Emma preferred the image of Benjamin Sinclair’s arms upraised, commanding nature to his will. She forcibly shook it away. “Well, gentlemen. Since you’re all here now, Ben has something he wants to tell you.”
Ben looked at her, the spark of passion still in his eyes. “Maybe you should tell them, Emma, since you’re so full of … surprises this morning.”
Fighting down the heat suddenly threatening to color her face, Emma looked at the three expectant men, and at Beaker, who was sitting and staring up at her.
“Ah …” She looked at Mikey first. “Ben and I were thinking it’s time for you to go back to school.”
The boy immediately shook his head. “I want to stay home a few more days.”
“I think you’re over the trauma of crashing our plane, young man. You’ve milked it long enough.”
“But—”
“Go to school, Mike. Skyler, you’ll take him and pick him up,” Ben added, looking at Skyler, who nodded in return.
“Atwood,” Ben continued, “why don’t you see about filling that woodshed out back.”
Atwood quickly nodded, seeming relieved not to have to spend another day lurking close to the house.
Ben turned to her. “And you won’t lift anything heavier than a dustrag?” he asked, looking skeptical.
She placed her right hand over her heart. “I promise not to get into any trouble,” was all she said in agreement.
He kissed her firmly on the lips. “I’ll be home early,” he said, and walked out the door, calling Beaker to follow.
Emma went to the sink, and with a slightly trembling hand and pink face, she picked up the fallen pot. “Have a nice day, gentlemen,” she said without looking up as they silently filed out the door. Each of them stopped only long enough to dip into the bowl of cookies on their way out before letting the screen door slam behind them.
Emma eyed the empty bowl. They were going through the Elmer Fudge cookies like kibble. She didn’t know where they had come from, but there was a whole case in the pantry. And there always seemed to be a large bowl of them on the counter. She had decided it was magic, because one minute she’d notice the bowl was empty, and the next minute it would be full.
Her little addiction seemed to be contagious.
It was three o’clock before Emma heard the kitchen door slam again over the voice of Mary Chapin Carpenter coming from her earphones. She looked up from the paperwork scattered over the table to see Ben and Beaker walk in, both looking like they owned the place.
Beaker trotted up and immediately pushed at her arm for attention. Emma pulled off her headset and shut off her radio, then reached down to greet her pet.
“Something smells good,” Ben said, shedding his jacket. “What’s in the oven?”
“I got sick of Mikey’s cooking.” Emma patted her dog. “He’s got this thing about spices. That’s turkey you’re smelling.”
Ben looked concerned. “How did you get it in the oven with only one arm?”
“I called in reinforcements. Greta put the turkey in the oven,” she explained, looking back down at her paperwork. “You can either wash the potatoes or help me figure out how I’m going to come up with the funds for a new plane.”
“You said it was insured,” he said, scanning the paperwork from over her shoulder. “So what’s the
problem?”
“They’re not paying out until the FAA has finished its investigation. I … um … I don’t have an instructor’s license, and Mikey isn’t old enough to solo yet. And word’s out that he was at the controls at the time of the crash. The investigation could take months.” She tapped her pencil on her financial worksheet. “And I don’t have months. In the winter I change the pontoons to skis and fly ice fishermen into remote ponds and biologists in for animal counts. I need to replace my plane.”
“I’ll give you the money,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and going to the sink, apparently confident the problem was solved.
“No.”
He stopped in midstep and turned. “No?”
Emma picked her words carefully. “I appreciate the offer, Ben, but I don’t want your money. Don’t take it personally. It’s just that I … I wouldn’t be comfortable,” she finished, looking down at her papers.
He walked back to the table and stood over her, and silently waited. He was going to take it verypersonally, she realized. He’d made a generous, innocent offer, and she’d rebuffed him, no matter how diplomatically. Several long seconds passed before she found the nerve to look up.
“I can just write you a check.”
“I know you can, but I want to do this myself. Paying for a new plane isn’t the problem; it’s waiting for the insurance to pay that’s got me stumped. I just thought that with your business background, you might have an idea how I can temporarily shuffle my money around.”
He suddenly turned and headed back to the sink, once more rolling up his sleeves. “You need an accountant for that.”
Emma blew out a breath with enough force to ripple her papers. He wasn’t angry; he was hurt.
She began gathering up her papers into an unorganized pile. Hell. She felt like throwing the papers into her woodstove, then crawling in behind them. She hadn’t meant to hurt Ben.
The last paper to go on her pile was one Emma didn’t recognize. It was legal length and folded in fourths, and she knew it hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. She opened it up to read it, but didn’t get past the first line.
The silence that suddenly fell over the room was so absolute, Emma could hear the blood rushing through her veins. The pounding of her heart was deafening. The room around her receded into the recesses of her consciousness as she opened her mouth and closed it again.
She finally found her voice, which didn’t seem to be hers at all. “This is an application for a marriage license.”
“Yes,” came a solid, faraway voice from right beside her.
“It’s all filled out.”
“Only one line’s still blank,” Ben said.
Emma stared at the document. Every piece of information about her was there, from her birth date and birthplace to her parents’ names and her Social Security number. Everything was filled in for Benjamin Sinclair as well.
“Michael. Your middle name is Michael,” was all she could say, fixated by that one small fact.
“Kelly knew my middle name.”
Emma finally looked at him. “This is a marriagelicense application,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“And all I have to do is sign it, and we can get married.”
“You would also have to show up for the ceremony.”
“Are you … is this a proposal?”
“I believe I already proposed. This is the next step.”
Emma rubbed her forehead. “I don’t remember a proposal, exactly. I do remember you mentioning your plans for afterwe got married. You said something about running your business from Maine.”
He pulled her hand away from her forehead, holding it in his as he went down on one knee. “Sign it, Emma.”
“I … I have to think about this,” she whispered, tugging on her hand.
“You havethought about it.”
“I’ve had plenty of other things on my mind lately.”
“You’re going to sign it eventually, so why not take this load off your shoulders now? Sign the paper and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Just like you plan to take care of me?”
He shook his head. “I have no intention of taking over your life, Emma. You’ll be just as independent after we’re married as you are now. You just won’t be alone anymore.”
He was telling her to trust him.
Which she already did.
He was telling her they could spend the rest of their lives together.
Which she wanted to do very badly.
He was saying he respected her independence.