A/N: Thanks as always to all things holy for putting up with my whining. And very, very appreciative thanks for the reviews--feedback is gratefully welcomed (and always asked for!).
Disclaimer: Amy Sherman-Palladino got there first. I love them like they're mine, but I'm not delusional enough to believe it.
December
Emily couldn't stop the planning. She would have called the printers about the invitations by today. Tomorrow, she would have overseen the unpacking of the decorations; she would have remembered, halfway through the organization of the ornaments, to call the caterer. She would have had lists by now—lists of gifts, of people to send Christmas cards, of functions, of charitable donations...
She would have bought a new dress. She would have made sure Richard had a new suit. There would be candles in the windows and a wreath on the door. The holiday china would sit on the sideboard in the dining room, and the house would smell of ginger...
When she met with Tom at the work site, he'd told her there was no need for her to spend the day—it was cold, he said, and they were only doing construction, and he had her cell number if he needed her. She should go, he said, enjoy the sunshine, however cold the day. She walked to her car, clutching her purse, her face set in a frown. There were no meetings, no people to meet, no phone calls to be made. But the planning continued in spite of this.
The thought of returning to the apartment was unappealing at best. Gypsy had developed an annoying habit of singing Beach Boy songs while she worked, and her nasal, tone deaf crooning echoed beneath the floorboards of Emily's room. During the day the place always smelled of exhaust and grease, and Emily had avoided spending time there during the daylight hours as much as possible. As she turned her car toward the road, she sighed. She might as well go, she thought; she'd be as welcome there as anywhere else.
Michel was on the phone when she entered. He immediately put the potential guest on hold and exchanged air kisses with Emily before directing her to Lorelai's office. Emily walked smartly to the back of the building, the click of her heels on the shined floor an oddly soothing sound. She didn't bother knocking, as the door was ajar, and stepped into her daughter's office.
Lorelai sat behind the desk, one elbow on the desktop, her forehead leaning against her palm. She took even, deep breaths, her eyes closed. There were mounds of paper work before her and a mess of boxes in one corner. The rest of the room was warm and soft—a couch, oak furniture, sconces that matched those in the rest of the inn. Lorelai slumped forward on her desk, letting her head fall to her arms.
"Lorelai, are you sleeping?"
She made an indeterminate noise, jumping in her chair. She put a hand to her throat. "Holy George and Martha, Mom," she cried. "You scared me half to death!"
Emily dropped to the couch, crossing her legs. "Yes, well, if you weren't sleeping on the job—"
"I wasn't sleeping on the job," Lorelai replied. "I was... meditating." She sighed and rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. "Not that it's working." She looked at Emily. "What can I do for you, Mom?"
"It's Thursday," Emily replied. "We have lunch on Thursdays. I realize it's rather early, but—"
"It's Friday, Mom." She said it gently, the look in her eyes both sad and worried.
It was a look too close to pity, Emily thought, and made no effort to conceal the irritation she felt herself."Excuse me?"
"It's Friday. The day after Thursday," she said. "As in, today not being Thursday, but Friday."
"I heard you," Emily said. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," Lorelai replied. "I was going to call you yesterday when you didn't show, but then there was this whole linen crisis and I just... I forgot," she said lamely. "I'm sorry." Emily kept silent, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. "Mom, are you okay?"
"I'm just fine, Lorelai," she said. "Well. Are you free for lunch today?"
"I guess," Lorelai said vaguely. She rubbed her eyes.
"Lorelai? Is everything all right with you?" Emily asked. She studied her daughter as Lorelai rose and walked around to the front of her desk. She seemed worn, tired. She kept one hand to her temple, absently rubbing her fingers in small circles, as though massaging away a headache. She was slightly more rumpled than usual, her tone distracted when she spoke.
Lorelai drew a long breath. "Yes. Fine. Everything is fine. I'm just—oh, I'm having a day, that's all." She looked at her mother. "Where would you like to go for lunch?"
"I assumed Luke's, as usual," Emily replied. Lorelai pulled a face. "What? What's that look?"
She sat on the edge of her desk, hugging herself. "Nothing. It's—Luke and I had a little... thing... this morning."
"A thing," Emily said flatly. "You had a thing."
Lorelai let out a strange, barking laugh. "Yes, a thing. I said things, he said things, I believe silverware was used as projectile missiles..." she trailed off.
"And what was this thing about?"
"You want to hear about the thing?" Lorelai said, skeptical.
Emily lifted an eyebrow. "What was this thing about?" she asked again.
Lorelai propelled herself off the desk and began to walk around the small room, waving her arms and spinning circles on her heels as she spoke. "Oh, nothing, really. Neither of us got much sleep last night—" She stopped and looked at Emily, who didn't react. "—because Luke has a cold and he was coughing, so he was up and I was up because he was up, and then he went and got out of bed at the normal time to go open the diner anyway, so then—"
"Lorelai, take a breath, please," Emily said, rolling her eyes.
She narrowed her eyes as she continued. "I told him he shouldn't go to work; he said he had to go to work. Then he tripped over something on the floor and made some comment about me occasionally picking up after myself. I said that it's my room in my house and I can keep it however I want to, which apparently was particularly offensive and he went all Marcel Marceau on me." She returned to the chair behind her desk and threw herself into it. "I told him he obviously had something to say, to which he replied that he didn't realize there were property rules in this relationship and I then made the mistake of asking him if his name was on the mailbox."
"That wasn't especially kind of you," Emily said.
"No, I know this. So he went off on a diatribe about the diner, or something—I don't know, something about changing the name from Luke's to 'Luke's and Luke's Alone Until Lorelai Decides It's Hers, Too.'" She tossed a look at her mother, daring her to comment. "Then I got out of bed and went to make coffee because I can't fight with him before I've had coffee—"
"Of course."
Lorelai ignored her. "But when I get to the kitchen, there's no coffee. He comes in to get a glass of juice, and I tell him we're out of coffee. And then he points at me, and he's all 'no, we're not out of coffee, you're out of coffee,'" she said, her voice husky and low, a poor but fairly amusing imitation of Luke, Emily thought. "'Because nothing here is mine.'" She sighed. "And then with the yelling and throwing and the slamming of doors."
"And that's how you left things," Emily said.
"That's how we left things."
"Well," she said, "you were both tired, and it was early, I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."
Lorelai fidgeted. "No, probably not. We've fought before, we'll do it again, but currently, we're not speaking to each other."
Emily rose and shouldered her purse. "Then this is the perfect opportunity to remedy the situation. Let's go to lunch."
They were silent as they walked—their cars left behind at Lorelai's insistence—to the diner. The cold was bitter, with an odd metallic taste that only soured Emily's mood further and seemed to make Lorelai draw into herself, clutching her coat about her. It still had not snowed; the ground rose up in angry cracks and breaks, the soil a frozen crust along the edge of the sidewalks. As they edged closer to town, Lorelai muttered something about spring paving and town revenge against frost heaves.
"That's never been an expression I enjoy," Emily said. "Frost heaves—it sounds rather vulgar, for some reason."
"Yeah, okay, Mom," Lorelai replied, snickering.
"I see, so you're the only one allowed to make such observations?"
Lorelai spread her hands. "I can't help it if I have a talent, Mom."
They entered the diner and seated themselves at a table near the front door. Lorelai sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring blankly ahead of her as Emily perused the menu. Luke strode over and, without being asked, overturned the coffee cups and filled them from the pot he held in one hand. He waited, his hand on his hip.
"You shouldn't be working," Lorelai said immediately. "You're sick. Serving food? Not the best idea."
"I'm not serving food," he said. "I'm taking orders. Lane and Caesar are serving food. That okay with you?"
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "Whatever."
He ignored this. "What'll you have, Mrs. Gilmore? The usual?" he asked.
"Yes, I think the usual would be fine," she replied. "Lorelai?"
Lorelai tilted her chin away from Luke as she reached for her coffee mug. "French dip," she said. "Fries."
Luke cleared his throat and stood a moment, looking hard at Lorelai. Emily watched them, Lorelai determinedly keeping her mouth shut, her lips pursed together, Luke stiff and tense, flushed with anger. After a moment, he silently turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Oh, really, Lorelai," Emily said. "You're behaving like a child."
"Well, if I am," she said, "I'm not the only one." She set her cup heavily down and crossed her arms over her chest, sitting back in her chair. It was a familiar posture—Emily had seen her daughter sit this way at dinner after dinner when she was a child, pouting over whatever delicacy had been served that night.
Moments later, Luke reemerged from the kitchen and again came to stand over their table. "Lorelai," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. She made no reply, and he rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. His breath caught in his throat, and he raised his arm to muffle in his elbow the angry cough it produced. His shoulders shook with the force of the cough and when he'd quieted, he passed a hand over his face, his expression weary. "Lorelai."
She turned in her chair and looked up at him, her brows drawn together and her face set in hard lines. "What?"
"Would you come upstairs with me for a minute?"
"Why?"
"You know."
"Do I?" she said. "Humor me: tell me why."
Again, he cleared his throat, both in frustration and discomfort, as though he had something lodged in his windpipe. "To continue our earlier discussion."
"Discussion?" Lorelai laughed. "Discussion? Were we having a discussion? Funny, I don't remember having a discussion with you this morning, Luke. No, I wasn't having a discussion, I was having an argument, and that's not really something I care to pursue at this juncture, so—"
"Oh, for crying out loud, Lorelai! Would you just come up the damned stairs with me for five minutes?" he bellowed.
"Well, when you ask so nicely," she shot back, "how can I possibly refuse?"
The diner had fallen silent. The couple said nothing, regarding each other, their breathing exaggerated and uneven. Luke jutted out his chin, working his jaw, and coughed; Lorelai averted her eyes. She shook her head slightly and stood. "Fine," she said. "Whatever. I have to pee anyway." With this, she stalked towards the stairs and noisily led the way up to his apartment.
Emily sat alone, sipping her coffee. The apartment upstairs was quiet. Moments later, Lorelai appeared on the stairs, gesturing to her. She rose and met her daughter by the door.
"Mom, Luke's burning up and he's not looking so good," Lorelai said, clearly irritated. "Can you do me a favor, run to the pharmacy and pick up some stuff?"
"What stuff?" Emily asked.
"You know, NyQuil, that menthol vapor cream stuff, ginger ale, tissues..."
When Emily returned from her errand, she went up the stairs and let herself in. She paused unnoticed in the kitchen, arrested by the tableau before her. Luke sat on the bed, his face pale and miserable. Lorelai knelt before him, tugging at his shoes.
"Okay, Meathead," she said.
"I thought I was Archie," he said. "Can't be Archie and Meathead."
"Today," she said, "you're Meathead. Now. Let's get you out of these clothes." Luke chortled. "Oh, don't even say 'dirty!', Luke."
"You say it all the time!"
"I know I do, but I'm still pissed at you and I therefore don't want you making use of my catchphrase."
Luke watched her as she pulled at his flannel shirt, trying to work it off his left shoulder. He made no move to help her. "If you're so pissed," he asked, "then why are you still here?"
"Because you're sick," she said. "Arms up." He obliged and she pulled his tee shirt over his head. "You're sick and you can't take care of yourself."
"Can too," he said feebly, punctuating this with an enormous sniffle and another weak cough.
"Yes, but you won't," Lorelai told him. She pulled him to his feet. "Come on."
Emily set the pharmacy bag down heavily on the table. "Here's everything," she said.
Lorelai looked over her shoulder, her hands on Luke's belt. "Oh, thanks, Mom. I'm going to stay here awhile—rain check on that lunch?"
"Of course. Is there anything else I can do?"
"Measure out a dose of NyQuil?" Lorelai said.
"I don't want medicine," Luke said dully.
"Tough. You're sick, so I'm the boss of you," she told him.
He shivered, standing bare-chested in his jeans. "Fine."
Lorelai gave him a sympathetic pout and put a hand to his cheek. "Poor thing," she said.
Emily handed her the dosage cup. Neither Luke nor Lorelai paid her much attention, save a grateful smile from her daughter. She let herself out, easing the door shut behind her. She heard them squabbling as she left.
"Would you just take your damned pants off?"
"You're just trying to get me into bed."
"Yes, because you're such a sexy beast right now. In fact, the menthol vapor cream isn't for your cold, it's for—"
Emily walked herself back to the inn and her car. There would be no Friday night dinner, as Richard was out of town on business—charity work for his mother's foundation, set up posthumously—for several weeks, and Rory was in the midst of preparing for finals. She decided a manicure and pedicure in Hartford might help her mood. She didn't hold out much hope it would quiet the list-making voice still ticking off tasks of Things To Do in her head.
After a brief telephone conversation with Rory a few days later, she decided to drive out to New Haven and treat her granddaughter to a cup of coffee and a short study break; Rory had sounded distracted and tired, and grandparental comfort might help. Emily was herself looking for anything to fill the day, finding her normal activities dull and wearying. The list-making was now accompanied by odd pangs in her ribcage. She parked near Rory's hall and walked across the lawn, catching sight of her granddaughter coming towards her from another walkway. Rory hadn't seen Emily—she was caught in conversation with a tall, dark-haired young man who seemed vaguely familiar. He said something that made Rory laugh, throwing her head back and shoving him a little. She leaned forward to catch her breath, looped her arm through the young man's, and looked about. Her face broke into a wide smile, seeing Emily, and she dropped her companion's arm to wave.
The Gilmore women hugged hello, Rory squeezing Emily tightly. "I'm so surprised to see you here!"
"I thought I'd drop in for a mid-afternoon coffee, seeing as we didn't have dinner last week and you've been working so terribly hard on finals. Do you have the time?"
"Of course, Grandma," she said. "Always." She started, remembering herself. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. You remember Marty, right, Grandma?"
Emily put out her hand. "Oh, yes. Marty. Nice to see you."
"How are you, ma'am?" he asked, shaking her hand.
"Very well, thank you."
Rory turned to Marty. "I'm going to go," she said, "but we're on for later." She gave him a significant look, Emily thought, and an encouraging smile.
"Great," he replied. "Let me take your bag so you don't have to drag it around." He reached for Rory's satchel as he spoke, though she protested. He shouldered it and squeezed Rory's elbow, nodding ever so slightly. He smiled at both Gilmores. "Rory, I'll see you later. Mrs. Gilmore, really nice to see you."
Emily managed to hold off until they were seated in a café, cups of coffee before them, before she asked. "So, this Marty," she said. "He's your boyfriend?"
Rory squirmed. "Well, no—not technically." Emily's eyebrows rose. "We're sort of in a pre-dating holding pattern."
"I'm sorry?"
She sighed and spun her coffee cup. "We spend most of our free time together. And it's great. Grandma, I can talk to him about anything. We just sit around, talking for hours. About nothing. Or we don't talk at all, and that's fine, too. It's—it's really sort of amazing." She paused. "Lane was telling me this summer about this boy she dated, how they would talk on the phone for hours on end and she never felt nervous or strange and she never ran out of things to say to him... I've never really known anyone who I had that with all at the same time—not a boy, anyway. I just—it's so comfortable."
"But you're not dating."
"I haven't had the best luck in that area," she said. She peered at her grandmother over the rim of her mug. "And he knows that—not, like, specifics, or anything, but the gist. He's been patient. I just don't want to ruin anything."
"And you like him," Emily said.
"Very much," Rory said. "He's—he's such a dork, Grandma, but he's very—" She stopped. "He's Marty. That's the only way to describe him. He's just Marty."
Emily's smile was sad. "That's lovely for you, my dear."
Rory shrugged shyly and changed the subject. They chatted idly for a while longer, talking about Stars Hollow, about the Dragonfly, about Luke's raging cold and Lorelai's dogged insistence he see a doctor, his equally dogged resistance to medical attention. Emily dropped a few bills on the table and rose, saying she should go. She leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Rory's cheek, giving her a hug. Rory held onto her a moment, hesitant to pull away.
"Grandma?" she asked. "Are you—how are you?"
"I'm fine, Rory," Emily replied. "Why do you ask?"
"You just seem—not yourself. I'm worried about you."
Emily touched Rory's cheek with the back of her hand, her eyes soft. "You don't need to worry about me, Rory."
"I do, anyway." She bit her lip. "I hate to see you so sad. Are you sure you don't want to go home? Home, home?"
Emily studied Rory a moment. "I don't know," she said. "I should let you get back to your studies. Say hello to Marty, and I'll pass along your get well to Lorelai the next time I speak to her."
She didn't drive to Stars Hollow. She impulsively pulled off the highway at the Hartford exit and found herself soon sitting behind the steering wheel, parked in her driveway, staring up at her house. Keys in hand, she stepped out of the car and walked up the front path slowly before she slid her house key in the lock and turned. She had expected to find it resistant, to squeak or be sticky; she was relieved that it turned easily and the door opened before her the way it always had. She put her purse on the hall table and went up the front stairs, sliding her hand along the banister as she went.
The staff had been given leave during Richard's absence, she knew. He wasn't expected home until just before Christmas, and until then the house would, for the first time, be the only one in the neighborhood not decorated for the season. Emily rounded the top of the stairs and immediately went to her bedroom. Without thinking, she kicked off her shoes and undressed, reaching for the bathrobe that still hung in the closet. She showered in her own shower, using the soaps and shampoo that still sat on the shelf in the wall. When she was done, she sat before her vanity and combed her hair with the silver comb from her wedding set.
Emily thought about the lists her mind had been making without her permission, about the pangs in her chest. She thought about Richard, away now during what had always been one of the busiest times of the year, and the afternoons she'd spent alone in his absence. She thought about her apartment over Gypsy's garage, about Stars Hollow, about Lorelai and Rory and the things she'd seen in the past few days. She thought about sleeping in her narrow bed by herself. She stared at her reflection until she realized her eyes were no longer focusing properly. She then rose and reached for the telephone.
"Lorelai," she said. "I'm going to need your help on a few things."
The next two weeks were a flurry of activity, for which Emily was grateful. It felt normal, natural, to be making decisions, to be overseeing details, to be directing things for herself, in her own house, for her own sake. She had enjoyed working for Winky, and when the holidays were over, she'd continue to supervise the renovations to the house in Stars Hollow; working for Winky, however, wasn't this satisfying. She could now go to bed at night and know she'd sleep without the help of a glass or two of scotch.
Lorelai asked her, the Friday before it was all to begin, what the difference was, what made this so important when she'd done it all a hundred times before.
They were at the table in the dining room, grouped together at one end, Emily at the head and Rory to her immediate right, Lorelai at her left and Luke beside her. Emily sipped her wine and wiped her mouth primly with a napkin.
"I did it before because I had to," she said. "Because that was my job. It was expected. It was what I did, and it was, at times, all I had."
Rory put her hand over Emily's, sighing, "Oh, Grandma."
She smiled and squeezed her granddaughter's fingers. Lorelai gave her an appraising look.
"But now you're doing it because you want to?" she asked.
"Because I want to," Emily echoed, "and because I can, and because I'm not doing it for anyone else's sake, because it's fun—" Luke snorted, receiving an elbow to the ribs from his girlfriend. "—and because—because I have... there are things I need to prove, now, too."
Lorelai studied her a moment longer. "I don't give you enough credit, Mom," she said.
"Excuse me?"
The others all looked at Lorelai, who shrugged as she cut into her chicken. "I don't," she said. "And I'm sorry for that." She paused and looked up. "You—you've changed, that's all."
Emily dropped her eyes, uncertain of how to reply. She wanted to say she wasn't so sure, that what she'd thought she'd been mourning was not really what she had missed. She thought he'd taken away from her all the things that made up her life; she left thinking she could replace them. But her life was more than the bare things she did, the acts of planning and hosting and smiling at parties. She had never loved those things—she had loved being needed, being depended on. She didn't know if Lorelai was right, if she'd changed, but there were things that seemed not to matter anymore, so she only said thank you in response and asked if anyone was ready for dessert.
Richard came home the following Friday. From the bedroom window, Emily saw the car pull into the drive and Richard climb out. She put her earrings in—the pearls he'd given her when Lorelai was born—as she watched him look up at the house, his mouth agape. It made her smile and quicken her movements: a dab of scent behind her ears, at her wrists, a flower on her shoulder. She heard the front door open as she slid her feet into her shoes.
He stood in the foyer, still dumbstruck, when she stopped at the top of the stairs. The banister was garlanded with holly and evergreen, and the rest of the house was turned out in the best of their Christmas decorations, the tree in the corner of the parlor to his right. The entire house was lit up with the candles in the windows and was full of warm smells: mulled wine, apple tarts, ginger. He watched as a small staff bustled past him in uniforms of black and white, all blatantly ignoring him as they went about their work. He started when he heard Eartha Kitt singing silkily in the background.
"Santa Baby, put a sable under the tree for me, been an awful good girl, Santa Baby..."
Emily descended the stairs, unconsciously patting her hair into place. "There you are," she said. "We expected to see you hours ago. Why hasn't anyone taken your coat yet? Kelly, come take Mr. Gilmore's coat and briefcase."
He was speechless as she helped him out of his coat and linked her arm companionably through his, led him away from the door and towards the dining room.
"You'll probably want something to drink," she told him. "But please, Richard, don't eat anything now, there will be plenty when guests begin to arrive."
"Guests? Arriving? Emily—" he said, looking down at her.
Sookie appeared in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, a bowl in her arms. "Emily, would you like to try the mousse?"
Richard thought her smile luminous as Emily replied. "No, dear, I'm sure it's perfect. Could you have someone bring my husband a glass of port?"
"Sure thing," Sookie said. "Nice to see you, Richard."
Richard replied vaguely as he looked around. The dining room was set with a buffet along the side, the table decorated with white and green tapers, holly, and mistletoe. He looked down at Emily.
"Are you having a party?" he asked, utterly confused.
She laughed. "Yes, Richard. We're having a party. Christmas is a week from tomorrow, or have you forgotten?"
"No, I've not forgotten," he said. A server approached with a port glass, and he accepted it, still looking slightly stunned.
"Come, now," Emily said, tugging his arm. "You need to start getting ready. I've laid out your suit, it's been pressed, and I have your shoes and tie ready as well."
He followed her up the stairs, clutching his glass, thoroughly baffled. When they reached the bedroom and he saw Emily's things—her lotions and creams and slippers and the book on the bedside table—scattered about, a lump formed in his throat and he felt unsteady on his feet. He sat heavily on the bed beside the suit, holding his drink on his knee.
"Emily," he said, a tremor in his voice.
"Drink your wine, Richard, and we'll get you dressed," she said, crossing towards her vanity. The waver in his voice caused her hands to shake and she suddenly realized she was dangerously close to tears.
"Emily," Richard said again. "Please come sit by me."
Without thinking, she obliged, sitting on top of the freshly pressed suit. Richard drew a breath, staring before him as he spoke. Though they'd shared countless meals and talked hours on the phone in the past months, though they'd been alone and in company together, they'd not been this close to each other physically in a long time. In the time since Emily left, she'd let Richard do his best to win her over, to woo her and court her—he was attentive and respectful and kind and interested in the things she did. He'd made her laugh. It was when he was gone that she remembered the things that made her go in the first place. And it was when she lay down to sleep at night in her bed above Gypsy's garage, dulled by scotch, that she remembered the way she felt now, sitting beside him, her skin humming.
"Emily. I have not apologized—"
"There's no need, Richard."
"But there is," he told her. "There are things I would like you to know."
She put her hand on her knee. "I already know them."
He covered her hand with his own, rubbing his thumb over hers in the familiar, practiced way he always had. "But I need to say it," he said.
She nodded. "As you like."
"I have behaved very badly, Emily. I was—my pride was terribly bruised at being forced out of the company. Jason's business proposal seemed ideal: I could get back a bit of what I'd lost, I could work, I could be useful again. But I neglected to consult you because I believed everything I did was for the best—and, I must say, because I knew you would not approve of certain things."
"No," she said, shaking her head.
"And it was wrong of me. It was very wrong to shut you out of my work life—I didn't realize how very much my work was becoming my life. I can give no excuse for Pennilynn—" She stiffened at this, and he squeezed her hand ever so slightly. "I can give no excuse for many, many things. I also cannot tell you how incredibly foolish I know I have been, nor how much I regret all of it." He shook his head, as though chastising himself. "Can you forgive me, Emily?"
Emily looked at him, her eyes full. "Oh, Richard," she sighed. "There's nothing to forgive."
"But there is. I want you to know—"
She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. "There are certain things that don't need to be said."
"You are very wise, Emily," he said, a sigh of relief in his voice.
"Yes, I am."
He chuckled. "You are also far too good."
She dropped her eyes. "I don't know—" She paused. "Well, if you like, yes I am." She smiled, her hand still on his knee.
Richard folded her in his arms and whispered in her hair. "I've missed you. I should have—"
"Perhaps," she said, her cheek on his shoulder, "but what's passed is passed." She pulled back. "We really don't need—we know what we need to, now, I think."
He pursed his lips together as he nodded. "I love you very much, Emily."
"And I love you," she said, tearing over.
They were quiet a moment, Richard holding Emily close, his hand on the crown of her head. He smelled the same, he felt the same—only thinner, now; she thought, as he bent his head to kiss her, that he looked the way he always had, only softer, somehow.
They parted, both laughing and crying. He told her things would be different; she said she knew. He told her he was glad she was back; she said the same to him. He pointed out that she was sitting on his suit; she replied it wasn't her favorite and was far too formal for the party anyway, so screw it.
"Such salty language," Richard said.
Emily arched her eyebrow at him as she handed him a clean shirt and a sweater. "I have been living over a garage," she said. "Who knows what other dreadful habits I've picked up?"
At this he hugged her again. "Oh, my dear."
Emily watched him as the guests arrived—first Rory, with Marty in tow, both ready to celebrate the end of finals; Lorelai and Luke, finally over his cold (and, as Richard mentioned, rather dapper in a dark blue v-neck sweater, making Emily peal with laughter); Lane and her mother and the ever-present band mates, joined by a tall, gawky-looking boy who lit up when Lane looked at him, her hand in his; Jackson and Davey; Gypsy ("Pigtails, that is a new look for you," Emily said; Gypsy pointed and said "Lady, you're the only one who gets away with things like that."); Tom and his jolly little wife.
They were a motley crew for an Emily Gilmore party, but as the drinks went around and the hors d'ouvres were passed, Emily felt herself relax in a way she never had before at one of her own parties. Conversation was easy, and not only that, it was interesting. There was no one there she'd have to force herself to talk to—no stuffy businessmen with their plastic trophy wives, no socialites or gossips. Richard put his arm across her shoulders and squeezed her as they walked to the dining room for the buffet.
"This is a lovely party," he said.
"I quite agree."
The dinner was excellent and casual and loud and people knocked elbows and clinked glasses and china as they ate and talked and drank. Lorelai had organized a Yankee swap without Emily's knowledge and insisted that after dinner the gifts be exchanged. Emily ended up with a Pee Wee Herman yo-yo. And though she was tired and had the hint of a cough, Lorelai corralled the guests into the back parlor with the hardwood floor, turned up the stereo, and commanded dancing to the unconventional Christmas music she'd brought. She waved to her parents as she danced with Luke, her eyes laughing.
When Rory kissed her grandmother goodbye at the door and dragged a slightly tipsy Marty out to the car with her, it was close to one in the morning. Emily turned and found Richard deep in conversation with Luke by the stairs. Lorelai stood beside them, yawning. She caught Emily's eye and sauntered over, clutching the Mary-Kate Olsen dollshe'd won in the swap.
"Looks like it all worked out," Lorelai said. "You two seem good." Emily shrugged one shoulder in reply. "I'm proud of you, Mom. I know it wasn't easy, coming back here."
"It was harder, the staying away," Emily said. "I should really thank you, Lorelai."
She narrowed her eyes, grinning. "For?"
"I've learned a great deal, watching the way you live your life," Emily said. "It's a very fine life."
Lorelai nodded, a watery smile on her face. "Thanks, Mom. It's good to see you back home." She looked over her shoulder at the men. "I think things are going to be different this year."
Emily put her arm around her daughter. "I think they will be, too."
Lorelai pulled Luke away from her father, complaining that she had a tickle in her throat. Richard and Emily saw them out, Richard's arm around his wife. "I think I'm about ready for bed," he said.
Emily only laughed.
The day after the party, Lorelai called and suggested Christmas dinner the following week in Stars Hollow. Rory was home, she said, and Luke would cook; all they'd have to do is show up. She accepted the offer, thinking she'd have her Christmas meal at someone else's table for the first time in forty years. They came midmorning on Christmas Day; Emily didn't ring the bell, letting herself and Richard in.
"Hello?" she called out.
Lorelai raised one hand over the back of the couch and waved. "Here," she croaked.
Emily rounded the couch to find her daughter under a mound of blankets, crumpled tissues everywhere, her nose red and swollen. She smiled feebly. "Merry Christmas," she said, her voice raw and throaty. "Luke gave me his cold." She coughed. "Worst present ever."
Emily leaned over the couch and touched Lorelai's forehead. "Do you have a fever? You're awfully warm."
She shook her head. "No fever. Just grossness." She peered around Emily. "Hi, Dad."
"Hello, Lorelai. Bit under the weather?"
Both Emily and Lorelai gave him the same withering look.
"Ah, yes. Where's Rory?" he asked, patting the lapels of his sport coat.
"In the kitchen with Luke. He's teaching her to cook," Lorelai said darkly.
Richard grinned. "I might just have to see that myself."
Lorelai snorted a laugh that turned into an ugly cough. From the kitchen, Luke bellowed, "Drink the ginger ale, Lorelai!"
"It's flat!" she whined.
"Drink it anyway!"
She pouted and did as she was told, making a face. Emily perched at the end of the couch.
"Neither of you have a very good bedside manner," she said.
Luke came to stand at the end of the hall. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Gilmore. Hello, sir," he said. He looked at Lorelai. "You take your ibuprofen?"
"Luke," she sighed. "Stop hounding."
Emily twisted to look at him. "Has she been sick long?"
"She's just getting over the worst of it," Luke said. "The beginning of the week she was a mess, but she's in fine form now. Would have been easier on herself if she'd slept at all this week."
"She's sitting right here!" Lorelai cried, pointing at herself. "I'm fine! And you're just trying to get back at me," she sulked to Luke.
Emily lifted a lock of hair off Lorelai's forehead. "You never have been a very good patient," she said.
Rory's voice was frantic as she called from the kitchen. "Luke! The thing! It's bubbling!"
"Ah, shit," he muttered, turning on his heel. Richard followed him down the hall.
Emily watched them go, looking around. "Lorelai, why on earth do you have two trees?"
Lorelai glanced about vaguely. "Oh. I thought Luke would hate a real tree because he's all environmentally save the trees and all that, so I got a fake one. And he knows I love tradition and thought I'd hate a fake tree, so he went and cut down a real one. It was very 'Gift of the Magi,' but we both got to keep the stuff."
Emily shook her head. "Wonders never cease."
It was a quiet, pleasant holiday. The gifts were opened—books for Rory, a bracelet matching the anklet Lorelai gave her for her birthday, a scarf and hat and glove set; a beautiful purse and set of earthenware bowls for Lorelai, as well as a snow globe from Luke ("Because of the no snow yet," she cooed. "Luke, you're the girliest boyfriend ever. I love it."); a butcher block and a set of kitchen knives for Luke; professionally photographed portraits of the Lorelais for the grandparents among them. Emily misted slightly at these, and Lorelai grinned.
"And here Rory wanted to get you the Kama Sutra," she said.
"Ah, geez," Luke groaned.
The dinner was simple, turkey and stuffing, cranberries, rolls. They laughed at how inordinately proud Rory was of the twice baked potatoes. The pumpkin pie was less of a success, but Luke had made another and a cake as well. They took the coffee and dessert into the living room, where Richard had built a fire, and lounged about watching one of the new DVDs Lorelai bought Luke. Richard and Emily sat together on the couch, Rory in one of the armchairs, chatting quietly on her cell phone. Luke and Lorelai lay stretched out on the floor in front of the fire, Lorelai wrapped in an old flannel of Luke's and a blanket, curled against his side and her head pillowed on his chest. He dozed, his arm around her. She watched the movie, playing with the buttons on his shirt, breathing noisily, occasionally coughing; when she did, Luke just raised his hand and stroked the hair away from her forehead, his eyes still closed. Emily watched them, her eyes full. Richard held her hand as they walked to the car.
"She seems very happy," he remarked.
Emily buckled her seat belt and leaned back in her seat. "She is happy," she said. She sighed and turned her face to Richard. "He's very good for her—they don't let each other get away with much, I believe."
"That's not very surprising."
"No," she said. She paused. "It's what you need, isn't it—someone who makes you be better, who makes you try? Someone without whom you'd be a poorer individual?"
Richard took her hand. "I suppose it is."
She squeezed the hand that held hers. "Let's go home, shall we?"