Max took the opportunity to dart inside his office and shut the door. He dumped the office supplies he’d been holding onto his desk and slumped against the corner of it. The wood dug into the leg of his jeans, but he didn’t move. Mama Jeanie’s words kept playing in his head, a strange echo to Emma’s reaction to his question.
It all meant something. But what? What wasn’t he hearing?
Emma’s voice sounded next, as clear and vivid in his memories as the night he first told her he loved her. That had led to a more physical expression, but the words themselves—for the first time in his life—hadn’t been spoken for that reason. No, he’d meant them.
And hadn’t stopped meaning them yet.
There’s nothing you need to know about him. It’s for Cody’s own good.
The panic behind her short sentences hinted at more to the story. Did that mean even Emma didn’t know who Cody’s father was? That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. No way. Not Emma. Or was she a victim? But if she’d been attacked, why the secrecy?
Nothing made sense.
God, some wisdom. Discernment. Something, please. He bowed his head and prayed, but the words felt as if they didn’t filter past the roof. And then he was struck with the certainty that it didn’t matter. Whatever Emma had gone through or however she had lived in the years since they’d parted ways, it didn’t really matter.
It didn’t change his past or current feelings for her one iota. After all, whose past was squeaky clean? His was dirty enough to make even an infomercial cleaner give up. At least God hadn’t given up on him. That was enough.
And that was why he needed to pay it forward. Whatever it took, he would make sure Emma knew that she was still worthwhile. A treasure. Priceless. To him, and to God.
And even to her son.
Chapter Fourteen
Her mom knelt in the small garden to the left of the house, digging in the dirt with the same stained, floral-print gloves she’d worn when Emma was a child. Those gloves, with the tiny rosebuds once red and now faded pink, had been a fixture in the house for as long as Emma could remember. Lying on the counter by the sink where she’d washed her hands after gardening. Lying on the floor by her Bible in the living room, where she’d shucked them before having her evening quiet time. Lying on the porch swing where she’d taken her last tea break.
Emma watched her work for a moment, allowing the warmth of the sun on her shoulders to ease the chill of her conversation with Max. She’d almost bought her mother a new pair of gloves during her last Christmas at home, back before she left for college. Back before her father died. Back before she’d gotten involved with Max and changed her entire course of life.
Maybe familiar wasn’t always so bad, after all.
She shoved her keys in her pocket and crossed the front yard to stand behind her mother.
“Emma?” Mom turned with a slight smile—or was it a grimace—and lifted one hand to shade her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “What are you doing here?”
The question was innocent enough, as was the tone accompanying it, but it still dug in like a burr. She fought off a wave of frustration. Couldn’t she just be visiting her mother while in town? Why did she need an explanation? She drew a deep breath, trying to convince herself it wasn’t that bad, that her defenses were just up because of Max’s probing.