Dear Emily by Fern Michaels Page B

herself, refused to give in. Instead she clutched the pillow and clenched her teeth.
    Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow there would be forty-three shirts in the basket.
    “Emily.” It was a whisper.
    It was the dearest, the sweetest sound. A sound she’d hungered for so long. Her name. Ian was ready to make peace. Thank you, God, thank you.
    “Yes, Ian.”
    “I don’t want to live like this anymore, Emily. I feel like I’m living in a war zone.”
    “I don’t want to live like this either.” She didn’t move, waited for his arm to reach out to her the way he used to do. When she finally felt his touch, she rolled over and snuggled close, her breath exploding in a long, happy sigh.
    “This was the worst two weeks of my life,” Ian said.
    “Me too. Let’s not ever do this again, okay?”
    “Okay. You smell good. New shampoo?”
    “Hmmmnn.” He didn’t smell good. He’d smoked a cigar and he hadn’t brushed his teeth. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I tried to wake you last night, but you were in a deep sleep.”
    “Really, Ian!”
    “Really, Emily. Let’s go out to dinner tonight. Just you and me. Call in sick or switch your hours with someone, okay?”
    “Are we celebrating something or are you just being nice?”
    “Both. I’ll know more tomorrow. I’ll dude up and you gussy up and we’ll go out on the town. Your choice, Emily, where would you like to go?”
    “Can I think about it?”
    “Sure, honey. Listen, let’s make a deal, okay. If you make out a grocery list, I’ll get up early and go to that A&P that’s open twenty-four hours a day. You wash and iron my shirts.”
    “Okay, Ian.” She knew at that moment if he’d asked her to climb to the heavens she would have searched out a hardware store to see if they made ladders that reached that high.
    Moments later, Ian’s lusty snores permeated the bedroom. Emily waited ten minutes before she crept from the bed and out to the kitchen. She pulled on her down coat, gathered up the laundry basket as well as her soap. She let herself out of the apartment quietly and down the steps to the basement where the washer and dryer were located. While the shirts washed, she set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron. She’d gone without sleep before. She’d iron all night and surprise Ian when he woke to go to the A&P.
    While she waited for the clothes to dry, she ran upstairs to make a pot of coffee, which she carried down to the basement. She switched on the landlord’s portable radio on a shelf above the galvanized sinks. Golden Oldies wafted softly throughout the basement. It was warm, and she was doing something she did well, something Ian appreciated. If she was going to call in sick, she could nap in the afternoon. This was more important than sleep.
    As she finished each shirt, she hung it on the clothesline that ran the length of the basement. The heat from the furnace would dry the dampness around the double thickness of the collar and cuffs.
    At five-ten in the morning, Emily made four trips back and forth to hang the shirts in Ian’s closet. Satisfied with her long night’s work, she made a fresh pot of coffee and was sitting at the table trying to imagine Ian’s reaction when he saw all his shirts hanging in the closet and on the back of every door in the apartment. She was about to take a sip of the freshly brewed coffee when she panicked and ran to the bathroom to check on the shirts, the last ones she’d ironed, the ones she hadn’t hung by the furnace to dry. She was too late.
    “Jesus fucking Christ, Emily, these shirts are still wet. I could get icicles on my neck. It’s nineteen degrees outside.”
    Stunned, Emily backed up a step and sucked in her breath. “I made a mistake, Ian, the ones in the closet are the dry ones. I thought you’d take one from the closet. You steam up the bathroom and it seeps out. I’m sorry. Here, let me get you another one,” she said as Ian ripped off the damp shirt and tossed it