Chapter Text
“Oh, Emma, thank goodness you’re here!”
Emma had barely set one foot into the door of the workshop when she heard Marco’s voice call out to her with his thick, Italian accent.
“Hey Marco! What’s the occasion? You’re usually not this happy to see me,” teased Emma with a grin.
“Oh, come on now, you know you’re my favorite apprentice.”
Marco took the sides of Emma’s face in her hands and turned her head this way and then the other, depositing fatherly kisses on her cheeks.
“I’m your only apprentice, Marco,” laughed Emma as she set down her tool box and belt on the ground and placed her rolled set of tools gently on the bench. Untying the center knot, she unfurled the cloth to its full length revealing a collection of chisels, picks, sets and blades used to carve intricate details into wood.
Emma had been Marco’s apprentice for the past twenty years, since the not-so-tender age of eight.
Emma left her foster home that day fully intending NOT to go to school. Instead, she cut between houses, stepping through hedges and climbing over fences occasionally, until she came upon a small, run-down woodshop located behind an equally dilapidated home that was owned by an older man named Marco. He lived alone and provided a limited handyman service to the town residents, though most of the handyman jobs came to him out of a sense of charity from the residents versus him having any skillset above and beyond what they could get from any typical handyman in town.
Where Marco’s true skill and passion lay was in wood carving. Marco created some of the most beautiful clocks, boxes, miniatures, toys and dolls that anyone had ever seen. They didn’t bring in a lot of income, but combined with the early pension that he received when he was laid off from his job, it kept him afloat…..barely.
Emma approached the side door of the wood shop and checked the handle. It turned and the door creaked open. There were several windows in the shop covered in a film that looked to be a combination of years of dampness and sawdust. It allowed sun to filter into the shop, but provided little visibility to anything on the inside or outside. Emma hoped she could get her hands on some of the smaller tools that Marco owned. She had seen a few similar items in the hardware store in town, in the locked display case, and they looked to be pretty valuable. If she could grab a few of those, she might be able to sell them somehow when she was in Portland. Her foster mom and dad made frequent trips there to buy weed and other drugs from their dealer. When they went, they would drag along Emma and leave her to her own devices on the streets until they finished their ‘transactions’. They had some warped idea that the police or judge might go easier on them, if they were busted with drugs and a small kid in tow. Emma was smart enough to know that it would just lead to another foster family, but she didn’t have a lot of say in the matter, so she may as well take advantage of the situation if she could. A few dollars in her pocket might mean one or two days of lunch at school and a less empty feeling before she went to bed at night. She learned pretty early that her lunch money was going into someone’s arm, nose or stomach.
Emma took a minute to get her bearings and stepped over to the workbench where a small music box lay closed. Carved on the top of the box was a picture of two, Atlantic Puffins. Emma knew she was there for a different reason, but the box was so tempting, and the tools she wanted lay beside. It was a quick ‘grab and go’, if needed. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.
Picking up the box, she wound the key on the bottom until it was tight. Setting it back on the bench, she opened the lid. The inside was simple. A thin piece of glass covered a simple mechanism that consisted of a rotating drum and a comb that held a series of ‘keys’ of different lengths that would catch on small nubs on the drum to create different notes. The song it played was a slow sort of tune, a repetitive three-note pattern interspersed with some lower notes. It was sad and beautiful all at once and stirred something in Emma. Turning over the box, she could make out four words scribbled there in pencil, ‘Sonata’,’14’,’Moonlight’,’Teresa’. Emma had no clue what it all meant and didn’t have a ton of time to ponder it, because she heard steps on the driveway leading up to the shop. Slamming closed the lid to ensure the box’s silence; Emma grabbed the tools and bolted for the door. She reached the door about the time it opened from the outside, running directly into Marco. In a brief moment of pause, Emma looked at Marco and Marco at her. He saw the tools in her hand and her eyes went wide. Turning to run, she heard one thing as she was stopped dead in her tracks by a hand on her collar.
“GOTCHA!”
Emma squirmed and kicked to no avail as Marco held on tightly. Figuring out quickly that she wasn’t going to be released, Emma stopped fighting, hoping to conserve energy in case she could find a way to make a break later.
“What are you doin’ in my shop? Stealin’ my tools? What’s a seven-year old gonna do with those?” asked Marco in his heavy, Italian accent.
“I’m EIGHT and PUT ME DOWN!” demanded Emma.
“I’ll put you down when we get to your house! Now, show me where you live!”
Emma wasn’t going to win this fight. Even though he was older, Marco’s grip was like a vice. Plus, she now had a bigger problem. Her foster parents were about to find out two things: one, she hadn’t gone to school and, two, she had been caught stealing. Emma was in some deep shit. Despite her foster parent’s own lack of self-control and nasty habits, they ruled with an iron fist when it came to Emma’s behavior. There was zero tolerance for stepping out of line and Emma had the bruises and breaks to show for it.
Arriving at Emma’s foster family’s front door, Marco knocked a few times to announce their arrival keeping a solid hold on Emma’s collar in the process. There seemed to be a lot of shuffling happening and Marco looked at the door quizzically wondering when it would open.
As soon as they are done hiding their stash, thought Emma.
The door opened just enough to reveal a large man in a dirty, white tee-shirt and jeans holding a beer. He had a five o’clock shadow and blood shot eyes. His hair looked like it hadn’t been combed for days or maybe even weeks.
“What do you want?” he snarled at Marco.
From behind him, a distinctly female voice was heard,
“Who’s at the door?”
“Nobody,” shouted the man over his shoulder, “Go back to bed!”
Looking back at Marco, the man continued,
“Well? I ain’t got all day, old man.”
Marco suddenly felt very small and frail under the stare of the man in the door way. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea for him or the girl, but they were here now and there was no turning back.
“Is this your daughter?” asked Marco.
“Foster kid,” the man corrected.
“Yes, well, I caught her stealin’ from my shop a few moments ago,” finished Marco.
“Is that so?”
The man turned his attention to Emma as if this was the first time he had noticed her there and leered at her. Reaching out, he grabbed her bicep roughly and pulled her closer to him as he leaned down to snarl at her,
“Were you stealin’, girl?”
Emma’s mouth gaped a few times before she was able to meekly deliver a one-word response,
“Yes.”
Throwing Marco a sickly grin, the man twisted his hand and yanked Emma away from Marco’s grasp by her arm.
“You don’t have to worry. She won’t be bothering your stuff anymore. Have a good day,” he finished with a sickening smirk. Yanking Emma over the threshold, he slammed the door behind him. Marco heard a loud smack and the clattering of tools dropped from a hand, before he turned and made his way quickly off the porch. God, what had he done?
Marco was outside of his workshop when Emma and the man returned the next day. Emma’s head was bowed and she kept her focus on the ground.
“Go on. Say what I told you to,” demanded the man of Emma.
“Here are your tools,” whispered Emma as she reached out a trembling hand in front of her. It was grasped around the few tools she had managed to grab from the bench the day before. She didn’t look up, but waited for Marco to take them from her hand.
“What else did I tell you to say?”
“I-I’m sorry,” finished Emma. She barely looked up at Marco, but what he saw was enough to make him sick. Emma’s eye was swollen shut, black and blue, and her lip was split and swollen. Her one, open eye was filled with tears that she was trying hard not to let fall.
The man saw Marco’s face twist in repulsion. Not wanting to lose the money he was using to feed his habits, he played off Emma’s injuries in an attempt to curtail a possible call to Social Services.
“Damn kid fell out of the treehouse yesterday after you left. Looks worse than it is. You don’t need to worry about her.” Marco could tell that the last sentence was thrown in as more of a threat than an assurance.
Emma had already returned her gaze to the ground and remained quiet.
“So, old man, are we done here?”
Marco nodded slowly.
As the man turned, he grabbed Emma by the arm roughly causing her to lose balance. He spat out,
“We need to figure out something to do with you to keep you occupied and out of any more trouble.”
Marco hesitated only a moment, before he spoke,
“Wait….”
“Now what do you want, old man?” asked the man harshly.
“Actually, I could use an apprentice here at the shop. Someone to help me with little stuff…nothing dangerous, but it would keep her busy, if that’s what you are looking for?” Marco held his breath, hoping he could get some sort of a positive response from the man. He probably couldn’t get her taken away from these people, but he might be able to limit the time she had to spend with them.
“You want her? Take her,” growled the man as he shoved Emma roughly at Marco. Leveling his gaze at Emma, the man added with an index finger pointed in her direction, “And I better not hear about you causing any more problems, do you hear me?”
Emma swallowed hard and nodded her head as the man turned and stalked off, leaving Emma standing alone in the driveway with Marco. Placing a fatherly arm around her shoulders he could feel her almost skeletal frame beneath her threadbare clothes. Marco guided her towards the house gently,
“Well, how about we start with a little bit of lunch and some ice, eh?” From that day forward, Emma never again went to bed hungry.
Emma started off doing the little stuff, just as Marco promised; sweeping, cleaning, organizing things around the workshop. It wasn’t difficult work, and a lot of it probably didn’t even need to be done, at least not as many times as he would ask her to do it, but Marco wanted to make sure that he could show that she was busy and helping, in case her foster father ever decided to show up again. The last thing Marco wanted was for that man to believe Emma would be better off at home. Marco knew from meeting him and seeing Emma’s face the first day that home was definitely NOT the place where she needed to be. In fact, Marco wanted to make sure Emma was at home as little as possible, so she was invited to come to the shop as soon as school was let out each day and she could stay as late into the evenings as she wanted, as long as her foster parents were OK with it. Ultimately, Emma’s foster parents didn’t seem to care about the hours she kept. In fact, they seemed almost thankful to be rid of her; one less thing to worry about as they plunged down the rabbit hole in their drug-addled stupors.
Weekend work wasn’t required or expected, but Emma knew that she was welcome to come then as well. Most Saturdays and Sundays, Marco would find Emma seated across from him at the workbench, watching him closely and carefully, memorizing every step and detail, as he built and carved his wooden treasures. She listened quietly as he told stories of his childhood in Italy as a toy maker’s apprentice.
Over the years, Marco would come to know many things about Emma: She had wrapped herself in thick walls to protect herself emotionally. She lacked self-esteem and self-confidence. She was incredibly shy and socially awkward. She was vulnerable and she had been used and abused in the worst ways by a system and families that didn’t care. Despite all of it, though; despite every obstacle she endured, Emma managed to remain standing. She grew stronger; she persevered. She preserved and nurtured her sense of compassion and competitiveness and insatiable curiosity. She saw beauty in common and not-so-common things; in the things that others took for granted or never noticed. She was a gentle spirit and a kind soul with such capacity for unconditional love. Marco knew that, some day, the right person would come along and that love would be given, almost unleashed, with unparalleled fierceness and devotion.
For now, though, Marco simply wanted to pull down the walls and reach the person within, to show Emma everything about herself that was beautiful; things that he saw revealed in small slivers when the armor would part. He wanted so badly to show her who she really was and what she was capable of. So he set about removing the bricks, one by one, and sometimes, more than once. There would be many times when they regressed back to square one over the years.
“I think you missed a few wood shavings over there.” Marco nodded his head at a far corner of the wood shop with a grin.
Each day, Marco came up with a task that only Emma would have the special or unique ability to accomplish, either because of her size, her speed or her knowledge of the shop. Somehow, Emma managed to turn every one of the tasks into some sort of competition, trying to accomplish everything asked as quickly, safely, efficiently and correctly as possible while Marco looked on with a semi-critical eye.
“Did not!” said Emma defensively.
“I don’t know, Emma. I think I see something there.” countered Marco.
Frustratedly, Emma would lead Marco over to the corner by the hand, so that she could show him that, indeed, she had NOT missed the spot in question.
“See?”
“Huh. I guess you’re right, Emma.” Marco would nod and smile at her proudly.
There were the times when Emma saw that she had, in fact, missed something or done something wrong. In those cases, she would huff at herself and redo the work to make sure that, the second time, it was done correctly. There was never a third.
Even in those times, Marco would nod and smile at her proudly and, little by little, the smiles between them became much more frequent.
“Emma, come here.”
A twelve-year old Emma drew closer and hesitated just short of where Marco was seated. Marco could see the bruises on her wrists. She was walking slowly and slightly hunched over. It seemed like her steps were painful and she hobbled a bit as she walked.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
Emma shook her head. Her chin quivered and her eyes filled with tears. Marco held out his arms to her and she limped the last few steps, crawling into his lap and pressing her body into his. Marco wrapped her in his arms and rocked her as she shook beneath his embrace.
Marco always asked, but Emma never told. Each time, he called Social Services. He told them what he believed was happening. He begged them to investigate. They came; usually long-delayed. They left empty-handed. Emma’s silence protected that family. They didn’t offer the same protection in return.
I guess sometimes the devil that you see is better than the devil that you don’t see… thought Marco.
"Emma, you’re late today, eh?”
Emma furrowed her brow at Marco in confusion.
“They’re gone, Marco,” said Emma softly. “The only thing left is that old, broken-down, yellow Beetle in the driveway. The house is empty.”
Marco figured the man and woman had gotten in trouble with the law or their dealer and decided that a change of residence was in order. He was surprised they had managed to hold out this long, though he never thought they would leave Emma; throwing her out like yesterday’s paper. Their capacity for cruelty still surprised and sickened Marco, even after everything he had seen through the years.
Walking to his workbench, Marco opened a small drawer and pulled out a key. Returning to Emma, he placed the key in front of her on the table before patting her hand gently and silently pointing a finger to a door in the loft of the woodshop.
“I’m gonna call Fredrick and have him bring the truck tomorrow. You and he go get the car, eh?”
The next day, Emma and Fredrick retrieved the yellow Bug from the other house. Fredrick looked the other way as Emma busted a window and retrieved only one thing from her former residence, a white baby blanket with purple stitching that spelled out ‘Emma’. It was one of those things that she just couldn’t let go, kind of like the dream that, maybe, someday, she might find her real birth parents, and they would welcome her back with open arms. At least dreaming was free.
Returning to the workshop that afternoon, Emma opened the door to her new ‘home’. A twin mattress sat atop a hand-carved frame in one corner; a single chair and small table sat in another. A small sink surrounded by a few cabinets formed a kitchen and a small bath with a sink, toilet and shower sat off the main living area separated by a door. It was as good, if not better, than any place she had lived before. The sounds and smells of the wood shop crept through the spaces in the floorboards. They created a cozy space, a safe space, for her. She needed one of those right now, more than ever.
Marco had placed some essentials around for her, made the bed, laid towels in the bath, gave her a few cups and glasses. She walked over to the small table by the chair where a pink box lay. A small card on top read: ‘To Emma’ in Marco’s writing. Opening the box, she gently lifted out the cupcake with a candle atop. Lighting the candle, Emma closed her eyes and whispered,
“I wish I had a family that loved me,” before blowing out the candle.
It was her 16th birthday.
“Beautiful work, Emma.”
Marco ran his hand over the heavy, mahogany table. The top was as smooth as silk and shone with a satiny finish. It was big enough to seat six and was one of the largest pieces ever made in the workshop. When they received the order, Emma asked to own the project, independently, from start to finish. Marco had every confidence she would pull it off; she had been assisting Marco in building furniture since she was 13, and after seven years, one would say that the student had far surpassed the teacher. He knew that something about this project had spoken to her heart. He knew it would be flawless.
The edges were inlayed with acorns and leaves all carved by her own hand. In the center of the top of the table, she had carved a substantial scene that was as real as if someone was standing at the edge of the woods taking in the view of the rocky coastline of one of the Storybrooke inlets.
Emma stopped her work briefly to look up at Marco through thick-lensed glasses that she pushed up further onto her nose with her index finger. She grinned at him.
“It’s finished.”
“It’s beautiful,” repeated Marco with a proud smile and a nod before leaving her alone in the shop.
Standing, Emma walked over to the table and ran calloused fingers over the furrows and ridges of the scene. She smiled as she thought about the cabin and inlet that inspired it. She hoped someday she would see it again. Removing her glasses and rubbing tired eyes, Emma shut off the lights to the workshop and retreated to her loft to sleep.
Who in the hell offers to host a bar-b-que for 200 people the following weekend on something that looks like this? thought Emma as she stood looking at the mess of missing, rotten and warped boards before her.
Normally Emma worked in the shop, building furniture and refining her carving skills, but this job had come up and the guy was willing to pay a steep price, so Marco couldn’t very well refuse. With so little time left, Marco needed ‘all hands on deck’, literally, so here she stood with him and Fredrick trying to figure out a game plan to knock this out within the next few days.
They had gotten the demo done the first day and had already laid the framework for the new deck by the middle of the second. It was one of the hottest days of the year and Emma walked to the edge of the deck to get a drink of water from the cooler they had brought with them. She was wearing her typical khaki shorts, white tank and work boots with thick socks. A sheen of sweat covered her skin and the fabric of the tank clung uncomfortably to her. Her hips were wet from sweat that was collecting under the heavy suede of her tool belt and the hammer and nails jingled slightly as she stepped. She stood at the end of the deck, back facing Marco and Fredrick, as she enjoyed the view of the woods and the temporary refreshment that the water offered.
“What are you lookin’ at?” asked an annoyed Marco. He had noticed Fredrick watching Emma with too much interest over the course of this job.
“Huh?” Fredrick responded in a daze, bobbing his head a bit to be able to take in Emma’s backside from several angles.
“I’m gonna tell you this one time, Fredrick. You look at her and you treat her like you would your sister or, so help me, you’re gonna deal with me. I won’t tell you again, Fredrick.”
Fredrick looked at Marco and could see the seriousness in his eyes. There was no room for argument and nothing to be left to interpretation. Something told Fredrick that he didn’t want to have to deal with Marco; not about this. Emma was most definitely off-limits and was not to be thought of in any way, other than platonically.
Marco looked at Emma one last time before returning to his work. The awkward, little girl of eight had grown into an incredibly beautiful woman of twenty-five.
“You’re sure I can’t convince you to stay, Emma?”
“Thanks, Marco, but I think I’ve been a burden long enough and you need your space back. I think maybe it's time I tried adulthood on for size. Plus, I am just moving into town. I’m not going very far."
Emma continued to sit. She knew she should probably leave for the apartment but her feet felt heavy, and she hesitated one last time, trying to memorize the sounds and smells of the wood shop that wouldn't be with her tonight at the new place. Marco wouldn't be a stone’s throw away anymore and everything familiar would be cut away; at least until morning when she returned again to work. The next eight hours and two miles seemed so daunting to her.
Without thought, she reached for the music box and began to wind the key like she had a thousand times before. It was the same one she had opened the morning she met Marco.
When the key was tight, she set the box on the table and ran her fingers over the top. The picture of the Puffins had worn slightly from her hands over the years. Opening the lid, the song began to play; that same, haunting, lamenting, beautiful three note melody that she had heard so many years ago and that had provided her comfort over the years. She needed that comfort tonight.
"Have I ever told you the story?" asked Marco pointing to the box, "about the song?"
Emma shook her head as she watched the music box, unfocused.
"That particular song, it's Sonata Number 14, but some people, they call it 'Moonlight Sonata'. Beethoven, he wrote it many, many years ago....way before even I was born," Marco chuckled a little bit to lighten the mood, "so you know that means it's old."
Emma grinned a little to appease Marco but kept her eyes trained on the box.
"Anyways, he dedicated it to one of his students, a young woman. They say he loved her very much." Chuckling again, Marco added, "He actually loved many, many women very, very much," Emma grinned again, "but this woman, she received this song. Many years later, his secretary, he found a love letter from Beethoven that he addressed to his 'Immortal Beloved'. For a long time, he thinks maybe it's this woman. Scholars, they think it may be another. No one knows for certain," Marco shrugged. "I guess I’m just a romantic, but I would hope that anyone that receives such a beautiful song as a gift, she should be someone's 'Immortal Beloved'. What do you think?"
The key had wound down and the last few notes played slowly as Marco finished talking. He wasn't expecting an answer necessarily and it was doubtful that he would receive one anyways. Emma had no way to know what a love like that might feel like, at least, not yet.
Emma rose from the chair and turned from the box to take her leave.
"Emma..." Marco reached past her to the table, "why don't you …take this with you?" He handed her the music box.
Emma took it gently in her hands and then hugged her arms around Marco, laying her cheek atop his shoulder. Breaking from the embrace she turned quickly so that he wouldn't see her tears and she used her palms to wipe them from her eyes as she set off into the night.
Fredrick heard the familiar ‘schhwaff’ and thud of the arrows into the target. The shots were coming in rapid fire succession and the shafts huddled in a compact grouping that was situated very close to the bulls eye. Only one person, aside from he and his father, could shoot like that, and only one other person was allowed on their personal archery range.
He could see the muscles in Emma’s back and arms contracting strongly due to the draw weight of the bow and a heavy sheen of sweat clung to her skin. The beads of wet salt rolled down occasionally to gather in the fibers of a tank top that was already saturated. As Fredrick came around, he could see the tears gathered in Emma’s eyes and rolling down her cheeks, and she blinked hard a few times between each shot to clear them from her field of view. Based on Emma’s appearance and the mangled state of the target, she had been here awhile.
“Drop the tip and rotate left. That’s why the cluster’s off center,” stated Fredrick. He had learned early on that ‘what’s wrong?’ was not a conversation starter when it came to Emma. She talked when she was ready, not before; and, many times, not at all.
Emma released a guttural cry of sadness, frustration and anger with the liberation of each of the remaining arrows in the quiver, before dropping her bow arm to her side, closing her eyes and tipping her head back to face the sky. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun was warm and bright on her face. She couldn’t give a damn if it was sunny or raining today. In fact, rain would have been much more preferable given her mood. If she was going to get royally fucked, Mother Nature should at least cooperate and drive the miserable point home. Typical. Nothing ever seemed to go the way she hoped it would.
“She left me, Fredrick. Ashley left me,” she said eventually with a defeated sigh.
Fredrick couldn’t say that he was all that surprised. Ashley had been in the relationship for a good time and to collect what little Emma could give her. Emma had been in it for the long haul. Everyone that loved Emma knew that Ashley’s demands would eventually exceed Emma’s ability to supply. In the meantime, they could only watch as Emma worked her ass off trying to give Ashley everything she wanted, even if it meant missed meals and walking five miles to a job because she couldn’t afford gas. Every relationship Emma had ended this way; she was relegated to playing nothing more than a forgotten stepping stone in someone else’s quest for bigger and better things.
“Come here, Emma.”
Fredrick stepped forward and held his arms out so that he could offer comfort, if Emma wanted to take it. He knew better than to touch Emma first. A misguided joke where he had bear-hugged her from behind had resulted in a broken nose and several broken teeth, compliments of her fists, elbows and knees. It had taken several hours before Marco and his father had found her huddled in the back corner of the woodshop, shaking, rocking and humming some tune, over and over, to herself while she held her hands over her ears.
This time, Emma accepted the offer and allowed Fredrick the rare gift of hugging her. As he did, he placed his chin on the top of her head.
“She wasn’t the one, Emma. But I know you’re gonna find her. You’re gonna find that special, incredible woman. And, when you do….you’re not gonna know what hit ya, kid….”
“Emma….Fredrick quit last night,” said Marco with an exasperated sigh.
Emma can’t say this came as much of a shock to her. Fredrick’s family owned the most successful wilderness adventure and outdoor outfitter business in the state. Why he had been working with Marco for even this long was a mystery to Emma, and she figured that he would have gone ‘full in’ on the family legacy a long time ago. Of course, he did have his moments of rebelliousness and stupidity, so maybe his parents were just biding their time while he worked that stuff out of his system. Still, for as reckless as he could be, he really did try to take Emma under his wing and he, along with his family, had taught her everything she knew about the outdoors and all of the sports that went along with it. He was the closest thing to a true sibling that she had and she was going to miss him being at the shop each day.
“Okay…..” Emma trailed off wondering where this was leading to.
“There was a big job that I was gonna send him to; lots of renovation at a nice cabin on the edge of Storybrooke. This job could bring in some money for a few months, and we could use the money, Emma….” Marco looked at her with pleading eyes. “I will split it with you, 50-50.”
Emma could definitely use the money; that was for sure. As of last night, she was the proud owner of an eviction notice delivered, personally, by her landlord. Evidently, that lady’s patience threshold for $100 shorted payments ended around month five. The studio apartment hadn’t been much, but it was Emma’s. Not anymore, though. Even at 50-50, she doubted she would be able to front enough to work out a deal, so, as of Wednesday; she was going to be out on her own with zero living options. She definitely didn’t want Marco to know about her eviction. All he’d do was worry and offer for her to return to the loft. Returning just seemed like such a failure.
I guess the Bug will have to do for a bed for now, thought Emma.
“Come on, Marco. You promised no more handyman stuff. I thought you were going to keep teaching me to carve?”
“Emma, I don’t know what else I can teach you. You carve pictures that Michelangelo himself would envy,” Marco raised his palms toward the sky like he was trying to get Michelangelo to back him up personally on this one. “Be a good girl and help me out here, eh?”
Emma sighed as she looked at Marco. His eyes were almost begging her to help. He couldn’t do this work anymore. He was getting too old and too frail. It was now her turn to take care of him, and she didn’t intend to let him down.
“What’s the address?” she said as she held out her hand for the paperwork and began gathering her stuff to leave.