A/N: I fixed up chapter 2. Now the lovely Emily and her friends and foes are floating in timeless oblivion. She and Teddy are in their late thirties; Dean is an oldie-but-goodie.
To everyone who's reviewed, positively and negatively, in my off-months: thanks very, very much – to "hmm" for your help with timeline, to Una-Blythe and emmie for constructive criticism, and to the rest of you for your kindness (and to anonymous 327 for caring enough to come back and flame me twice). Your honesty and insight is really helpful with my writing.
As for everyone's qualms about Dean/Emily, I have some too – after all, Teddy Kent was the quintessential romantic lead of my childhood. I just wondered what might happen if the other one, the darker, sinister figure, got a second chance. Teddy will be making his entrance very soon though.
OK. No more boring author talk. On with the story…
Chapter 3. Wanderlust
It was Emily who cried as she told the old, buried story. Dean, though the grief was fresh to him, was silent and stony as she spilled out a few sentences – brief, only enough to let him know what had happened. The pregnancy (she didn't mince words, didn't euphemize; they were beyond that) and the miscarriage, and the shock.
In the midst of her tears came a knock at the door.
"Don't answer that," Emily told her daughter.
Ilse shrugged and returned to her artwork.
"Emily?" came the unbeautiful, strident female voice from outside.
"Oh, lord," Emily said. "You don't know my friend Clarissa, do you?"
"Well, no," he said, smiling. "Obviously."
She wiped a hand across her eyes. "Am I presentable?"
"As starlike as ever," he said, helping her tuck one frizzed strand behind her face.
"Emily!" the voice came again.
"Coming," she said.
Dean followed her to the door and encountered an intelligent, suspicious face turned upon him. The woman was medium height and angular, perhaps slightly older than Emily, and her black eyes sparked with personality.
"Clarissa Van Ness," the woman said in a deep, no-nonsense voice, holding out her hand forthrightly, her hand protectively on Emily's shoulder as the latter's tears were still evident.
Her grip hurt his hand, and he smiled out of sheer surprise. "Dean Priest," he said.
"Jarback," she deduced.
He was less than pleased. "That's right."
"Clarissa," Emily warned in a low voice.
"Oh, come, come, Mr. World Traveller is too unconventional to bow to formalities, I'm sure," Clarissa said. "May I call you Dean?"
"Go ahead," he said, amused now.
She nodded briskly. "I'm Clarissa. Now, are you tagging along with us to the benefit?"
"Benefit?" he said, feeling a slight twinge of dread. If Emily had grown into a society lady, he had come back for nothing.
Emily smiled. "It's for Perry's campaign."
"Prime minister?" he queried with a twist of the lips.
"No," she said. "Just the local legislature. He wants to stay in Blair Water… Anyway, there's to be a dinner tonight at the Blair Water Inn, and I'm sure you'll be able to find a seat."
He hesitated.
"My treat," she wheedled. "I haven't seen you in years, Dean!"
"Your Aunt Elizabeth would have called that expression 'making eyes,' Emily," he said. "I think I have no choice now."
He could see the beginnings of that slow, honest smile breaking onto her face, but Clarissa was watching him sharply and said, "Now that you've fulfilled the requirements of chivalry, shall we go? It's just an outdoor tea, so I suppose that outfit will do."
"Thank you very much," Dean said with a twinkle in his eye. "I was hoping you'd approve."
"Well, you're quite welcome," she retorted.
"That's enough," Emily said. "Let me make sure Ilse is going to be all right here for the afternoon, and then we'll go. Don't bicker while I'm gone."
Emily finished a few quick remonstrations with Ilse and came back, where her friends were waiting innocently. As they walked outside, Dean went ahead and heard the older woman whisper to Emily, "Is that Mr. Emerald Ring? Not much to look at, is he?"
He strode quickly ahead before he could hear Emily's reply.
When Perry Miller saw who had accompanied Emily to the party, his face went rapidly through several expressions and landed on jocular welcome. Just like any politician, Dean thought wryly; except he could see the tight lines of unhappiness around the lips. For a moment he felt almost sympathetic, and then brushed off the sentimentality of it.
"Dean Priest," Perry exclaimed, slapping Dean jovially on his bent back as if they were old, dear friends. Dean stiffened. "How are you, my friend?" Perry asked.
And this was the boy of Stovepipe Town.
"Well enough," he said.
"Come back to Blair Water for good?"
"I've been thinking about it." Beside him, he felt Emily start in surprise. "I find I've lost some of my wanderlust," he explained. Truth was he hadn't even thought of it, until he heard that it was over with Frederick Kent.
Those violet eyes were upon him, searching and wondering. Deliberately he turned his face away.
Later he noticed how Emily stayed close by Clarissa, how the other women accepted her only as an outsider by virtue of Clarissa's acceptance. What an old-fashioned place; they still thought of marriage as something permanent, everlasting, and blamed Emily for the demise of hers.
Dean felt a catlike smile flicker onto his face. He wondered whether Emily ever regretted the provinciality of her life; whether she understood that had she gone to live in the anonymity of a city, she could have let her soul wander in that wild freedom it craved.
They left early. Emily bid a subdued good-bye to all and waved to Perry, who was occupied with a crowd of friends. Then she came to where Dean was standing – at the edge of everything, a cynical observer – and said in a low voice, "Walk me home."