Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  “We’ll meet you at Roxie’s in fifteen minutes.” Slade disconnected and dug into his pancakes.

  * * *

  HARMONY VALLEY WAS practically deserted in the early mornings.

  Christine power walked up one street and down another, getting rid of the kinks from fifteen hours spent in the vineyard yesterday, and trying to shake her worry over her father’s latest career move. He was running out of places to work in Napa. And her mother didn’t seem to be taking his moves any better this time than the last.

  Other than the occasional morning show being blasted out an open screen door as she passed, she didn’t meet anyone. In Napa, she would have seen a dozen or more people she knew by now, exercising, gardening, or taking advantage of the cool breeze before it turned hot again.

  She walked past the boarded-up elementary school and the vacant high school. She walked down a mostly vacant Main Street. In the distance, she saw Will jogging next to his fiancée on a bike. The only businesses she saw were El Rosal, a barbershop that may or may not be open, a two-pump gas station, and a pawnshop. It was a thirty-minute drive to good coffee, bad fast food, and any sort of a hair salon. The nearest shopping mall was an hour’s drive.

  There’d be no charity events requiring new sequined dresses and coiffed hair. No restaurant dinners with seven-course meals and decades-old wine, the bills for which siphoned money away from her savings. Christine wanted her own winery someday. Harmony Valley’s low-key lifestyle—living with Nana, driving her clunker—would help her achieve that goal. She’d love to get her own place and offer her dad a job, and her mother peace of mind.

  The only wild card was Slade and his aggressive business plans for the winery. But if she played her cards in just the right order over the next year, she hoped to bring Slade from the volume-producing, large-employee-roster dark side to the small-quantity, high-quality light side.

  Christine turned down a side street that she vaguely remembered led to a small park along the river. She was walking at a good clip, breathing hard and enjoying the view as she took the path across the park.

  She passed an ancient swing set, an old metal pushable merry-go-round, a few picnic tables, and lots of trees—poplar, oak, eucalyptus. There was so much shade the grass was sparse. Birds swooped from trees by the river, barnstorming the blackberry bushes that clung to the edge of the bluff. She reached the bluff overlooking the river and nearly tripped.

  Immediately below her, on a narrow strip of dirt beach, a naked guy was doing yoga. She appreciated the male form as much as the next gal, but this man looked like someone’s grandfather. Someone’s shipshape, ponytailed grandfather.

  “Good morning.” He transitioned from a tree pose to a warrior’s pose so smoothly he didn’t startle the two ducks rooting in the shallows nearby.

  “Good...uh...morning.” Christine averted her eyes. She turned and started retracing her steps, hoping he hadn’t gotten a good look at her.

  “You must be the winemaker. Agnes’ granddaughter.”

  So much for hoping for anonymity. Ettiquette dictated she not walk away. That didn’t mean she had to face him, though. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Mayor Finkelstein.”

  Oh, jeez. She’d heard stories about Mayor Larry. He was a die-hard hippy. But naked yoga in public? Did her grandmother know?

  Christine took a tentative step away from further embarrassment. Wouldn’t do to bolt when the mayor had her in his sights. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m digging your yoga pants. Are they for show or do you like yoga?”

  “I do some yoga.” With her clothes on.

  “You can come down and join me anytime.”

  “Thanks, I’ll think about it.” Not.

  “Oh.” He chuckled. “I’d forgotten I was airing my laundry.”

  Not exactly the words Christine would have used. A few more steps and he wouldn’t be able to see her anymore.

  “Come down tomorrow morning at seven. I promise to bring my yoga shorts.”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule. Have a good day.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he couldn’t see her before she raced out of the park. Halfway down Main Street she started laughing and didn’t stop until she burst into Nana’s house.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Nana glanced up from her coffee and newspaper spread across the kitchen table.

  “Mayor Larry.”

  She didn’t have to say more. Agnes sighed. “I should have called to let him know you liked to walk in the morning. He loves to commune with nature. We all stay away from that part of the river during his regular hour. He’ll be dressed for a few weeks, at least.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He won’t put his clothes on unless he feels he’s made someone uncomfortable. But the clothes never stay on for long. And he does have a nice body.”

  “Madam Councilwoman! Did you peek?”

  “I did no such thing.” She folded her newspaper and tried to give Christine a playful swat with it, but her arms were too short to reach.

  “You did!” Christine danced out of the way just in case. “I knew this town couldn’t be that boring.”

  “You mean you thought I was boring,” her grandmother grumbled.

  Christine came back and pressed a kiss to her grandmother’s soft cheek. “I’m beginning to think no one in Harmony Valley is boring.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I HATE CHICKENS.” At least, he hated live ones that raced away every time he tried herding them back into their repaired coop. Slade chased a blue speckled hen around Roxie Knight’s large backyard.

  “You’ve exhausted my hens.” Roxie’s voice was soprano smooth and belonged to a woman twice her petite size. She’d complimented the twins on their overalls, which was fitting, since the older woman wore a pair of blue coveralls the likes of which you’d find in a mechanic’s garage. “I won’t get any eggs out of them for a week.”

  A spreading oak tree shaded the chicken coop near the back of the yard. A strip of grass grew down in the middle, flanked on either side by a lush vegetable garden. The chickens were experts at darting in between snap-pea tepees and pepper trellises.

  Slade gave up, sitting down next to Roxie on a redwood bench at the picnic table. “I hate chickens.” He was frustrated enough that it bore repeating.

  Behind Slade, Roxie had attached a fish net, abalone shells, and driftwood to the wall of the house. Roxie had worked most of her life as a fisherman...fisherwoman...a woman of the sea. And yet, she’d retired to the base of the mountains.

  Flynn sank onto the bench across from Slade. “You know, Abby was bred to herd sheep. Maybe she could herd chickens.” He’d left Truman’s dog in the truck with the windows down, in case she decided she liked the taste of live chicken more than she liked chasing after live chickens.

  Slade was ready to give Abby a try. They needed reinforcements.

  Across from Slade, Truman swung his legs under the table with gleeful intensity. “We’ve never had to catch chickens before. Only over-the-hill poodles and stray kittens.”

  “Still haven’t caught any,” Roxie noted drily. “And I prefer you don’t use the dog. Besides, I hear she smells like skunk. That’ll put my hens off laying their eggs for days.”

  “Is that on top of the week from us exhausting them?” Flynn winked at his nephew.

  The twins stood near a cherry-tomato bush. A couple of times, Slade had stopped chasing chickens to watch his daughters break down in gasps of laughter.

  “Huh.” Truman looked at Faith and Grace. He seemed an honorary twin, so good was he at reading them. He communicated with them by using hand gestures and loud, broken English, as if they were deaf. To him, it was a game. To Slade, it was a weight he couldn’t seem to lift from his chest.

&n
bsp; Faith whispered to Grace. Grace whispered back. They approached the picnic table.

  “We might as well try whatever idea the girls have come up with.” Truman shrugged.

  Flynn and Slade exchanged glances and then looked at the twins.

  “Use the net,” Faith said.

  Grace pointed to the fishing net draped on the wall behind them.

  Truman stared at the net. “You’re brilliant.”

  “What took you so long?” Flynn resettled his baseball cap on his head and stood.

  Slade couldn’t stop grinning.

  A few minutes later, holding the fishing net between them, with the kids flushing chickens out of the side yard, Flynn and Slade swept all the chickens back into the coop.

  “Good idea, girls,” Slade congratulated his daughters as he drove to the next destination on their list—the Mionetti sheep ranch. Flynn was better at electrical and was going to Mildred’s to work on her malfunctioning stove. “I bet you don’t see many chickens in New York City. Or skunks.”

  They didn’t answer him. Slade’s grin faded, leaving his cheeks feeling worn-out.

  When they got to Mionetti’s, the twins petted the elderly man’s half blind, half dead sheep dog. Slade climbed up onto the roof, turning the antenna in every possible direction, thanks to Mionetti yelling garbled instructions through the chimney. When they’d adjusted the picture to the old man’s satisfaction, he gave the girls green pellets and let them hand feed a few lambs in his flock.

  Which was a hit on the giggle meter, until Grace curled the pellets into her palm instead of flat-handing it and a lamb nipped her skin.

  Grace opened her mouth in a silent wail, tears quickly spilling over.

  “Well, I would have bet money that would happen,” Mr. Mionetti said unhelpfully.

  Quicker than Slade could get to her, Faith dumped her pellets to the ground, flung an arm over Grace’s shoulder, and rocked her from side to side with unintelligible soothing noises.

  “Grace, let me see it, baby,” Slade said, kneeling and trying to pry the injured palm open.

  The girls stilled.

  “Faith, tell her it’s all right.” Slade didn’t want to force his daughter to open her hand. “I need to be sure she’s okay. Come on, Grace, open your hand.”

  Grace slowly unfurled her fingers. The pads on her palm were an angry red, but the lamb’s teeth hadn’t broken through skin.

  Slade gently massaged her fingers and palm on either side of the bite. “You’ll be fine.” He took the opportunity to curl his arm around her waist. He hadn’t hugged his daughters in years. It had just seemed too awkward for both them and him. But in that moment, he was pulled back in time to their smiling, gummy faces when he came home from work, chubby arms reaching for him. “Do you want some ice? It might help take away the sting.”

  Grace shook her head and sniffed, leaning into him. Progress!

  He wanted to snatch Grace up and spin her around, followed by a similar spinning celebration with Faith. Instead, he gave his daughter an affectionate squeeze, before releasing her. “Time to move on to Christine’s bedroom...er, Christine’s house.” Slade had to remain detached where his employee was concerned.

  And he thought herding chickens was tough.

  * * *

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Christine’s, Agnes was getting into her faded green Buick to drive a few members of her garden club to brunch and a flower exhibit in Santa Rosa. With a smile and a wave, the diminutive grandma directed them inside. “Christine’s room is in front. She spent the morning working from home.”

  Agnes’s house was compact, like the woman herself. Her living room still held the big manly sofa and recliner her husband had been fond of. No amount of doilies, frilly pillows, or colorful quilts could banish the feeling that this had been a man’s domain.

  Slade strolled past the pink kitchen with barely a glance, since he’d seen it before. Faith and Grace stopped to marvel at its pinkness. He continued into the narrow hall, just as Christine came out of her door.

  The scent of vanilla immediately tantalized him.

  “What are you doing here?” Christine’s surprised tone held just a hint of Back off. Her legs looked incredibly long in gray jean shorts. Her T-shirt was teal-blue with fluffy cartoon rabbits and what looked like a dog bite on the hem. Her long hair was down and still a bit damp, making it seem more light brown with blond highlights than blond.

  “We’re here...” He cleared his throat. “We’re here on the fix-it patrol per your grandmother’s request.” He gave her a jaunty salute that said, Your boss isn’t stalking you. To further prove his innocence, he gestured to the girls he sensed coming up behind him.

  Christine peeked around his shoulder. “I like the country look you’re rocking, ladies.” She tilted her head to look up at him. She was a half-head shorter than he was. The perfect height for kissing.

  Not that he had kissing top of mind. Oh, no. No, sirree.

  “What is it you’re here to fix?” she demanded.

  “Your grandmother says you need shelves.”

  Her cheeks turned a soft pink. “You don’t have to help with my shelves. I can do a Google search for a solution after work.”

  “A solution? So, it’s a challenge? This I’ve got to see.” He reached for her doorknob.

  Her hand got there first. His covered hers for an instant, before he politely pulled back. He ignored the warmth of her skin, but not the flash of awareness in her eyes or the deepening blush on her cheeks. She’d felt something, too.

  So much for a hungry man ignoring food in his path.

  She frowned. “Shouldn’t you be working? It’s almost nine o’clock.” She blinked, as if realizing she wasn’t at work, either. “I’ve already made some phone calls and sent some emails. I was getting ready to leave to spray the main winery building again with anti-skunk-smell solution.”

  “The only thing I have on my work schedule today is a review of the equipment purchases you’re proposing and a phone call to my broker.” He planned on puttering around town spending time with the girls. But lurking on his mental agenda was Christine’s agreement to his five-year growth plan. That required time spent together. Logical time. Businesslike time. Time to discuss where their differing points of view converged.

  Building shelves in her bedroom while she left for the winery wasn’t a good idea. Unless... “We can build the shelves together. An exercise in team building.”

  “Team building?” She mulled that over as slowly as a sip of fine wine.

  “We need to learn to trust each other.” His voice had dropped very low. He cleared his throat. “So we can agree on how we build and grow the winery, year after year.”

  He hadn’t been tempted by her in an expensive business suit, but there was something about Christine in her work clothes that was a lawsuit waiting to happen. He couldn’t let his guard down. This was about employee buy-in.

  “Fine.” She opened her bedroom door.

  Her windows faced south. The sun bounced cheerfully off yellow walls, drawing him in. The room was brighter than his house had been in years. A small narrow bureau stood next to the bed, cluttered with framed pictures. Cardboard moving boxes were stacked in one corner. Slade would never have admitted to longing for a mere double bed, but hers, with its puffy golden comforter, was luxurious compared to the hard twin bed he’d been sleeping on for months.

  She crossed the room and opened the closet, which was a smaller version of the master-bedroom closet in his house, the closet where his father hung himself.

  Air left his lungs in a rush. Slade looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move boxes out of the closet, making a new stack in another corner. One box flap opened, revealing several designer shoe boxes.

  Slade remained by the door, breathin
g fast and shallow. His hand drifted to his tie, traced the silk upward to the knot at his throat. “You don’t...you don’t want shelves on the wall?”

  The twins peeked in around him.

  “No. In the closet. On this side.” She patted the closet wall.

  He didn’t do closets. Ever. But she’d drawn his gaze to this one, until he was fixated on the bare closet rod. Instead of seeing it smooth and empty, he saw a rod with a belt attached.

  “In the closet,” Slade repeated in a raspy voice he didn’t recognize.

  “That’s where shoe racks go.” Christine tossed her long hair over her shoulder, pulling his attention to safety, if staring at her as if he’d just seen a ghost could be called safe. The skin between her brows puckered. “We don’t have to do this. Team building was your idea.”

  His palm pressed against the knot of his tie. He made a noncommittal sound. The kind of sound a man makes when he can’t decide whether to stand his ground or flee.

  Christine reached into the closet and pulled out several plastic storage bags with colorful gowns. She tossed them onto the bed.

  As if magnetized, the twins pushed past him and sped toward the dresses.

  Christine noticed their interest. “You can try them on, if you like. This team building may take a while.”

  Faith and Grace exchanged glances. Slade ignored his light-headedness, ignored the closet, ignored the past, and focused on the twins. They were enjoying themselves. He had to pull himself together.

  “The bathroom across the hall can be your dressing room.” Christine turned on the sparkle, but not even Christine’s joyful attitude elicited a response from the twins. “But since those are my dresses, you’ll have to come out after each costume change and show us. Let’s just stay away from the strapless gowns. Those are in the black bag.”

  While he tried to work up the courage to face the task ahead—thinking about Christine’s elegant shoulders in a white strapless gown helped—the twins exchanged glances again and then dragged the heavy dresses out of the room.