Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  “None of that mattered when...” Slade smoothed his tie.

  “Your parents loved you, man. Your dad may not have had it together at the end, but he loved you.” Flynn put a hand on Slade’s shoulder. “Let him go. Let the bad stuff go and hold the good memories where you should.” He tapped his chest with his other hand.

  “And if I can’t?”

  “You can’t? That’s a first.” Flynn stood, laughing, and then stared at him hard. “You don’t remember, do you?”

  Slade shook his head.

  “Will and I were home visiting once. We were out on the patio at El Rosal, trying to figure out some impossibly unrealistic budget for the business so we could generate venture capital, when you sauntered by.” Flynn fiddled with his ball cap. “I said something like, ‘I can’t do it,’ and you stopped. You turned your head and flat-out told me, ‘Can’t just means you won’t.’” Flynn shook his head. “Will invited you for a drink. In a week, you’d worked out our finances, pitched our idea to several venture capitalists, got us funding for the app, and moved into our apartment. Can’t.” He chuckled. “You were older than I was in school and you used to intimidate me. But that...that was the start of a beautiful partnership.”

  “I didn’t get us much funding.”

  “Enough to pay for rent and an internet connection. It was enough, buddy. And you know what? Every time I look at some code and think I can’t do it, I remember you saying what that meant. I won’t doesn’t get you to the place we are today. I won’t doesn’t clear out cobwebs or put the past to rest.”

  I can’t kiss Christine.

  How many times had Slade told himself that? The distance he kept between the two of them, which, granted, wasn’t as much as it should have been, was like a sharp pain in his chest. The pain only eased when he was with her.

  I can’t date Christine.

  She deserved better. He wouldn’t allow her into the mess that was his scarred life. It didn’t matter that she seemed willing to try, to meet him halfway—more than halfway when you considered the baggage he had to carry into a relationship.

  Whenever times got tough, she’d wonder if he’d disappear and try to kill himself. Evy had told him that over and over again. Evy had told the judge and the lawyers that she couldn’t trust him with their children because of that one moment of weakness. It had taken eight years of stability and success for the legal system to recognize that Slade was worth gambling on. He hadn’t even known Christine eight weeks.

  I can’t love Christine.

  Flynn was right. He was choosing not to explore the strong feelings from his past and stronger desires he had toward Christine. But it didn’t matter if he said I can’t or I won’t.

  It was better this way. For both of them.

  * * *

  “IS SOMEONE COMING to dinner?” When Christine got home from work, food covered her grandmother’s pink kitchen counter. Tuna casserole. Corn-bread muffins. Steamed vegetables. Chocolate cake.

  “We’re bringing dinner over to Hiro Takata’s house. It’s community pot luck.” Nana glanced at Christine’s dirt-smeared shorts and tattered T-shirt. “I’ll give you five minutes to wash up and change.”

  Christine snagged a corn-bread muffin, breaking it open. Steam rose. She popped a piece into her mouth. It was moist and sweet. “What’s the occasion?”

  “The fact that he’d let his place get out of hand. If Slade hadn’t asked about his near-debilitating arthritis, we might have lost another member of our community.”

  “He’s that sick?” Christine took another bite of muffin.

  “He’s old and frail. Rheumatoid arthritis can lock you up like a statue. The pain drains you. He’s lost weight. Chances are he’d suffer an attack and go to sleep afterward from exhaustion.” Nana tapped her watch face. “The man needs to rebuild his strength and the town needs to let him know we haven’t forgotten about him.”

  “But you had,” Christine pointed out.

  “Because we’re old and forgetful. We’re lucky to have people like Slade and his friends around to keep an eye out for us. Now go! I need help carrying things over there.”

  Christine grinned. “That’s all I am. An extra pair of hands.” She sashayed down the hall.

  “One of those hands would be a lot more attractive if you let that millionaire put a ring on it.”

  While Christine washed up, she debated what to wear. Capris and a cool blouse or a dress. A dress would be like throwing down a challenge to Slade, a test of his control. He’d stared at her with manly appreciation in her black feathered gown. Did she want to test his control and risk her heart again?

  She knew the answer. She wasn’t going to be a quitter anymore.

  She changed into a simple green cotton sheath and a pair of low-heeled Grecian sandals out of her collection of shoes. It took her an extra five minutes to freshen her makeup, brush out her ponytail and pull up half her locks with a turquoise-and-silver comb at the back of her head.

  These were final-countdown measures. It was easy to resist her in a torn T-shirt and dirty jean shorts. She was bringing out the big guns. And if this didn’t work, tomorrow she’d send that email she’d drafted accepting a job interview at Lalopolle.

  “That was worth the wait,” Nana said when she met her in the hallway, smoothing her own simple blue cotton dress. “You look more like yourself.”

  She didn’t feel like herself. She felt like one of the twins putting on an alter ego.

  That was, until she arrived at Old Man Takata’s house and saw how Slade looked at her, as if she was an ice-cream sundae he wanted to savor in slow, melting spoonfuls. He didn’t come for a taste, but he came over to greet her.

  “Wow,” he said as he took the food from Nana’s arms. “I mean...everything just looks... Wow.”

  It had been hot on the walk over. Under his gaze, Christine’s temperature ratcheted up another few degrees.

  “Young people nowadays,” Nana huffed and left them in the foyer.

  Christine didn’t wait to hear if Slade had anything else to say. She carried the corn bread and cake toward the kitchen.

  Hiro Takata’s house smelled of wood polish and disinfectant. Every light was on, every window open. His furniture was classic 1970s. White velvet couch with big orange flowers and matching club chairs, all protected by a layer of plastic.

  Old Man Takata alternated between smiling and grumbling. He joked with his bowling buddies and complained to the women about being fussed over.

  Dodging canes and walkers, Christine reached the kitchen, which was already overflowing with food. The noise in the house was approaching raucous. Truman, Grace, and Faith ran by and out the back door.

  “I’m sorry,” Slade said softly, coming to stand beside her.

  “Me, too.” Christine touched his tie briefly. It was a beautiful red print.

  She turned her back on him and helped set up the buffet, helped fill and carry plates for guests, helped satisfy the curious questions of residents about what was going on at the winery.

  All the while, she felt Slade’s eyes on her, making her skin tingle and her body feel energized, despite a small voice whispering in her head, Don’t hope.

  The meal and then dessert came and went. Some of the attendees looked tired and talked about leaving, moving toward the front door. Christine began picking up empty cups and plates. Slade appeared at her side with a trash bag, making things more efficient. He was, after all, all about efficiency.

  Every time their glances collided, she let herself foolishly pretend that he was thinking, The faster this goes, the sooner I can kiss you. But he was good at control and she knew the lies she told herself would feel even more foolish tonight when she tried to fall asleep.

  They finished cleaning up. It was time to collect Nana and head home.
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br />   He held her gaze too long and crooked his finger at her. Christine’s heart pounded in her chest. She followed him to the kitchen, out the back, around to the driveway on the side of the house where Old Man Takata kept his garbage cans. Slade put the trash in the bin and turned to her, capturing her mouth with a kiss so full of pent-up longing that she felt like crying.

  Someone opened Takata’s front door and stepped outside. Several someones. Saying their goodbyes.

  Before sadness had a chance to spear through her, Slade swept her into his arms and carried her across Takata’s driveway to his, to the other side of a low fence, which was dripping in shadow.

  He set her down and cradled her face in his hands. “I told myself we wouldn’t do this. I told myself not to touch you. There’re still things you don’t know about me.”

  “I know enough about you here.” She placed her palm over his heart.

  Without warning he captured her mouth. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, until her lips were swollen and she couldn’t think straight.

  Her hands pushed against his rock-solid chest, giving her just enough space between them to reach the tie at his throat. She loosened the knot, unbuttoned the shirt beneath, slid her hands up to either side of his neck. The cords of muscle there were proof of his strength against the most severe of taboos, had probably helped to save his life.

  Don’t.

  Because there was doubt, not about his ever attempting suicide again, but for her career and his commitment to her. Her mouth became rational, even if her hands didn’t. “You’re my boss.”

  He groaned, slowing his ardor only for a second. “You can report to Flynn from now on.”

  “Deal.” A sham of a compromise. But the fire between them made her a fool.

  He’d gone into the bedroom where it happened today. Maybe he hadn’t fully faced his demons, but it was a start. And he was here, in her arms, no longer able to resist her.

  Don’t.

  She wanted to argue, You can’t decide on a pair of shoes if you don’t try them on.

  His hand slid around the curve of her waist.

  She burned everywhere he touched. Her resolve went to ash, her common sense to cinders, her self-preservation incinerated.

  This was where she belonged. He made her feel smart, capable, and confident. In his arms, she felt courageous. She could tackle anything life threw her way. She could take care of him and nurture his broken heart. Make him believe in himself and the power of love again. And she would, she would, she would. As long as he never stopped kissing her like this.

  Christine tugged his tie free, wrapping the ends around her palm, rubbing the silk over his neck, his ear, his cheek. He was a precious gift to her, slightly scarred, in need of a gentle polish.

  A car pulled into his driveway. The lights blinding.

  Slade turned and shielded her behind him, giving Christine a moment to make sure everything was properly in place—it was—and smooth her hair.

  “Slade? What are you doing?” A woman’s voice. Horrified.

  Christine stepped out of Slade’s shadow, squinted, held up a hand.

  A too-thin woman, in heels too high with dark, blunt-cut hair, walked into the glare of the headlights.

  A familiar silhouette. She’d seen her...driving away the day she started work.

  Slade’s ex-wife.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “SLADE, NO.” EVY’S voice was surprisingly calm. “You know you can’t do this to anyone else.”

  Christine had taken his hand when Evy got out of the SUV, standing side by side to face whatever his ex brought on. But Christine wasn’t ready for this. Slade wasn’t ready for this. Moments ago he’d been warm. Now his body felt frozen.

  “Who’s that?” An older woman’s voice. It sounded like Agnes. And then Takata’s screen door swung open. “Someone just pulled into Slade’s driveway.”

  “I don’t know who you are—” Evy was saying over the ruckus of walkers and octogenarians racing toward the door and fresh gossip. “—but you need to leave. For your own good.”

  “I’m Christine.” His blonde warrior princess stepped in front of him, filling his heart with a bittersweet joy. Bittersweet because she didn’t know Evy was about to crush whatever feelings she had for him. Crushing hopes was what Evy excelled at. “And I’m not going anywhere. I belong here.”

  Slade locked her claim deep in his heart, knowing he’d need it to comfort him later. “What are you doing here, Evy?”

  “I didn’t have cell-phone service in France. When we landed in New York and I turned on my cell, I got your messages. You were concerned for the girls. I tried calling, but I didn’t get any answer, so I flew here.”

  He’d turned his cell phone off to avoid any more calls offering money for their bottling permits and he’d been at Takata’s all day long. There was no answering machine at the house.

  “Mom!” Faith ran across Takata’s driveway, twigs in her hair. Something in Evy’s expression stopped the girl from barreling into her mother for a hug.

  Grace followed at a slower pace, surveying the situation. A splotch of ice cream had fallen onto her blouse.

  Evy stared from one to the other. “Girls, get your things and bring them to the car. We’re leaving.”

  “No,” Grace replied calmly. She came to stand next to Slade, catching his free hand in her smaller one.

  Now he had two defenders. But for how long? And at what risk to their hearts?

  Faith stood between her two parents, clearly torn.

  Christine switched the hand she held him with to the left and draped her right arm over Grace. “What’s this about?”

  Evy stormed forward, a lioness about to pounce on prey. “Girls, I told you not to listen to anything your dad said. I told you to use your defenses.”

  “What defenses?” Slade felt the first spiky stirrings of anger.

  “And look at you. He got to you, didn’t he? You talked!”

  “You told them not to talk to me?” Anger solidified into a brittle, icy voice he barely recognized as his own.

  “Of course I did. Don’t look at him for permission.” Evy snapped at Faith, who was staring apologetically at Slade. “I said get your things.”

  “Don’t move, Faith.” Slade had let his lawyer fight this battle for too long. Evy had instructed their girls to keep their distance? He’d instruct them to stay. “Your mother has some explaining to do.”

  “You want an explanation?” Evy’s stance shifted toward a new target. Him. “I knew I shouldn’t have left them with you. I knew you’d brainwash them, just like your father did to you.” She glared at their daughters. Her voice rose to operalike hysteria. “Did he try to make you hurt yourself? Did he?”

  He’d made a tactical error, assuming she’d told the girls how to behave around him out of some vendetta. Evy thought she was protecting the girls. She viewed him as a threat to their safety. Slade saw what was coming, saw it playing out in grisly detail. “Evy, please.”

  But his ex was past the point of reason. She looked across the drive at Slade’s friends, at his neighbors, and then back to Christine. “He’s not who you think he is.”

  That got a shift in the crowd.

  “Evy, don’t.” Slade felt Grace’s grip and Christine’s tighten on his hands, but his body was already starting to feel numb.

  “Where did he tell you that scar came from? The one he hides? A mugger?” Evy laughed bitterly as she stalked toward them, her heels clicking on the pavement. “The day his father tried to kill himself, Slade tried to hang himself, too.”

  The crowd at Takata’s was eerily silent.

  Flynn broke away from the pack, shaking his head.

  Christine squeezed Slade’s hand tighter.

  Faith and
Grace? Faith looked as if she was going to cry. Grace stood her ground.

  They know.

  Those first few days when they got here, not talking, the wary looks. It wasn’t just their mother telling them to give him the silent treatment to make him suffer. “You told them?” Slade felt as unstable as if the earth was shifting beneath his feet. “You told the girls what happened?”

  “I wasn’t going to leave them here with you unless they knew what you were capable of.” Evy turned to play to the crowd. “His father left Slade a note, asking him to follow him. And Slade did. I came home just in time to save him from doing it.”

  The eyes of the Harmony Valley residents stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

  “That’s not true,” Christine said. “You didn’t save him. He saved himself.”

  He should have told Christine the entire truth instead of letting her believe...

  “Is that what he told you?” Evy’s lip curled.

  Christine glanced over her shoulder at him. “Slade?” And then when he didn’t say anything, she said more uncertainly, “Slade?”

  “Christine...I...” Slade had trouble choking the words out. “The truth is I realized too late that I wanted to live. The truth is I would have died if she hadn’t found me.” The words cost him. Slade felt as if he was falling in on himself, the same way he had that fateful day in November. “I was lost. And I...”

  Christine’s mouth gaped open. Gone was her fight, her compassion, her understanding.

  He wanted to latch on to her and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and Faith and Grace. He wanted to swear on his mother’s grave that they could trust him.

  But it was too late. The moment he omitted the foundation of his horrendous mistake to Christine, his chances had already slipped away, like a twig drifting out of reach on the current of the Harmony River. And with it, the promise of love that was as soft and elusive as the scent of vanilla when she was near.