Dandelion Wishes

by Melinda Curtis

  Ben scoffed. “If you start a winery, you’ll be a farmer. Or will this winery be a hobby?”

  What Will hoped was for Tracy to run the winery. Using her business degree would give her purpose and keep her from being judged by anyone who assumed her IQ was tied to her halting speech. Will had to convince Tracy it was best to move home permanently. He was waiting for the right nonscowling moment to tell her.

  “It’s an investment, Dad. My passion is programming.”

  “A hobby, then.” His father crossed the living room to restraighten the picture over the fireplace. He didn’t turn around when he’d finished, but stared at the family portrait and the love he’d lost.

  Will communicated better with his sister these days than he did with his father. The two men were never on the same wavelength and things had only become worse since the accident, when Will had taken charge of Tracy’s care. “I’m headed over to see Rose and then I’ll be at Flynn’s house.”

  Ben gave a wry chuckle. “The old girl can see your agenda a mile away. You’ll never get her vote.”

  “It’s Sunday.” Will shrugged, forcing an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. “Rose likes me on Sundays.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  HOURS AFTER LEARNING of Tracy’s release, Emma parked her car behind Granny Rose’s sea-foam-green-and-white Victorian home in Harmony Valley and climbed the creaky planked steps to the front door. As a freelance graphic artist working mostly on print advertising for magazines, Emma could work on her laptop wherever she chose, uploading her completed work when she found an internet connection. She could design in Harmony Valley for a few days, hoping she might see Tracy, and upload her work before the weekend.

  After the accident, the Jacksons had been guarded, not only with who visited Tracy, but with details of Tracy’s condition. Granny Rose had learned that Tracy suffered from aphasia, but had never gotten a straight answer from Tracy’s father as to why Emma was being kept away. She’d know how best to approach the Jacksons about visiting now that her friend was home. Well, home to their hometown anyway. Next best thing to their apartment.

  The welcoming aroma of pot roast and the familiar canned sound of Gene Kelly on vinyl drifted out an open window. Granny Rose didn’t have an answering machine or a cell phone. She hadn’t answered her house phone earlier and didn’t know Emma was coming.

  “I’m singing in the rain. Just singing in the rain....” Gene Kelly’s voice floated beneath her grandmother’s breathless vibrato and above the shuffle of her shoes on the wooden floor. It was Sunday night and Granny Rose was reenacting one of her favorite musicals.

  Emma opened the stained glass door, stepped inside and froze.

  The last time she’d seen Granny Rose dance was a month ago. She’d been wearing a white silk button-down and a black pencil skirt. Fred Astaire had been spinning on the ancient phonograph.

  “I’m laughing at clouds. So dark up above....” Her back to Emma, Granny Rose tipped an Elvis umbrella over her shoulder. She was wearing a pair of faded red long johns that drooped from her skinny butt. They probably would have bagged even more if her waist hadn’t been cinched into a white tutu.

  Rose, in yellow duck boots, tripped and nearly fell onto the antique coffee table, sending the wood-trimmed settee skittering into the wall.

  “Granny!” Emma dropped her purse and ran to steady her grandmother.

  Granny Rose shrieked. She elbowed Emma in the ribs, stomped on her foot and stumbled free. Turning, she hit Emma on the head with the Elvis umbrella.

  Emma crumpled beneath one of the best Sedona landscapes she’d ever painted. The orchestra swelled.

  “Granny Rose.” She lifted her head. “It’s me. Emma. Your granddaughter?”

  Gene Kelly closed the song softly. Granny Rose lowered the umbrella and stared in bewilderment. “Emma?”

  Emma nodded. Blood pounded in her foot and at her temple. “Is that the tutu from my dance recital when I was twelve?”

  Granny Rose’s gaze dropped to the stiff white tulle. She looked around the cluttered living room, taking in the phonograph needle butting against the record label. “My raincoat is at the dry cleaners.” Her breathless voice lacked its usual confidence. “Is it time for cocktails?”

  “Yes.” Emma could use a stiff drink.

  “I didn’t expect you.” Granny Rose steadied Emma as she stood, although the eighty-year-old needed a bit of shoring up herself. Her huffing as she caught her breath seemed to bow her shoulders. “If you stay until next weekend you can come to the Grand Marshal Selection Ceremony.”

  “I’d like that,” Emma said, studying her grandmother cautiously. “Tracy moved back home today,” she added. “I was hoping—”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Granny Rose straightened instantly. “I bet it’s that computer nerd again. He should know it’ll be a daisy-wilting day in winter before he gets my vote.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, what’s-his-name.” Rose in her duck boots headed toward the door, thrusting the Elvis umbrella ahead of her like a sword.

  “No, no, no.” Emma didn’t know how a computer nerd could set Granny Rose off, but she hooked Rose’s bony elbow and spun her around. “You can’t answer the door like that.”

  “It would be rude of me not to answer the door.” She spoke in a tone one could only learn from a semester at Vassar.

  “I may not have been a debutant,” Emma protested, “but even I know you can’t greet guests in Grandpa’s underwear.”

  Granny Rose looked at herself. Her hands flitted over the tutu. And then she handed Emma the umbrella. “Don’t be fooled by the way he looks. He’s got an agenda and he’s not above charming you out of your pants to get to me.”

  * * *

  IN THE TIME he and his partners had been trying to get their property rezoned for the winery, Will had encountered both support and opposition in Harmony Valley. But the real wild card was Rose Cascia. Most days, she was a hellion on wheels, running roughshod over Will’s efforts to garner support for their winery. But on Sundays...

  Her Sunday-afternoon hobby involved dressing up and performing musicals in her antique-filled living room. And on Sundays, Rose was usually in a good mood and seemed happy to see him. Will always made a point to stop by.

  But this Sunday, as he powered off his music and removed his iPhone earbuds, it wasn’t Rose who answered the door. It was a disheveled woman in a red dress leaning on an umbrella as if it was a cane. As soon as she saw him, she seemed to do a double take.

  A warning bell went off in his head, urging him to pay attention, access his memory banks.

  “I’m so glad you stopped by.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I was going to come over to your house tomorrow. So I could apologize to Tracy and your family in person.”

  Memory clicked into place. He hadn’t seen her in four years. Her cheekbones were more prominent, her makeup more subtle, but her dark eyes were the same.

  Emma Willoughby.

  Will’s ears rang. He couldn’t help himself; he clambered for something his father disapproved of.

  Retribution.

  He’d waited six months to rip into Emma for nearly killing his sister. The first two weeks he’d sat at Tracy’s bedside, wondering if she was going to die from the injuries Emma’s careless driving had inflicted. And after Tracy had turned the corner to recovery, he’d spent more than five months trying to imagine every excuse Emma might give for the accident.

  And yet Will stood on the porch, staring at the woman, unable to speak.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Was he all right?

  “Are you kidding me?” he exploded. “No one in my family will ever be all right. Tracy came this close to dying.” Will thrust his hand in front of Emma’s face, his thumb and forefing
er almost touching.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her face pale. “It was an accident.”

  He drew a deep, shuddering breath and stared over Emma’s shoulder.

  In the living room, the tiny wood-trimmed love seat sat cockeyed in a corner. The delicately carved walnut coffee table tilted on two legs against a bookshelf.

  “Is Rose hurt?” Will pushed past her and called, “Rose? Rose, where are you?”

  Rose’s voice warbled a show tune from somewhere in the back. Thank God.

  “Granny’s changing.” Emma released her ribs to brush her dark bangs off her forehead with one hand, flinching. Her fingers came away bloody.

  What on earth had happened in here?

  Will’s conscience warred with his need for retribution. Emma would live. But she needed something to stop the bleeding and possibly an ice pack. Without asking what had happened, in two strides he was at the narrow hall table. He reached into a porcelain vase for a bandage, which Rose kept close at hand, he knew, for emergencies.

  Emma stared up at him as he lifted her bangs out of the way and bandaged her wound. Her hair smelled like flowers and felt like silk. “Is Rose getting ready to perform?”

  “No more performances today.” Guarded dark eyes caught his skeptical glance. She backed away to thread the umbrella carefully into the stand on one side of the door. And then she gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I’d like to visit Tracy.”

  Will didn’t hesitate. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “She...she said that?”

  He looked away and didn’t say anything.

  “You haven’t asked her,” Emma said. It wasn’t a question. Color returned to her face in a slow creep of pink that seemed to fortify her. “You haven’t asked her, but I will.”

  Will crossed to stand very close to Emma, so close he registered a green fleck in her dark chocolate eyes. “Let me be clear. My sister trusted you with her life. An apology isn’t enough, could never be enough.”

  Rose swept into the room in low-heeled pumps and a black skirt that fell just below her knobby knees. Her white hair was in a tight bun. Her hard gaze landed on Will.

  “I don’t think I’ve had time to tell you, Emma,” the older woman said. “But this man wants to convert Harmony Valley from a peaceful small town into a soulless tourist destination.”

  So much for being welcome on Sundays.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WILL JACKSON KNEW how to push Emma’s buttons.

  He hadn’t always. When she was a kid, he’d been her and Tracy’s reluctant rescuer. When she was a teenager, he’d been like a nosy, overprotective older brother, one who’d had the potential to be attractive, if he’d removed his braces and learned how to use hair product. And then he’d gone away to college and transformed himself into a serious hunk, determined that Tracy never have any fun.

  Today, authority exuded from Will like heat waves off a summer sidewalk. He didn’t need a power suit. His navy polo and faded blue jeans couldn’t disguise the stench of carefully managed success. He had the lean, lanky body of a surfer. Only his sun-kissed gold locks were conservatively trimmed and his fierce blue eyes didn’t miss a thing. The man was well put together, handsome and heartless.

  The last time Emma had seen Will was four years ago. He’d been waiting for Tracy outside their apartment. She and Tracy had just returned from a hot road trip to Tijuana for a friend’s bachelorette party. Hot being the operative word since Tracy’s air conditioner had died in Bakersfield, and the California valley was having a record heat wave. Despite short shorts, a tank top and cornrowed hair courtesy of a beach vendor, Emma’s deodorant had given out hours before and she was sweltering. She didn’t look, smell or feel like entertaining a man who was far from being her biggest fan.

  Will had taken Emma in with one quick, disapproving glance, then ignored her, preferring to ream out Tracy for taking off without letting him know where she was. They’d been twenty-two, for crying out loud.

  Emma understood that Will probably hated her for causing the accident, but what she’d never been able to understand was why Will had seemed to hate her in the first place. It didn’t help that she’d been a mess when he came to the door today. Since she was a teen, he’d treated her like she had the Congo Cooties.

  Emma fingered the bandage beneath her bangs and sighed.

  And now, according to Granny Rose, Will wanted to remake Harmony Valley. He probably planned to cancel everything that gave the small town its character, like the annual Beer Belly Serenade and pumpkin bowling for the Harvest Queen crown.

  Emma sagged uncomfortably on her grandmother’s thinly padded, red-velvet settee as the strains of South Pacific’s chorus built. Even Granny Rose’s pot roast at dinner hadn’t cheered her up. There were too many unanswered questions banging about in her head: whether Granny Rose’s long-johns performance was anything to worry about; how much of a threat Will posed to Harmony Valley’s cherished way of life; if she’d ever be able to paint or sketch again; whether or not Tracy could forgive Emma for the accident.

  Granny Rose sat in her rocking chair by the window, moving in time to one of her favorite musical numbers. She didn’t own a television. And she didn’t look as if she was up to answering questions. Her lids were heavy and her lined features slack.

  “I bet Tracy’s happy to be home. There’s no place like Harmony Valley,” Granny Rose mused.

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “I hope Will didn’t fill your head with nonsense about his winery while I was changing. We adopted a no-growth policy for a reason. We don’t want change. After the grain-escalator explosion, we wanted peace and quiet.” Her grandmother spoke slowly, as if stringing together a sentence tired her.

  Was this malaise a sign that she was finally slowing down? Or was something more serious affecting Granny Rose’s ability to think?

  Glass-half-empty pessimism had never been Emma’s style. She preferred to look on the bright side. Maybe her grandmother was tired after a busy day. Maybe Emma was misreading Rose’s mental state. Emma used to get fuzzy after a long day of painting. If Granny Rose was worried about Harmony Valley, it might account for her being distracted. “When was the last time you went to the doctor?”

  Her grandmother replied in the same measured cadence. “Didn’t I tell you? Dr. Mayhew died last winter. His replacement is in Cloverdale and wetter behind the ears than a baby duck in a rain shower. He told me I needed to slow down and take up yoga.” Granny Rose harrumphed. “I was a highflier in the circus, not a contortionist.”

  Her grandmother had been many things before settling down, including a brief stint as a Rockette and a transatlantic-cruise-ship cocktail waitress, where she’d met the man of her dreams.

  “You sound worn out, Granny.”

  “Worry will do that to you.” She stopped rocking. “When I first came here, I thought this town was a cultural wasteland, a place with blinders on as to what was happening in the rest of the world. It had never hosted a speech from a candidate for president or governor. There was no opera or a cultural museum. But do you know...” Rose leaned forward, eyes suddenly bright. “My attitude changed. The mix of people here is unlike anyplace else on earth. And I learned to love it.” She pointed at Emma with one slender finger. “We like Harmony Valley the way it is.”

  Here was the familiar, determined Granny Rose. Emma sat up with a roll of her shoulders. “I like it, too.”

  Granny Rose laughed. “Kathryn, you hated growing up here. We didn’t have television and there weren’t enough boys. You couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  Emma’s breath hitched. Kathryn was her mother. For the second time that day Emma reintroduced herself. “Granny, it’s me. Emma.”

  Rose blinked. “Emma?” She smoothed her white hair back with fingers that trembled.
Emma didn’t know if the shaking came from age, illness or stress. “Emma. You’ve always loved Harmony Valley.” And just like that, Granny Rose was herself again.

  It was like losing the car-radio signal when you went beneath an overpass. Only this tuner required a doctor to fix it.

  “I do love it here.” Emma loved it so much that more than half of her freelance portfolio and some of her bestselling works were based on the unspoiled views. Not that she couldn’t sketch or paint elsewhere. She had. Sedona, Yosemite, Yellowstone. But Harmony Valley was different. Not as grand. Not as colorful. But infinitely more peaceful.

  If... When Emma painted again, it would be in this place. With all of Granny Rose’s love and support. And hopefully Tracy’s, too.

  “Well, I have a busy day tomorrow. I like to be fresh in the morning.” Rose stood, wobbling a smidge. If Emma hadn’t been watching, she would have missed it.

  Emma rushed to her grandmother’s side, offering an arm to lean on. She’d call her mother in the morning and tell her she was getting in touch with Granny’s doctor. “Let me walk you back.”

  “My room is just down the hall, not across the continent,” her grandmother snapped with all the pepper Emma knew so well.

  Emma chuckled, breathing in the familiar scent of rose water. “Humor me. I’ve missed you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Granny Rose accepted Emma’s support with a wry laugh. “Isn’t it lovely to have someone to lean on?”

  “You miss Grandpa, don’t you?”

  “Every day. But he’s going to be waiting for me when my time comes, the same as he waited for me under the oak tree in the town square when we were courting.”

  Emma loved to hear how much her grandparents had loved each other, probably because her lawyer parents had barely survived a messy divorce when she was a toddler. That was when she and her mother had come to live with Granny Rose.