football stats.” She smiled at him. “I can do that, too.”
Mouth a grim line, he turned the stereo up loud enough to make conversation impossible.
* * *
His mom lived only a few minutes from the shopping plaza, so she didn’t have to endure his foul mood for long. Growing up in Westchester County, she was used to grand colonials, rolling green lawns, and stone walls. But these homes looked newer, all browns and beiges, and the landscaping more rustic. Lots of terra-cotta and dusty-looking trees and shrubs, unlike her White Plains neighborhood, which was vibrant with flowering trees and red maples.
As the streets grew narrower, the houses became closer together, less formal. A few more turns and the homes grew even smaller. This area made more sense for a music professor’s salary.
A quick flash of water appeared between houses. “You live on a lake?”
He nodded. When he turned onto his street and began to slow, a feeling bloomed inside her and made her . . . happy. The band’s house in the suburbs seemed so artificial, so bland. But where he’d grown up? Lovely.
“I always had this fantasy about living in a cottage on a lake, a swath of green lawn canopied by towering trees. My private little fairy forest.”
He pulled into a driveway. “That was my childhood all right. A real fairy tale.”
Bougainvillea spilled off the terra-cotta roof of the stucco one-story house, and a stone walkway bracketed with rosebushes led to an antique oak door.
“This is gorgeous.” She got out, breathing in the rose-scented air. In their development, the air smelled dusty and dry, and the landscape was stark and desert-like. “You grew up here?”
“Hey, Mom.” His flat, guarded voice had Emmie swinging around to find him at the front door.
“Jonny.” A petite woman in loose linen pants and a sleeveless tunic gazed up at him with so much love and admiration, Emmie’s breath hitched in her throat. Her parents had
never
looked at her like that. She was so similar to her super-efficient mom that everything good she did was just expected. And her dad? Well, unless she suddenly tapped into her inner virtuoso, Emmie didn’t think she’d ever get more than a vague sense of appreciation from him—when she did something he wanted.
But wait a minute. What had she called him?
Jonny?
His mom called him
Jonny
?
Slater angled back. “Mom, this is Emmie. Derek’s sister.”
“Emmie Valencia. How wonderful to meet you. Come in, come in.” Her warm smile drew Emmie up the walkway.
“So nice to meet you, Dr. Vaughn.”
“Please call me Elizabeth. I wish I’d known you were coming sooner. I would have rearranged my schedule.” His mom clasped Emmie’s hand in her dry, cool ones. “You look so much like Derek.”
“Well, except I have hair and he has tattoos.” She stepped into the tiled foyer. The house smelled of old paper and something extremely familiar—the valve oil for brass instruments.
“Yes, except for that.” His mom laughed, eyes sparkling. “I’d love to make some tea and sit with you awhile, but I’ve got to leave for a meeting in a few minutes.” She gave her son a playfully admonishing look.
“I didn’t know I was coming until a few hours ago. Emmie hit up Go to Work.”
Pleasure lit up his mom’s features. “I love that store. Have you seen the new clipboards they just got in?”
“Are you serious?” Emmie said. “I wanted one of each. They were gorgeous.”
His mom smiled almost shyly, cupping a hand around one side of her mouth. “I did get one of each.”
Emmie laughed. “Totally jealous.”
“Do you have the list?” Slater asked, all business.
Emmie noticed the disappointment pull across his mom’s features. This was his home, his mom. He couldn’t chat for a few minutes?
Reaching for the chain dangling off her neck, she lifted her eyeglasses, then patted her pockets. “Now what did I do with it? I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing it up
Mouth a grim line, he turned the stereo up loud enough to make conversation impossible.
* * *
His mom lived only a few minutes from the shopping plaza, so she didn’t have to endure his foul mood for long. Growing up in Westchester County, she was used to grand colonials, rolling green lawns, and stone walls. But these homes looked newer, all browns and beiges, and the landscaping more rustic. Lots of terra-cotta and dusty-looking trees and shrubs, unlike her White Plains neighborhood, which was vibrant with flowering trees and red maples.
As the streets grew narrower, the houses became closer together, less formal. A few more turns and the homes grew even smaller. This area made more sense for a music professor’s salary.
A quick flash of water appeared between houses. “You live on a lake?”
He nodded. When he turned onto his street and began to slow, a feeling bloomed inside her and made her . . . happy. The band’s house in the suburbs seemed so artificial, so bland. But where he’d grown up? Lovely.
“I always had this fantasy about living in a cottage on a lake, a swath of green lawn canopied by towering trees. My private little fairy forest.”
He pulled into a driveway. “That was my childhood all right. A real fairy tale.”
Bougainvillea spilled off the terra-cotta roof of the stucco one-story house, and a stone walkway bracketed with rosebushes led to an antique oak door.
“This is gorgeous.” She got out, breathing in the rose-scented air. In their development, the air smelled dusty and dry, and the landscape was stark and desert-like. “You grew up here?”
“Hey, Mom.” His flat, guarded voice had Emmie swinging around to find him at the front door.
“Jonny.” A petite woman in loose linen pants and a sleeveless tunic gazed up at him with so much love and admiration, Emmie’s breath hitched in her throat. Her parents had
never
looked at her like that. She was so similar to her super-efficient mom that everything good she did was just expected. And her dad? Well, unless she suddenly tapped into her inner virtuoso, Emmie didn’t think she’d ever get more than a vague sense of appreciation from him—when she did something he wanted.
But wait a minute. What had she called him?
Jonny?
His mom called him
Jonny
?
Slater angled back. “Mom, this is Emmie. Derek’s sister.”
“Emmie Valencia. How wonderful to meet you. Come in, come in.” Her warm smile drew Emmie up the walkway.
“So nice to meet you, Dr. Vaughn.”
“Please call me Elizabeth. I wish I’d known you were coming sooner. I would have rearranged my schedule.” His mom clasped Emmie’s hand in her dry, cool ones. “You look so much like Derek.”
“Well, except I have hair and he has tattoos.” She stepped into the tiled foyer. The house smelled of old paper and something extremely familiar—the valve oil for brass instruments.
“Yes, except for that.” His mom laughed, eyes sparkling. “I’d love to make some tea and sit with you awhile, but I’ve got to leave for a meeting in a few minutes.” She gave her son a playfully admonishing look.
“I didn’t know I was coming until a few hours ago. Emmie hit up Go to Work.”
Pleasure lit up his mom’s features. “I love that store. Have you seen the new clipboards they just got in?”
“Are you serious?” Emmie said. “I wanted one of each. They were gorgeous.”
His mom smiled almost shyly, cupping a hand around one side of her mouth. “I did get one of each.”
Emmie laughed. “Totally jealous.”
“Do you have the list?” Slater asked, all business.
Emmie noticed the disappointment pull across his mom’s features. This was his home, his mom. He couldn’t chat for a few minutes?
Reaching for the chain dangling off her neck, she lifted her eyeglasses, then patted her pockets. “Now what did I do with it? I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing it up
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