Will would not have his way.
* * *
SHORTLY AFTER EIGHT, Emma had talked to Granny Rose’s doctor. He’d said it sounded like Sundowner’s Syndrome, a form of dementia exacerbated by stress and fatigue with symptoms that manifested themselves mostly at the end of the day. But he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to see Rose and agreed to have his nurse call her tomorrow to make an appointment under the guise of a checkup. In the meantime, Emma was to make sure her grandmother got plenty of rest and avoided stress.
When she hung up the phone, Emma knew what she had to do—stop Will’s mission-style mother ship from landing in Harmony Valley so her grandmother wouldn’t have to.
Emma next left a voice mail for her mother, updating her on Granny Rose and the doctor’s opinion, and asking her to please, please, please call the house.
And then the doubt set in. What if Mr. Blonkowski was coordinating the winery campaign? Perhaps he didn’t realize how upsetting it was to Rose. Emma had gone to school with Flynn, Mr. B.’s grandson, who’d witnessed Rose’s episode. Perhaps she could persuade Flynn to stop being such a radical agent of change.
And so, at eight-thirty, Emma knocked on Edwin Blonkowski’s door. She had barely enough time to squeak in a visit with Mr. B. and Flynn before her visit with Tracy at nine.
“Emma.” Mr. B. shuffled to his screen door in a pair of stained blue coveralls, leaning heavily on a cane. His hair was salty, his nose more bulbous than ever, but his blue eyes were as sharp as they’d been eight years earlier. “How are you?”
Before she could decide how or what to ask, Mr. B. had a question of his own. “Do you remember the painting you did of Flynn all those years ago?”
“Vaguely.” Of all the things she wanted to discuss, painting hadn’t made the list. She hid her hands in the drape of her long skirt.
“I still have it in my bedroom. Would you like to see it?”
And torture herself by examining one of her early works? Not really. “About the winery...”
But Mr. B. was already shuffling down the hall, leaving Emma out on the porch. She heard him moving around in the back of the house. And then something clattered to the floor.
“Mr. B.? Are you all right?” Emma opened the screen door, stepping onto the black-and-white linoleum in the foyer. “Is Flynn home?”
“I’m fine,” Mr. B. called. “I knocked over some books trying to get the picture down.”
To her left, in the living room, a muted rerun of some game show played on the television. To her right, a map covered the kitchen table. Emma drifted closer, her Indian print, ankle-length skirt swishing with each step. She’d loved those yellowed maps as a kid. Mr. B. had marked battles and enemy lines on them and in the process brought history to life.
But this wasn’t an old war map. This was a map of Harmony Valley. Houses were highlighted in blue and orange and yellow. Mrs. Chambers’s cottage in blue. Granny Rose’s house in orange. Yellow sticky notes on several houses were labeled with dates and times. Those with today’s date were on the east side of Harmony Valley. 9:00 a.m. Ten. Eleven. Drinks with Mayor Larry at El Rosal. And so on. Each appointment had a name scribbled beneath it. Flynn. Slade. Will. Sometimes a combination of the three.
Granny Rose was right. Mr. B. was directing the offensive with the precision of General MacArthur. Harmony Valley wasn’t prepared for such an onslaught. The combined forces of Will and his friends plus Flynn’s grandfather would demolish the charming town and build it into something cold and industrial.
Anger shuddered like cracking ice beneath Emma’s skin, freezing her limbs until she stood with rigid indecisiveness over the map. She wanted to rip it into tiny pieces, scattering its shreds into the river. But that wouldn’t stop them.
Emma couldn’t break her gaze away from the orange highlighting Granny Rose’s home. Her grandmother had been marked as the enemy. All those years ago Mr. B. had been adamant about one thing—wars had been lost when generals didn’t understand their adversary. He’d used examples from history where guerilla warfare had led to successful coups, because no one could predict the opposition’s tactics in advance. No one knew what the opposing army was willing to sacrifice to win.
A declaration of war unfurled its battle flag in Emma’s chest, sending resolve spreading like the warming rays of dawn.
Mr. B. knew Granny Rose, but he didn’t know Emma, as well. Not the adult Emma anyway. She’d lead the guerilla forces. Well...an immovable force of one.
It was a little after eight-thirty. Emma was due to see Tracy at nine. At one, Will would be out at... Emma leaned over. Felix Libby’s house. And then—
Something else tumbled to the floor at the rear of the house.
“Mr. B.? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine. I finally got the wire free.”
Emma drifted back to the foyer and pretended to watch TV, her mind busy planning her next move.
Mr. B. shuffled down the hall, about as intimidating in appearance as a character on Sesame Street. Emma knew better. She wanted to rail against him for betraying Harmony Valley, but before she could say anything, he handed her a framed, dusty canvas. Apprehension hit the pause button on honorable intentions.
Emma took the painting gingerly, afraid of dropping it, willing her hands not to shake. Her eyes followed the brushstrokes first—too short and heavy. The colors in the painting clashed; the blue of his eyes too rich, Flynn’s reddish-brown hair too bright. There was too much background and not enough of her subject. Even then she’d been fascinated with landscapes.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She’d tried to paint Flynn winding up for a pitch. She’d gotten his body proportions wrong—too much butt, not enough torso. Yet, from what she remembered, she’d captured Flynn’s determined expression—the tug of his chin to the right, the tense set to his mouth, the young, piercing gaze of a fierce competitor.
Emma wanted to close her eyes and bring back that feeling of joy she’d had when painting; she wanted to hum to herself as she led her brush in a soft caress over the canvas. Her ears felt like they were being stuffed with cotton and her hands trembled. If she didn’t collect herself soon, she’d be in no shape to talk to Tracy.
Emma gave the painting back to Mr. B., a bittersweet pang of regret making her fingers numb and cold.
“It’s my favorite picture.” Mr. B.’s gruff voice filtered through the cotton in her ears.
“I’m glad you enjoy it. About the winery—”
“I’m sorry change upsets your grandmother.” The older man’s expression was reserved. “But change has to happen if the town is to survive. You want Harmony Valley to survive, don’t you?”
“Of course, but—”
“And you realize that every choice has a cost, every path chosen sacrifices something down another road?”
“Yes, but—”
His broad smile challenged his bulbous nose for prominence on his face. “Then the boys can count on your support. Now, you’d best be on your way. You don’t want to be late to see Tracy.”
“How did you—”
“There are no secrets in Harmony Valley. I can assure you that will never change.”
“Some things should change,” Emma muttered after she left, turning down the river path that would lead her to Tracy.
* * *
“I WANT. YOU. To go.” Tracy resisted stomping her feet. That would make her look childish. She resisted tugging her jeans up higher on her rail-thin hips. That would make her look weak. Lacking polished speech, she had to carefully control the visual impressions she made, especially with her brother.
Will leaned against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not leaving you alone with her.”
“Dad left.”
Tracy had told her father she wanted to speak to Emma alone, and he’d gone to pick up fertilizer in Santa Rosa. He wouldn’t be back for hours.
Emma was due to arrive any minute and Tracy didn’t want Will chaperoning. He’d kept Emma from her for six months. Six months! It felt like a lifetime. A lifetime without the friend who’d kept her secrets and shared her dreams.
The aching loneliness. The gut-clenching worry. The raging anger. No one understood what she was going through. But Emma would. She wouldn’t talk to Tracy like she was a child. And because of that, speech would come easier to Tracy. She imagined words tumbling out of her mouth as quickly as laughter.
“Why. Can’t—”
“Are you sure you want to see her?”
Tracy made a sound that was half growl, half yowl. She hated how Will always doubted Emma. She hated aphasia and the fact that she couldn’t string together a quick argument. She could sing along with rapper Pitbull in her head, but open her mouth and it was as if she couldn’t crank her brain’s handle fast enough to pump out the words.
Hot tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks. She blinked and turned away from Will, snatching up her notepad and pen, scratching out a message.
Tracy shoved the notepad beneath Will’s nose.
I want to talk to Emma alone.
Because she needed Emma to help her escape from Will and Harmony Valley. She’d decided to return to their San Francisco apartment.
With barely a glance at her scribbled command, Will shook his head.
“Leave. Me—”
“I’m not leaving you alone. You’re not sure you want to see her. I can tell.”
The way Will tried to read her mind and finished her sentences made her feel stupid. In the eyes of her brother, Tracy was handicapped, disabled, incapable of living independently. Tracy felt as insignificant as a plain number two pencil in a mechanical pencil world. “No!”
But the truth was, she didn’t know. Tracy had been dozing in the passenger seat. And yesterday—
“Don’t forget Emma was dancing yesterday. When was the last time you danced?”
Tracy’s breath hitched. To keep from speaking, she ground her teeth. Her brother didn’t need to know what had happened the night before the accident. They’d been in Las Vegas, after all.
Someone knocked at the door.
Tracy glared at him. One last command for him to leave.
Will didn’t budge, of course.
She’d have to find another time to talk to Emma about moving back to the apartment. The settlements from Emma’s insurance and the trucking company that owned the big rig involved in the collision would pay Tracy’s share of the rent until she was able to return to work. Whatever work someone with her challenges could get. She’d do anything to regain her independence.
Still, her hand hesitated on the doorknob. Her plan was contingent upon her liking whatever Emma had to say. What if Will was right? She’d seemed remorseful last night, but there could be more to Emma’s story. Details Tracy couldn’t forgive her for.
What if Emma heard her speak and didn’t want to be friends anymore?
Emma knocked again.
“If you’re not sure...” Will’s voice skated with cutting blades over her nerves. “Don’t let her in.”
Tracy clenched her teeth and turned the tarnished brass knob.
* * *
“TRACY, I’VE MISSED you so much.” Emma sank into the couch beneath the dusty trout mounted on the wall. She set the shoebox on the cushion next to her.
Tracy looked young and rebellious. There was a set to her mouth, a slant to her sharp blue eyes and the bright orange T-shirt that used to fit her listed slightly toward one shoulder. Will stood guard a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Emma. He’d struck the exact same pose before her and Tracy’s prom, driving home from college just so he could try to put the fear of God into their dates. She’d felt his eyes upon her that night, too, and she’d burned with the feeling of feminine power. She would have burned with embarrassment to know what he’d really thought of her back then—reckless, irresponsible, a threat to the safety of his sister.
Today his gaze on Emma was so intense it threatened to ignite a fire in her veins. She was certain he didn’t intend to convey interest in her. It had to be her artistic, misdirected passion. She lifted her chin as if to tell him he couldn’t intimidate her and angled her body directly toward Tracy. “Do you remember the accident?”
Tracy’s apprehension swept through the room like a chill winter draft. She hunched on her dad’s brown leather recliner, the corners of her mouth drooping as she murmured, “Some.”
“I won’t recount the crash,” Emma was quick to reassure her.
Tracy’s shoulders went from rigid to merely tense.
“You have to know...I am so sorry.” Just saying the words nearly unbraided the ribbons of fear, worry and guilt that had bound Emma’s heart to her toes for six months. “We’d been on the road for a couple of hours. You were sleeping because...”
Tracy had met someone in Las Vegas and they’d gone to a late-night, private party. Emma was practically positive Tracy hadn’t told her brother about that.
Emma slid a glance in Will’s direction, but forced herself not to look at his face, afraid he’d realize she wasn’t about to tell the entire truth. Instead, she stared at his expensive running shoes. “Because I had kept you out late the night before.”
Her gaze slipped back to Tracy, whose cheeks were tinged pink.
“We’d driven through the Tehachapi mountains earlier and I started visualizing a grouping of snowy peaks I’d seen.” The striations of gray. The shimmer of marbled granite beneath the delicate snowflake-like blanket of snow. Just thinking about the landscape caused Emma’s hands to tremble. She laced her fingers together, not wanting Tracy to know she bore hidden scars from the accident. Her artistic block was nothing compared to the challenges Tracy faced. “You know how some landscapes call to me.”
Tracy gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Over by the kitchen, Will sniffed, as if trying to catch the scent of what Emma wasn’t saying.
Emma knotted her fingers tighter. “I didn’t fall asleep. I remember a billboard we passed. I remember the song playing on the radio. I remember seeing the mountains like a picture ahead of me on the road. But all of a sudden the truck was there and—”
Tracy swallowed thickly. The blood had drained from her face.
“And then it happened.” Emma’s fingers convulsed as they’d done on the wheel that day. “They flew you to one hospital and drove me to another. The worst of my injuries wouldn’t show up for days.” She hadn’t meant to mention that.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw Will cock his head.
“Your. Injuries?”
Silently cursing her blabbing mouth, Emma chose her words carefully. “My injuries are nothing compared to yours.” So she’d lost her talent. That was inconsequential compared to Tracy losing her ability to speak fluently. Emma was desperate to make amends. Someday she’d tell Tracy what she’d lost. But not today. “By the time I was released and arrived at your hospital, I couldn’t get in, but I tried to see you.” Emma fought to keep the desperation out of her voice, afraid she was failing. “And I raised money for your medical bills.”
“We used your funds to establish a charitable foundation in Tracy’s name for those with aphasia who can’t afford speech therapy.” Will stared at his shoes, as if he was reluctant to admit that Emma had done something good.
“That’s nice.” With a millionaire for a brother, Tracy had no need for financial aid, but Emma had wanted to do something. She handed the shoebox to Tracy. “And I kept coming back every week, even when they transferred you to Greenhaven.”
Tracy placed the cardboard
box on the coffee table and lifted the lid. “Oh.” She gave a small smile, picking up one of the tiny dolls. Farmer Carina. Her hair was the same straw blond as Tracy’s.
Emma’s smile had never felt so big. “I brought a different one to the hospital every Sunday.”
Tracy turned accusing eyes on Will. “Why. Keep. This. From—”
“The doctors didn’t want you upset.”
“You. Should. Have—”
Will tossed a hand in Emma’s direction as easily as he’d tossed aside Tracy’s wishes. “If I’d asked you, I’d risk upsetting you.”
“Say. Sorry.”
Listening to Tracy’s struggle to speak, comparing her halting cadence to how she used to speak, magnified Emma’s guilt.
Maybe Will was right. Maybe Tracy did need more therapy before she tried to resume her life in the city. People could be impatient and cruel. They’d judge Tracy’s intelligence by her speech pattern. Tracy would hate it. And Will knew it.
The air in the room thickened with regrets and what-might-have-beens. This was why Will had brought Tracy back to Harmony Valley. Not only to protect her from Emma, but to protect her fragile ego from the rest of the world. The pace here was slower. The people more understanding than those ladder-climbing, backstabbing executives at the ad agency. Emma felt like hugging Will for putting Tracy’s needs above his own.
And then he had to ruin it. “If I say I’m sorry, Emma will know I don’t mean it. I did what I thought was right. And I’d do it again.”
That coldhearted, pigheaded—
“I can’t. Wait. To—”
“To get out of here. Yeah, I know.” There was an undercurrent of sadness in Will’s voice that made it hard to remember he was coldhearted and pigheaded. “Can we have this discussion after your next round of therapy?”
“Will!” Tracy dropped the doll back into the box and bunched her fingers into a fist.
Emma remembered Tracy brimming with emotion and talking a mile a minute. Blurting out joyful observations on life. Blasting her brother when he tried to boss her around. Her speech may have become more deliberate, but the way Tracy poured emotion into her staccato sentences was exactly the same.
Dandelion Wishes Page 8
