Dandelion Wishes

by Melinda Curtis

  The floorboards creaked more than usual, almost as much as her grandmother’s knees. “You know he wants to cut down the oak tree in the town square. He doesn’t care that half the town received marriage proposals under that tree.”

  “Who doesn’t care?” Emma turned on the hall light. It flickered, then burned bright.

  “That computer nerd. He’s a pain in my tuckus.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Emma bid Granny Rose good-night, and then lugged her bags upstairs, depositing the shoebox full of Carina Career dolls next to her bed. Her room at Granny’s was small with a single bed covered in a green-and-gold star quilt and an old walnut dresser that didn’t take up much floor space. Emma loved the room. The southern exposure let in the most wonderful natural light.

  When Emma was ten, she and Granny Rose had painted the walls the palest of blues and taken all the permanent pictures down so Emma could hang her works. She’d filled the walls last summer, but sold all those paintings to contribute to the cost of Tracy’s care.

  Tonight, the empty walls spurned her.

  Tomorrow she hoped Tracy wouldn’t do the same.

  * * *

  AFTER WILL LEFT Rose’s house, he walked along the fragrant bank of the meandering Harmony River, dodging blackberry vines and the occasional tendril of a wild yellow rose. The sun had dipped behind one of the hills surrounding Harmony Valley, creating a humid, hazy twilight.

  When Emma realized he hadn’t asked Tracy if she wanted to see her, she’d glared up at him, the bandaged bump pushing through her dark brown bangs as stubbornly as she pushed up her chin. He’d seen that headstrong look of hers before—when she was seven and had been convinced that she and Tracy deserved a chance to play baseball with the older boys; when she’d found him and his fourteen-year-old friends skinny-dipping in the Harmony River and wanted to jump in; when he’d answered an SOS call from Tracy after the pair had sought refuge in a strip club when they’d realized they were in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district after-hours.

  Emma Willoughby was trouble.

  His sister was at a critical juncture in her recovery. She’d hit a plateau and was emotionally beaten. The last thing Tracy needed was a reminder of the accident or some ill-conceived adventure of Emma’s. He had to keep her away.

  A figure stepped onto the path ahead of him, immediately recognizable. Her jeans and beige T-shirt bagged on her too-slim, too-frail frame.

  “What are you doing here?” Will asked his sister with forceful cheer.

  Tracy’s mouth worked in a halting cadence. “You. Took. Too. Long.”

  Sorrow clung to Will like a lingering hangover. His sister used to talk high-speed and nonstop. Doctors told them these next few months were critical for Tracy’s recovery. Somehow he had to get her back on track. Tracy needed a goal to work toward, something more concrete than smoother speech.

  Sorrow became anger, directed at Emma and her carelessness. “I visited Rose. I need all the votes I can get.”

  “Suck. Up.”

  “Come look.” Will leaned against a eucalyptus tree, breathing in its minty scent. The trees here bordered the property he and his business partners had purchased. Neat rows of chardonnay and cabernet sauvignon grapes filled forty acres like ranks of green soldiers. The farmer in him appreciated the effort required to build the vineyard and keep it healthy. The businessman looked at the farm buildings the town council threatened to condemn and shuddered.

  Tracy leaned against the trunk next to him. “Pretty.”

  Now was the time to plant the seed. “How would you like to run our winery when it’s done?” Tracy struggled with speech, but she was as sharp as ever. This could be the goal she needed to push herself further in her recovery.

  She thrust away from him, scowling. “You... I... No. Why?”

  “It was just a thought. You have a business degree.” Will backed down. It was too soon. He’d wait a few more days before mentioning it again.

  “Minor,” she corrected with a shake of her head. “English major.”

  He ruffled her short blond hair, careful not to touch the sensitive scars on the right side.

  She swatted him away and grinned, the expression so rare of late that Will froze, afraid any movement might startle Tracy into remembering she had little to smile about.

  There was no way he was risking that smile disappearing forever. “Did Flynn pick up pizza?”

  Tracy nodded.

  “Come on.”

  They walked along the river to Flynn’s grandfather’s house. Crickets sang a gentle chorus as they passed. Shadows lengthened and began blending with the night.

  Flynn and Slade waited for them on the wraparound porch, watching the river go by and drinking beer. After days trying to generate enthusiasm for the winery in Harmony Valley, Will and his friends took refuge in the weathered white rattan chairs on the outdoor porch.

  The Jeopardy! jingle drifted out the screen door. Moths fluttered around the porch light.

  Tracy perched on a redwood bench and looked out toward the river, but she wasn’t watching the calm waters. Her gaze was unfocused.

  “Pizza’s in the kitchen. Italian sausage or pepperoni.” Flynn pulled a beer out of a small cooler and handed it to Will as he came up the steps. His Rolling Stones T-shirt was wrinkled, as usual. Reddish-brown hair hung to his shoulders beneath a Giants baseball cap, as usual. “Which musical did Rose perform tonight?”

  Will opened his beer and leaned against the porch railing. “I’m not sure.” Two months ago, Will would’ve been hard-pressed to name any show tunes. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

  Flynn readjusted his Giants cap and grinned at Tracy. “Do you remember when Rose did a one-woman rendition of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang for elementary school?” He waited until she nodded. She, Emma and Flynn had been in the same grade in school. After Emma, Flynn was Tracy’s closest friend. “It was so funny, I thought I was going to wet my pants. And then Rose picked me and a couple other kids for the finale. I got to sit in this cardboard car she’d made. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Didn’t matter that I only knew the chorus. For a moment, I was a man of the world.” Flynn sighed. He’d been dreaming of visiting all the places his grandfather had served overseas ever since he was a kid.

  Tracy’s laughter was soft and all too brief. They knew Flynn wanted to take his grandfather around the world with him, but Edwin’s heart was failing.

  The river sidled past and crickets chirped. Inside the house, the Jeopardy! buzzer did its off-tone double beep.

  Will wished Tracy would say something, start a conversation, bring up a positive childhood memory.

  “Why don’t you know which production Rose put on?” Slade stretched his long legs across the porch, clasping his hands over the ends of his tie. As their financial guru, Slade believed in living the leader look 24/7. According to him, you never knew who might be willing to invest in their next big idea, so he had to look legit. “What happened?”

  Will didn’t want to answer, not in front of Tracy, but it would be a bigger issue if he didn’t. “Rose’s granddaughter showed up.”

  “Emma?” Tracy sat up so quickly the bench she was on nearly tipped over.

  Will couldn’t tell if Tracy wanted to say more or not. She wrinkled her slim blond eyebrows when she struggled for a word, the same way she did when she was unhappy. They all waited for her to say more, but she went mute.

  Slade smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his slacks and then fiddled with his tie. Will had a theory about those ties. They were a gauge of Slade’s mood—a bold, bright color meant he was content and focused on results, an artistic pattern signaled something stormy or melancholy and on black-tie days Will made sure to avoid asking Slade for anything. Today’s tie was a bright orange diagonal strip. That boded well for the winery. “Was t
his a planned visit? Or does Emma know Tracy’s home?”

  “She knows.” Will continued to study his sister. “She wants to visit Tracy.”

  Tracy blew out a breath. “I don’t...don’t.”

  “You don’t want to see her,” Will finished, greatly relieved.

  “No.” Her brows furrowed. “I. Don’t. Want. You. To—”

  “You don’t want me to let her visit.” Will tried again.

  “No!” Tracy stood, growling in frustration.

  “Let her get it out.” Flynn leaned forward.

  She shook her head. “I don’t. Want you. To...to...” Tracy glanced up and to the left. The doctors had told them when she looked in that direction she was trying to access memory for the words she needed. Her hands circled like upside-down eggbeaters. “Stop. Emma.”

  “Are you sure?” Will set his beer down and moved closer to capture Tracy’s hands. Her delicate hands. “She’s the reason you’re like this.” Broken. Fragile.

  Tracy blinked back tears. “Let me. Decide.” She tore free of his grip and ran down the steps, across the verdant grass.

  “She needs space.” Flynn held Will back when he started off after her. “It’s got to be frustrating.”

  Will shrugged off his friend’s hand, grasping his beer by the neck to keep a hold on the resentment churning in his gut. If only Emma hadn’t come back. If only Emma hadn’t talked Tracy into going to Las Vegas six months ago. “Tracy doesn’t like me telling her what to do.” Wanting to follow his sister but knowing she needed space, Will anchored his beer on the porch railing.

  “I’m going to make an unpopular suggestion,” Slade said. “You’re worried about Tracy, and Flynn’s worried about Edwin’s recovery from his heart attack. This project has gotten too complicated. In addition to the winery we’re opening a restaurant, a tasting room and a gift shop? Maybe we should—”

  “We’re ten miles east of Cloverdale,” Will cut in, trying to hammer out his frustration. “No one will drive forty miles north of the heart of Sonoma wine country on a twisting, narrow road simply for a glass of our wine. It’s too much trouble. We need to make Harmony Valley a destination. Build something out here besides our winery. I’d love for someone in town to open a day spa or a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “A gelato parlor or a bakery. Maybe even a coffee shop.” Flynn had a huge sweet tooth. “What I wouldn’t give for a latte every morning.”

  “Why don’t we stick to what we know and design a new app?” Slade fiddled with his tie.

  “Take off your tie,” Will snapped, his frustration finding a new target. “It represents everything we aren’t. We’re supposed to be a lean, independent, creative firm, able to turn our talents toward a new opportunity on a dime. Not a suited-up, slow-moving corporation.”

  Slade leaned forward. The old wicker chair groaned in protest. “It sounds like you’re saying you don’t want to be responsible for employees and buildings and a harvest. I agree. Let’s move on.”

  “I can’t move on.” Will passed his beer bottle from one hand to the other. He hadn’t told either of them that he wanted Tracy to run the winery. Slade would argue that a junior advertising executive wasn’t qualified to manage their business. Flynn would argue Tracy didn’t drink wine. It didn’t matter. He needed to tell them. But when Will opened his mouth, he said, “You’re the one who said we needed a tax shelter.”

  “And you’re the one who said it would be simple to start a business here.” Slade got to his feet. He might not have been as tall as Will, but he was broader. “All we’ve found are roadblocks and complications.”

  Will’s temper flared and his words came out angrier than he’d intended. “Flynn and I, we need a break from the creative side of things. We promised ourselves we wouldn’t be one of those one-hit wonders, remember? We promised ourselves the freedom to focus on what we do best—out-of-the-box design. I don’t have any ideas to work on. Do you?” Will rounded on Flynn.

  “Nope. My mind’s as blank as a new hard drive.” Flynn tipped his baseball hat toward Slade, seemingly unconcerned by his creative block. “I’m a wealthy man, not that anyone around here cares, and not that my grandfather will let me spend any money on him or this property.” The same as Will’s father wouldn’t allow him to pay for improvements on the family farm. “But I’d like to enjoy being a wealthy man before I burn through another five years of my life becoming wealthier.”

  “Amen,” Will said grimly.

  “Try to understand where we’re coming from,” Flynn said, ever the peacemaker. “Tracy needs Will right now, and our winery is the best thing that’s happened to my grandfather in a long time. He needed to feel useful after his heart attack. I won’t back away from this deal for that reason alone.”

  “But if you need any further convincing,” Will said. “Think about this—it’s next to impossible for us to come up with any new ideas when we’re worried about our families.”

  Slade’s long features turned as hard as the granite face of Parish Hill. He was an only child. His mother had always been fragile and had died of a heart virus when he was a teenager. His father had committed suicide soon after Slade graduated from college. Divorced, Slade had no family left.

  “I’m sorry,” Will began, knowing the words wouldn’t be enough.

  But Slade had already left, heading for his family’s empty house.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EMMA WAS BACK in Harmony Valley.

  Tracy closed her bedroom door and scowled at the princess bedroom set she’d picked out when she was eight.

  On days when she was scared, Tracy wished she’d died in that car accident.

  She had no memory of the crash itself, but she did remember what had happened afterward in flashes. Emma taking off her white bra and using its padding to staunch the bleeding on Tracy’s head, her voice high and thin as she told Tracy everything was going to be all right. Emma asking a passing motorist for a blanket to keep Tracy warm. Emma begging Mediflight to let her ride along, and after they refused, squeezing Tracy’s hand with one last bit of reassurance before she’d left on the high-flying roller coaster that had had her throwing up on herself.

  Emma had lied. Everything wasn’t all right.

  Tracy hadn’t woken up again until a week after the accident. The doctors had put her into a coma until the swelling in her brain decreased. And when she’d come out of it, Emma hadn’t been there. Tracy had been unable to ask about her friend, not with a tube down her throat and a morphine drip clouding reality. It wasn’t until a highway patrolman had shown up to ask her about the accident and they’d lowered her morphine dose that she’d found she could scribble out words. He’d told her Emma had survived. The bigger question: Where was Emma?

  Tracy sat on her full-size bed next to the window and stared out at the moonlit night, at the acres of chest-high corn her father took such pride in growing.

  After she’d stabilized, they’d moved her to a rehabilitation hospital, where they had a no-cell-phone policy.

  Still no Emma.

  Her father and Will alternated their visits.

  Still no Emma.

  Tracy grew tired of bedpans and flash cards, well-meaning therapists who sang goofy kids’ songs and wanted her to sing along. Emma would have understood, would have busted Tracy out for a much-needed afternoon of playing hooky. They’d have hit the mall or found one of those small shops that made their own ice cream. They’d have gotten a scoop of something fattening and decadent, like coconut cream cheese or turtle truffle.

  Still no Emma.

  And nothing seemed right.

  Oh, it was right in Tracy’s head. She had mental conversations with herself as quickly and smoothly as before the accident. She’d surprised her doctors by being able to silently read and write fluently. And her broken bones had healed. She coul
d walk and run and, although she hadn’t tried, she suspected she could dance.

  But resuming her job at an ad agency was out of the question. Tracy couldn’t sit with her peers and shout out ideas. She couldn’t contribute to a fast-paced conference call. And she could no longer smoothly present storyboards to advertising clients.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of Tracy’s situation was that everyone treated her like an invalid. Her father wanted her to rest more. Her brother finished her sentences. Doctors, nurses and specialists patted her knee and told her things would get better if she just obeyed every request they made and tried to speak. Again and again and again. Until Tracy hated the sound of her own faltering voice.

  She pressed her forehead against the cool window and fingered the cell phone that had no network. Maybe that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was that the doctor had recommended shock therapy as a next step in her treatment, which in laboratory experiments had increased blood flow to the brain and helped reconnect synapses so that speech was smoother.

  Attach electrodes to her brain and start zapping her?

  No flippin’ way!

  She’d stopped cooperating with her therapist. A few weeks later she’d been discharged, which annoyed the heck out of Will. He kept talking about her needing more therapy. Didn’t he realize what they wanted to do to her?

  And now Emma wanted to see her? Tracy was so upset she could scream. Only her scream would probably come out like a trebly Tarzan wail and upset her father.

  Tracy both wanted and didn’t want to see Emma.

  Truth was, she didn’t want to see anyone, not like this. Maybe she’d cloister herself away in her room, with its pink ruffled bedspread and pink flowered walls and only have conversations with herself. For the rest of her life.

  * * *

  “YOU THINK WILL took it upon himself to protect Tracy from you? I had hoped it was doctor’s orders. I never could get Ben to say exactly.” Granny Rose poured a cup of coffee and carried it over to the breakfast nook where Emma sat.