Page 118 of Blitzing Emily

“But you left because she said you cheated.”

“No. I left because I realized I asked her to give up everything she ever wanted, and maybe she’d be happier with someone else.” She glanced over at him in utter astonishment. The ex-neighbor who spitefully told Emily that her father cheated on her mother was the liar, then. How could anyone tell a lie so monstrous?

“Honey,” Margaret called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready. Come and eat while it’s hot.”

“We’ll be right there,” Mark responded. Emily got up from the couch, and he held out his arms to her again.

“Let’s not go this long before we have another conversation.” Her father held her. She felt his tears on her cheek. “Maybe we could talk some more after dinner.” His arms tightened around her. “Buddies?”

“Buddies.” Emily gave him another squeeze. “Do you still love Mom?”

“I never stopped.”

In one afternoon, her world had shifted on its axis. Brandon was right. It was too bad Emily wouldn’t get the chance to tell him that.

Chapter Twenty-Three

THREE DAYS AFTEREmily’s conversation with her parents about Brandon she was in San Francisco, preparing for performances ofRigoletto. Rehearsals were finished for the day. She had an hour to herself before a reporter from one of the local TV stations arrived for an interview that would run tomorrow on the news. She decided to treat herself to a pedicure in the hotel’s spa.

She melted into the soft leather of a pedicure chair. The warm water, infused with essential oils and slices of fresh lemon, felt like heaven on her feet. She reached out for a copy ofPeoplemagazine to flip through while she de-stressed. She almost dropped it on the floor when she saw an all-too-familiar face.

Anastasia Lee posed with her infant daughter, Delilah, in a highly stylized black-and-white photo shoot scheduled to appear inVogue. Anastasia’s expression was remote as she sat in a high-backed chair. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a black silk chiffon knee-length dress with décolletage that was only possible with aggressive use of duct tape, and impossibly high heels. The baby was a replica of her mother, dressed in a white couture gown with a black sash. Delilah had her mother’s bee-stung lips and miniature high heels of her own. The caption under the picture read: “Anastasia Lee shows off her first-born, Delilah Marie, with Seattle Sharks’ Brandon McKenna.”

It was the oddest baby photo Emily had ever seen. At the same time, she didn’t want to see more. She dropped the magazine onto the floor next to her chair, turning away from it.

THE REPORTER SUBMITTEDquestions prior to the interview. It should have been twenty minutes of the usual—talking about the role, how much she loved working with the opera company and seeing San Francisco again, and urging people who had never been to the opera to give it a try. She could do these interviews in her sleep, which is why she told David she could handle it on her own for once.

The reporter was young. He was handsome. He veered off the script almost immediately.

“Miss Hamilton, I’m quite a sports fan, as well as an opera buff. You must be thrilled about the Seattle Sharks’ three-game winning streak.”

“It’s terrific. Congratulations to them.” She felt an invisible, icy fist grip her stomach. She smiled brightly. “Let’s talk a little more aboutRigoletto,and why I’m looking forward to singing this role so much.”

His smile was dazzling in response. “You know, Miss Hamilton, I’ve gotta ask.” He almost looked apologetic. “What’s the status of your engagement to Brandon McKenna? You’ve been very quiet about your wedding plans. Our viewers would love to know what’s in your future.”

Emily recrossed her legs, and resisted the impulse to cross her arms over her chest. She forced herself to sound casual. “We appreciate your interest, but we’re not ready to announce our plans as of yet.”

“Are you and Brandon still engaged?”

“I’d prefer we didn’t discuss my private life.” She smiled at him again. “Do you have any remaining questions about the performances?”

He tried again, a couple of times. Finally, Emily pulled off the lavalier microphone pinned to the neckline of the cobalt-blue silk blouse she wore, extracted the battery pack from the back waistband of her skirt, and got to her feet. She extended her hand. “Thank you so much for stopping by.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

“I have another appointment. Let me show you out.” She walked to the door, pulled it open, and waited for the camera person and his assistant to gather their equipment. The camera person and assistant shook her hand on the way out. “Thanks again for the interview.”

Emily extended her hand to the reporter. He didn’t shake it. “Are you often this difficult?” he said.

“I’m here to answer questions about my performances and about the opera, not my private life. All questions were agreed upon in advance.” She gave him a nod. “Thanks again.”

The suite door shut behind him. David was right: Meeting the guy without his presence was just plain stupid. She could only imagine what was going to end up on the newscast. At the same time, she didn’t raise her voice, she was courteous, and she didn’t bite on the guy’s insult. She sent David a text to call her. He would be upset, but she’d deal with it when she talked with him.

She sat down on the couch in the living room of her suite, grabbing the smallish tote bag holding her knitting. The interview was the least of her problems right now. She couldn’t get the photo of Anastasia and her daughter off her mind. She couldn’t imagine the Anastasia she’d met as a parent. Was she affectionate and loving toward her little girl, or was Delilah an expensive prop? As she sat knitting, she wondered if Brandon had seen the photos. The last place he would want to see his infant daughter was at a high-fashion photo shoot.

Brandon would take his daughter to the park. He’d put her in a jogging stroller, making sure a blanket was tucked close around her so she didn’t get a chill. He would take un-posed, casual photos of her on his smart phone, and he’d e-mail them to everyone he knew. She’d wear soft cotton, age-appropriate outfits, mostly pink. Definitely no heels. When they got home, he’d tell her a story as he rocked her to sleep. He would think baby spit-up on his shoulder was a fashion statement.

Hurt and jealousy swamped her. She never thought she wanted a baby, but she wanted his.

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