Summer Kisses

by Melinda Curtis

  “He’s your grandfather?” Becca didn’t mean to be rude, but she hadn’t expected the man Flynn despised to look so friendly.

  “There’s been some debate about that.” Slade handed Joey a pair of wire cutters.

  “I’m Kathy’s stepfather.” Joey clipped something through a hole in the ceiling.

  “But his picture is on my dresser. He’s hugging my grandmama.” Cheeks as stuffed as a chipmunk’s, Truman was clearly enjoying the debate. “Which means he’s my grandfather.”

  Joey handed the wire cutters back to Slade. “By marriage.”

  “Although Truman doesn’t seem to care.” There was contained laughter in Slade’s voice.

  Joey shrugged, as if having little boys show up and love him was nothing. But his smile never faded.

  “I like this town,” Truman said. “I have lots of uncles. I found a new grandpa. And I have neighbors who help each other. I’m going to ask Mama if we can move here.” And then he fell silent, as if remembering that no one knew where his mother was or when she was coming home.

  * * *

  FLYNN WALKED BECCA and his grandfather out to the black Caddy parked at the curb. It was a slow walk in the heat with long shadows cast upon the pavement.

  When Flynn opened the car door, heat rose up off the leather seats even though they’d left the windows down. “I wish you’d let me buy you a decent car with air-conditioning.”

  “Too late for that. It is what it is. My car. My life.” Grandpa Ed grunted. He set the walker to one side and grabbed onto Becca’s hand to steady himself. “I wish I’d told you about Joey sooner. But that won’t change the fact that I didn’t.”

  “No, it won’t,” Flynn allowed, staring at his grandfather until the old man looked up at him. “You did what you thought was best.”

  Grandpa Ed nodded once, a curt we-don’t-do-emotion admission that something important had just occurred. If not forgiveness, then acceptance.

  “Can I have my hat back?” Flynn wasn’t like Slade and his ties. He didn’t have a hat for every day of the week multiplied times his different moods. He had one hat. It fit his head perfectly.

  “No.” The old man closed the door, with a chuckle that deteriorated into a dry cough.

  Becca had the trunk open. She studied his face intently as he brought the walker back. “You hate that you look like Joey, don’t you? That’s why you hide beneath the ball cap.”

  Trust her to get right to the point.

  Flynn stared longingly at the back of his baseball hat. “I thought if I didn’t look so much like him that she’d come back.” No need to explain who she was. His mother.

  “When I saw Joey, I saw the resemblance right away,” Becca said.

  Nineteen years of hiding beneath a ball cap had gotten him nowhere. “That’s it. I’m going to cut it off.” He set off down Main Street toward Phil’s barbershop.

  “Wait. Don’t be too hasty,” Becca called after him. “I saw the resemblance, but I also saw the differences.”

  He heard her get into the Caddy and start it up. She pulled up next to him as he marched resolutely toward the nearest pair of scissors.

  “What’s going on?” Grandpa Ed coughed some more. “Where are you going?”

  “To get a haircut.”

  It was one of the few times in recent history his grandfather had nothing to say.

  “But not at Phil’s,” Becca said. “Right? You’re going home to get your truck. We’ll give you a ride. You can drive down to Cloverdale.”

  “Why wouldn’t he let Phil cut his hair?” Grandpa Ed’s wheeze was barely audible over the Cadillac’s rumbling engine.

  “Come on, Edwin.” Becca pounded the steering wheel. “His hands shake like maracas on a dance floor.”

  “Nonsense, Phil cut my hair the other day.”

  “Yes, and I was afraid he might take your ear off!”

  “Take my grandfather home,” Flynn said through gritted teeth. The breeze buffeted his shoulder-length locks.

  “Now look here,” Grandpa Ed huffed. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years without your help. If I want to watch you get a haircut, I’ll watch you get a haircut.”

  Flynn stopped and put his hands on his knees so he was level with them. “Fine. Park the car and meet me inside. If Phil clips my ear off, you can drive me to urgent care in Cloverdale.”

  He marched across the street after they passed. Becca had to circle town square to come around and park in front of Phil’s. Flynn helped his grandfather out of the car, to his walker and into the barbershop.

  The broken barber pole taunted him. That should be next on his fix-it list.

  Phil sat in his barber chair. He peered at them from around the newspaper he held with quaking hands, as if people who walked through his door were a distraction, not potential customers. “Flynn, the plumber came today. We have new pipes.”

  Flynn nodded. “I’ve got someone to patch that hole. But first, I’d like a haircut.”

  “You don’t say.” Phil crumpled the paper on his lap. “I never cut your hair. Not since Edwin stopped bringing you in here for crew cuts.”

  It was true. Flynn had become handy with a pair of scissors. And his hands didn’t shake.

  Phil’s did. So much so he could barely fold his newspaper.

  Flynn was starting to have second thoughts.

  Unacceptable. He walked over to the second barber chair.

  “Don’t,” Phil stood and stopped him.

  “You won’t cut my hair?” Flynn was confused.

  “It’s a sign.” Becca’s wide-eyed stare further challenged his resolve. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “There is no sign,” Phil snapped. “No need. Everyone knows that chair is broken. The missing hardware is in the drawer over there. Every time something falls off, I put it in there. My lumbago keeps me from leaning over to fix it.”

  Flynn caught sight of himself in the mirror. Instead of his face, he saw Joey’s. All he needed was a rubber band, gray hair and a goatee. He claimed Phil’s chair. “Do it.”

  Phil covered him with a plastic drape. “I’m not going to have to promise you a sucker to keep you still, am I?” He chuckled, struggling to get the snaps fastened in back. “I haven’t had a kid in this chair in more than six years.”

  Flynn’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He clung to his resolve.

  He broke out in a sweat as the snip-snip of scissors hovered too close to his ears.

  With each lock that fell to the floor, Flynn felt more like himself. Once the big pieces were cut off, Phil took the shears to his head, giving him a close cut that looked nothing like an old ex-con would get. It was more like Slade’s neatly cut, Wall Street style.

  “He looks like a man.” Edwin tugged the ball cap lower, but not before Flynn saw the unshed tears in his eyes.

  “Very handsome,” Becca agreed, her smile as warm as her gaze, until she caught him looking. “We need house rule number eight.”

  “No, we don’t.” He was done with house rules.

  Flynn did look different. But he imagined that if he stood next to Joey, people would still say they were related.

  * * *

  “WHOA,” SLADE SAID when Flynn returned to Snarky Sam’s stuffy back room. “You look like Flynn Harris, but your shirt is ironed and your hair is cut.”

  Joey stopped twisting wires on the light fixture. “You thinking about joining the military? Or the police?”

  “Which worries you the most?” Flynn countered.

  “I don’t much like the idea of you getting shot up.” Joey went back to his wiring. “I’d rather think of you eating junk food and getting fat while you program your computer games.”

  Flynn was speechless. He’d expected a more cutting com
ment.

  “Funny.” Slade gave him a once-over. “That’s how I imagined him aging, too. I might have to change my impression.”

  Flynn scowled. “Are you almost finished? There’s some work that needs to be done at the barbershop. The pole’s broken, one of the barber chairs is a hazard and there’s a hole in the drywall under the shampoo bowl.”

  Truman tugged on Flynn’s shirt, his blue eyes puppy dog large and hard to resist. “I can fix a barber chair.”

  “I’ll help you,” Slade offered with just the right amount of enthusiasm to please a child. Slade was a natural with Truman, reminding Flynn that Slade was an absentee father, not by choice. His ex-wife was hoarding her precious meal tickets, as if she suspected after a visit to Harmony Valley his twin girls would never want to return to New York.

  “Awesome.” Truman grinned.

  “Why don’t you flip that switch and see if this is working proper?” Joey held the light fixture, which turned on as planned. “We’re done here. I set a couple of mousetraps in the attic. They shouldn’t be gnawing on Sam’s wires anymore. Might tell him to get a cat.”

  That was nice. Flynn didn’t want Joey to be nice. It went against years of childhood and, okay, he’d admit it, adult angst.

  They moved their vehicles down the street and descended upon Phil’s barbershop. Slade and Truman went inside to fix the broken barber chair.

  Joey began removing the barber pole from the wall.

  Since Flynn was no drywall guy, he stayed out on the street with Joey. Besides, he’d had too many unanswered questions for too many years. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you take the money?”

  Joey didn’t so much as spare Flynn a glance. “For one thing, Edwin’s never liked me. And the idea of sticking it to him appealed.” His chuckle didn’t touch Flynn’s funny bone.

  “You never thought about me?” Flynn fiddled with a screwdriver. “About how I’d feel?”

  “I mostly figured I wouldn’t get out until you were in college and I didn’t want you coming to visit. The clientele in the prison visitor’s center isn’t exactly the same as the Cloverdale bingo hall. Not a place I wanted my kid hanging around.”

  That made Flynn feel a little better.

  “I did write you, but since I promised the old man I wouldn’t, I kept them in a box. I can give them to you, if you like.”

  He’d written. He’d been man enough to honor a promise. The tension in his shoulders eased, but not enough to accept the letters just yet. “Did Mom visit you?”

  “Nope. Got a Dear Joey letter about three months in. I don’t blame her. She was a woman with needs.”

  Flynn threw up his hands. “Stop right there. That’s the last thing I need to hear about.” He knew far too much himself.

  “I meant she had money needs and drug needs. I granted her the divorce.” Joey pulled the wires for the pole out. “Here’s the problem. It’s a loose connection. Happens sometimes in these old buildings after an earthquake. Shakes things loose.”

  Flynn was feeling shaken loose himself.

  A long-lost father coming into his life at a time when he was losing the man who raised him?

  Flynn wanted to find his footing. He wanted to steady himself in Becca’s embrace.

  For now, he had to be content finding his footing alone.

  Although maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought. He glanced at Joey, who squinted at the wires behind the barber pole.

  Maybe this man, the man who was his father, could help.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I LIKE FABRIZIO. He’s got years of winemaking experience and his name is fun to pronounce.” Flynn was only half joking.

  They’d gone back to their résumé review to fill key jobs at the winery, the most pressing of which was winemaker.

  Flynn slumped in a wicker chair on the back porch and tossed a stack of résumés on the table beside him. “Who am I kidding? I don’t know anything about making wine.”

  “Or about women.” Slade’s sharp grin needled. “You and Becca have been circling each other since she got here. I’m starting to get dizzy.”

  Will nodded, but didn’t look up from squinting at a résumé.

  “Just what I need.” Flynn rubbed his hands over his too-short hair. “Advice from the peanut gallery. I don’t see you dating anyone, Slade.”

  “Dating implies I’m settled. And I’m not settling here.” Slade smoothed his teal pinstripe tie. Figuring out his tie color code was the equivalent of having a temperature gauge on Slade’s moods. Today was an upbeat day. Slade may have been smiling, but he wasn’t joking. Both his mother and his father had died in his childhood home. For Slade, Harmony Valley was a place full of bad memories. “The only thing keeping me in town is you two and this money-sucking winery.”

  Will dropped his stack of résumés onto his lap. “This shouldn’t be so hard. The headhunter we hired screened candidates. And yet, there are still too many.”

  “Maybe we should focus on those who make the wine types we grow.” Slade picked up Fabrizio’s résumé from the table between him and Flynn. “Look at the wines Fabrizio makes—chardonnay and cabernet sauvignon. We grow both of those grapes.”

  “I don’t drink wine. You choose.” Flynn stood and went to the section of railing where he and Becca first kissed. How could she kiss him like that—twice—and then refuse to be alone with him?

  Becca was inside, cajoling his grandfather into some physical therapy with the help of Truman and Abby. Flynn wished he was in there, but his grandfather was always pushing him away.

  “This is a partnership. Just like you brought me up to speed on programming, we’ll bring each other up to speed on wine. Here’s what I know. Chardonnay is a white wine.” Slade, the methodical partner.

  “Although the chardonnay grapes I see on our vines are green.” Will, the comedic partner.

  “And cabernet is a red wine.” Slade, now the annoying partner.

  “And the grape is red, although it isn’t yet on the vines we’ve been told are cab.” Will looked from one to the other, taking on the role of worried partner. “Should we be worried?”

  Flynn shrugged.

  “And now we’re all on the same page. Still worried and clueless.” Slade dropped Fabrizio’s résumé back on the table.

  Flynn turned and slumped against the railing. “My grandfather was a beer guy. My father was a beer guy. We’re beer guys. Knowing what color the grapes are doesn’t help us much.” In hindsight, starting a winery was a rather naive endeavor if you weren’t a wine lover. “I can sort candidates by years of experience.”

  “We need to call in reinforcements.” Will got out his cell phone. “I’m calling Emma. She and Rose drink wine. Maybe she’ll recognize some of the wineries these guys work for.”

  “I have a better idea.” Slade stood and gathered the résumés. “Why don’t we take a drive to the nearest wine shop and buy a bottle of every cab and chard each of these candidates make?”

  Flynn straightened. Will put his cell phone down.

  “We’ll invite the town council for a wine and cheese party tonight.” Slade fiddled with the bottom of his tie.

  “Sounds good to me.” Flynn grinned. It would keep the old ladies happy and hopefully out of his hair. “Let’s make some calls.” And while they were in town, he’d stop by the private investigator’s office. And while he was there, if Wes Webber didn’t make his skin crawl like he had before, he’d ask him to track down Kathy.

  Three hours later, Flynn parked his truck in front of a small office building in Santa Rosa. The cinderblock building was divided into two smaller spaces fronted with large plate glass windows. One, Boyd’s Surveillance Equipment, had the glass window painted completely black, no doubt, trying to reassure clients of their own privacy. The other, Webbe
r Investigations, was so grimy Flynn had a hard time making out anything inside.

  “This guy was blowing smoke up your butt.” Slade looked disdainfully upon Flynn’s destination. “Is that a bullet hole?”

  Flynn looked closer at Webber’s plate glass. “Yep.”

  “You want to ask this guy to find Kathy?” Will was similarly unimpressed.

  “Yep.” Flynn wasn’t to be dissuaded. His sister had been gone nearly three weeks. “You guys wait in the car.”

  There was no receptionist, only an empty desk next to a lumpy leather couch. Flynn tracked the trajectory of the bullet hole and decided it would have struck whoever was sitting behind the front desk. That explained why it lacked an office chair. It’d probably been covered in blood. Although the desktop seemed free of any life-ending stains.

  Wes watched him from behind a desk in the rear office. “I knew you’d be in touch. What has Ms. MacKenzie done? Accepted a generous gift of a car? More cash? A diamond ring?” He flashed that too-slick smile. “I know. You popped the question and had second thoughts, didn’t you?”

  “No.” Flynn’s scowl was so deep-rooted, it twisted his hands into fists. “I didn’t come because of Becca.”

  “No?” Webber tapped a folder. “I spoke with the daughter of her last client. She said Becca didn’t turn in her house keys when she asked. She found Becca in her father’s house, acting nervous. She’s going to go through his valuables and see if anything’s missing.”

  Flynn’s insides felt like he’d been wound up tighter than a rubber-band airplane ready to launch. At Webber. “Becca wouldn’t steal anything.” He wasn’t convincing, even to himself.

  For once, Webber didn’t press the point. “What can I help you with?”

  Flynn retrieved a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “I want you to find my sister. She came by the house more than two weeks ago and left her son with me. Last Sunday she called, but wouldn’t tell me where she was or when she’s coming back. Here’s all her information.” Flynn slid a photo of him and Kathy from two Christmases ago from his wallet, placing it on the desk. “And here’s a picture of her.”