Page 38 of The Matchmaker's Melody
She had been growing into a different person of late, someone whom he loved more than ever. Something had caused a subtle shift deep within her, and a more nuanced, more mature Emma was emerging from her exuberant shell. It must have been her growing intimacy with Jean-François that had done it. The Montrealer was still far from Gordon’s favourite person, but he was just that bit older than Emma, perhaps enough to encourage her to think and dream beyond herself and her comfortable existence. Or could it have been Emma’s own tentative steps to empathy that had let her open her heart to another?
Whatever the cause, she was wonderful. Now, shining from a place deep within her, there was a kindness and thoughtfulness that glowed through her natural exuberance and confidence, making her a better person. She was still Emma. She still strutted about like a princess and commanded a room like she owned the space, but there was a new softness beneath it all that was starting to make allowances for others, letting her understand people whose characters were unlike her own.
God, he loved her.
But would she still be that same Emma now? Could her glorious nature survive such a disappointment?
He had watched her at the party, as she chatted with Jean-François and the woman beside him, had noticed her expression flicker, for that split second. No one else would notice; no one else knew her so well. But Gordon had seen it, and understood in that instant that something was wrong. He excused himself from his conversation with Halli and Rob, and had turned around for a moment to make her a cup of coffee.
And then she was gone.
And, a few minutes later when he met the woman, he understood why.
Jean-François, the rat, had been married all the time. He had been stringing Emma along, flirting and seducing her, while his wife—his wife—had been back in Montreal.
Double timing rat. That bastard. How could he do this to not one, but two women? It was an insult to his wife and an insult to Emma. Asshole!
What must poor Emma be going through, having to meet this woman in public, and then talk to her? How could she smile like that and make meaningless chatter with the person who, unknowingly and innocently, was the cause of such heartbreak?
It had taken all his strength to smile and say some nice things in his adequate French, and not pull back his arm and punch Jean-François in his perfect nose. Thank God Randall had come by before his tentative hold on self-control snapped.
And now here he was, alone in his house, wishing for all the world that Emma was here with him, laughing and happy and pleased with herself and her place in the universe, and not… wherever she was, crying her eyes out, suffering as her tender heart was torn in two.
Gordon pushed himself up from his chair and skulked about the room. He couldn’t sit. He couldn’t read. The internet was a thing of horror. His piano grimaced and growled at him with its row of black and white teeth. He put a piece of bread in the toaster, and then pulled the plug. He wasn’t hungry.
He needed to move.
It was a warm spring night, and despite the late hour, he laced up his shoes and strode out into the darkness. He walked mindlessly, not thinking where he was headed, until he realised he was two blocks from Emma’s place. His feet propelled him onwards. Perhaps, if he just stood outside for a moment, she’d feel his presence and be comforted somehow.
Ridiculous. He chided himself, but he kept walking.
And then he was there. The house where the Masseys lived was dark, all but the porch light that shone in the small canopy that shaded the heavy front door. The windows were black. It was after two in the morning; of course they were asleep.
The side door by the garage was likewise dark, with not even a light to suggest that anyone stirred. But then he glanced up to see a flicker through the light curtains. Was it a candle? She wouldn’t have left a candle burning, would she? That was dangerous. Besides, if she had, it would surely be burned out by now.
Propelled by something he couldn’t name, he walked the extra steps to her door and tapped.
Foolish! Even if she was awake, she couldn’t hear it from up there in her loft. He knocked a bit louder, but not so loud as to wake her if she was sleeping, and then, at last, tried something even more ridiculous. He jiggled the handle.
It was unlocked. What was she thinking?
He pulled the door open and climbed the stairs, one foot dragging after the other, until he stood at the tiny landing before the front door to her apartment. And he tapped again.
There was silence. Then a creak from inside, then footsteps.
A flash of green from the corner where the ceiling met the wall reassured him. He was on camera. The feed probably went to her phone or something. At least she wasn’t opening the door to anyone. And then the door cracked open and a sliver of feeble, flickering light cut the darkness of the stairwell.
“What are you doing here?” He felt, rather than heard, her whisper.
“Can I come in?”
“It’s two in the morning…”
“You weren’t asleep either.”
The door cracked wider until he was able to slip through it. The light from a single candle barely lit the room, although the scent of vanilla filled the air. From what Gordon could see, Emma was still wearing her concert clothes, the all-black ensemble that the Echoes had chosen for everyone, men and women alike. Were those dark circles under her sad eyes, or smudges of makeup? He yearned to kiss away the pain, and swallowed hard to keep his impulses in check.
They stood, facing each other in the darkness, in silence.
