Nirvana’s always a good bet.

YEAH. Both Harper and Madison exclaimed in unison.

Yeah, you go girl, Bishop chimed in with his usual animated voice.

Emma belted through ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ with Harper and Lizzy raucously joining in on the chorus. Then with some more nudging from Bishop she went right into ‘All Apologies’ with just about the whole gang singing the ‘married and buried’ parts at the top of their lungs. When they finished the song, Emma got up laughing and sat her guitar against her beach chair so she could help August and Cooch get the stuff ready for the s’mores.

Bishop moved over to lend a hand and approached Emma. I never get tired of hearing you sing, girl. He adjusted the ball cap over his short, dread-locked hair and as he moved, the moonlight sparkled off his diamond earring. He was excited to be here with everyone. He didn’t get the chance to hang often enough with his friends. Most nights he was either bogged down with his seminary studies, leading the church youth group or helping Mrs. McKenzie run her bait and tackle shop. He worked there since he was fifteen and when Mr. McKenzie suddenly passed away two years ago, he jumped in to help keep the store open. While Mrs. McKenzie was an expert at all things fishing, her husband handled the business aspects of the operation. Bishop easily filled in any knowledge gaps for Mrs. McKenzie and he was more than happy for her to continue leaning on him.

Thanks Bishop, I’d say you’re my best fan. Emma laughed.

I am, I am, for sure. Bishop’s face lit up. And, I’m certainly your first fan too. Your first fan. Got you to play the first time.

That you did. Would never have played if it wasn’t for your guitar, right? Emma put down the bag of marshmallows and patted Bishop