And that guilt had kept her from painting.
Emma stood in front of the easel she’d hauled back up to her room and frowned at the blank canvas. She’d never found the one with the ugly green caterpillar. Fairies? Thieves? Pranksters? Nothing was going as it should. Not with Tracy, not with her art or the town. And her truce with Will? It had gotten her nowhere. Emma could no longer afford to be patient, sitting around and waiting. She had to be the agent of change.
She rifled through her paint-supply box until she found a pencil with a sharpened tip. This week, she’d colored and sketched her grandmother’s face in crayon. Surely, she could sketch a landscape with pencil.
Emma tried a pine tree first, but as soon as she started, the truck’s diesel engine roared to life, making her hands tremble. She might as well have drawn a triangle with a trunk. The so-called tree had no life. No energy.
Emma sighed. She picked up a crayon in her supply box. Burnt umber.
Her grandmother’s face came to mind. Indignant. Sly. Gleeful.
Emma started to sketch with crayon. She filled the canvas with different versions of her grandmother’s expressive face, capturing her myriad emotions.
“Granny Rose!” Emma cried out when she realized what she’d done. Here was something new, something fresh. Delight sprinted through her veins. “Granny Rose, come see!”
Her grandmother didn’t answer.
A wave of uncertainty had Emma running downstairs.
Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Maybe—
Her calls to her grandmother grew softer as she hurried down the first-floor hallway. She peeked into Granny Rose’s bedroom. The book she’d been reading rested on the chair. The antique four-poster bed was neatly made. Granny Rose’s work boots weren’t lined up by the closet.
Emma spun around and headed for the kitchen.
“Granny Rose?” Her words echoed in the empty kitchen, fell into silence in the living room, were carried off by the wind when Emma stepped out on the porch.
Emma called Agnes and told her Granny Rose was missing. “Was she calm when you left her after the ball game?” She’d been peaceful when Emma came home.
“For Rose, lately, she was calm.... Almost too calm.”
I can’t stand by and let this happen.
Emma recalled the way her grandmother had looked at the oak tree after the Lions Club meeting. “She promised not to make trouble while I was bowling.” And she hadn’t. She’d waited until Emma was home and lost in the creative process.
Guilt stabbed at her, so sharp she wanted to double over. “This is my fault—”
“Now, Emma, don’t—”
“I’ve got to find her.” Worst-case scenarios flipped through her head—heart attack, broken hip, drowning. She would not imagine Granny as a vigilante, going for a direct assault at Will and his friends.
“I’ll call around and see if anyone else has seen her,” Agnes offered. “Don’t worry. Rose is passionate, but she’s not foolish.”
Emma hoped her grandmother’s friend was right.
* * *
HAVING STOPPED FOR pizza after bowling, Will and Tracy were just walking through the door as their dad was heading out.
“Rose is missing,” Ben said.
Will didn’t hesitate. “I’ll help.” If Rose was upset, it was most likely his fault. He turned around and followed Ben out into the darkness. They could complete a preliminary search through town quicker than the time it would take for the sheriff to arrive. “Where was she last seen?”
“Emma talked to her when she came home. When she checked on Rose later, she was gone. Something’s been off with Rose lately.” There was no mistaking the disappointment in Ben’s gaze when it connected with Will’s. “Don’t have to tell you that. Heard you want to sell out the town.”
Ouch. His own father doubted him. “Not now, Dad. We’ll talk after we find Rose.”
“I’m coming. Too.” Tracy shut the door behind her and ran to Will’s truck.
* * *
“GRANNY ROSE!” EMMA called, crossing the bridge into town. She wrapped the ends of her thin sweater tighter around her and tried to ignore the vise of worry clamped around her chest that made it hard to breathe.
The sun had long since gone down. Although they were miles from the ocean, a cool breeze rode through the valley, chilling the air. And it would only get colder as the night progressed.
This was all her fault. She shouldn’t have tried sketching. This was why she could no longer be an artist. Car accidents. Missing grandmothers. No one was safe in Emma’s care.
Her throat closed.
Wanting a child, a family. Those were dreams she had no right to.
Emma hurried across the bridge, hesitating at the crossroads on the other side. She could continue along Washington Street toward Edwin’s house or head for the town square.
I can’t stand by and let this happen.
The oak tree. Granny Rose had to be at the oak tree. Emma ran toward the square and was rewarded by the sound of a thin, warbly voice improvising a song.
“Granny Rose!” Emma ran around the corner of El Rosal and into the square.
Her grandmother sat on the wrought-iron bench beneath the oak tree, wearing a light blue windbreaker. She stopped singing when she saw Emma approach.
“What are you doing?” Emma called to her again just as a truck pulled into the opposite side of the square and parked.
Her grandmother looked confused. “I’m protesting.”
“But it’s the middle of the night.”
“But someone’s here.” Her voice sounded thin, yet hopeful. “Maybe it’s a camera crew.”
“Please, it’s time to go home.” Emma knelt at her grandmother’s feet and took her hand.
“I can’t.” Granny stared expectantly at the figures approaching. “Oh, it’s him.” She slumped back on the bench.
Will and Tracy emerged from the shadows on the far side of the square.
All Emma’s hopes of saving her grandmother’s reputation evaporated.
“It’s okay,” Emma called to them, trying to sound calm. “We’re heading home.”
“We’ll drive you.” Will’s deep, kind voice shouldn’t have made Emma want to sob with relief.
“Thank you. No need. We can walk home from here.” Emma stood.
“Get rid of them,” Granny Rose whispered. “I can’t go home yet.”
“What do you mean?” Emma whispered back, gently tugging on Granny’s hand. “Protest over. Come on.”
Her grandmother sighed. “I handcuffed myself to this bench and threw the key over there.” She shook her right wrist. Something metal rattled. “Or did I throw it behind me?”
The air rushed out of Emma’s lungs and she sank to her knees again.
Will and Tracy had been close enough to hear Granny Rose’s predicament. “Tracy, run down the block to Slade’s house,” Will said. “Tell him we need a couple flashlights and a hacksaw or some bolt cutters.” He could have been instructing his sister to run next door to borrow a cup of sugar. Tracy ran off, her footsteps a soft, steady pad on the grass.
“Young man, I will stay here until the populace of Harmony Valley realizes your winery is all part of a bigger plot to increase your bank account.” Granny Rose’s tone belied her predicament.
“You’re more likely to find villains in one of your musicals than you are among me and my friends,” Will said. “You can suspect me of schemes and treachery, Rose, but I assure you, this winery is important to me in the long-term. I won’t sell.”
Granny Rose huffed in scorn.
“If he says he won’t sell, he’ll do everything in his power not to sell,” Emma said. Will had always been true to his word, whether he was promising T
racy’s dad he’d watch over them or committing to work with them at a soup kitchen.
“I see how this is.” Granny Rose sniffed. “You’ve convinced Emma to support your plan instead of me.”
Will gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Granny Rose, I love you. But even you have to admit the town needs emergency services. What would happen to Mr. B. if he had another heart attack? What if Mildred fell? I don’t care if it’s a winery that brings those things back or a new grain mill. I want everyone here to be safe.”
Granny Rose snorted.
The cold from the ground was seeping through Emma’s jeans. She perched on the metal bench next to her grandmother. The longer they sat in silence, the more Emma thought about the danger her grandmother had put herself in. “I could have gone to bed,” she said, anger percolating in her veins. “You would have been out here all night. Freezing.”
“It’s not that cold,” Granny Rose said stubbornly.
“It’s cold enough,” Emma said. “Where did you get those handcuffs?”
Granny lifted her nose in the air. “Every woman should own a pair of handcuffs.”
Will laughed, his gaze seeking Emma’s, sending heat creeping into her cheeks. “I’m glad I’ve had this chance to get to know you better, Rose.”
“You mean before I die and you bulldoze Harmony Valley?”
“No, because you’ve given new meaning to the phrase hot spot. If we do build one here, I’m going to have them weld your handcuffs above the door, just like they do with horseshoes. For luck.”
Granny turned away from them. “Now you’re trying to embarrass me.”
Emma was the one who was embarrassed. “With good cause. You can’t handcuff yourself around town, even if you are trying to save an old tree.”
“My Rupert proposed to me right here. He dropped to one knee.” Granny Rose’s voice drifted dreamily. “He was so handsome and we were so in love. How could anybody chop down our tree?”
Emma reached out for Will’s hand and spoke softly. “Don’t get rid of her tree. Please.”
He didn’t answer, but when Emma would have released Will’s hand, he held on to hers.
She tried to remind herself that Will was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. Still, she drew his hand closer and rested her forehead on the back of it. She just needed to borrow his strength.
After a moment, Will said, “Rose, did you ever race anyone up Parish Hill? Rupert, perhaps?”
Her grandmother didn’t turn. “Why ever would I do that?”
“Pity.” Will squeezed Emma’s hand lightly. “You probably would have won by force of will alone.”
Emma laughed, grateful that Will had been the one who’d found them. She reclaimed her hand when Tracy’s light footsteps announced her return.
“He’s. Coming.” Tracy hunched over, hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath.
“Thanks,” Emma said.
“Any. Time.”
“Let’s hope I’m never in this situation again.” Emma glanced up at Will and then looked at Tracy. “It’s probably not the best time to ask, but I’m going to anyway. Would you like to go shopping tomorrow?”
“May-be,” Tracy struggled with the word.
Maybe was better than no.
* * *
THE ONLY GOOD thing about Tracy’s doctor not allowing her to drive was that she could get out of cars quicker and be in her bedroom before Will or her dad came through the front door.
She hopped out of Will’s truck as soon as he stopped in the driveway. Once inside her room, she locked the door behind her.
Black walls greeted her. Tracy had found several gallons of paint in the barn. Black primer. White. Beige. She’d used up all the black on the walls and ceiling of her small room. Her bed was an island in the midst of her own version of art therapy.
Painting helped her sort things out. She may only be finding zen through painting walls, but still, she could finally see why Emma loved working with paints so much. And right now, things needed sorting.
What had happened to Will hating Emma? He was such a hypocrite. He’d kept Tracy away from her friend all this time and now he was being nice to her? He couldn’t have forgiven Emma for the accident. He would have told Tracy.
And Emma? Rose had clearly tipped her rocker too far backward. The dear woman’s out-of-character behavior had to be tough on Emma. Tracy wished she could talk to her about it but, of course, she couldn’t hold a decent conversation with anyone.
She bunched up her pink chenille bathrobe and shoved it along the crack at the bottom of the door to prevent paint fumes from drifting into the hallway. Heaven forbid Will found out what she was doing. He’d think she’d lost her mind.
“Good night, Tracy.” Will’s footsteps sounded farther down the hall.
Tracy opened her window, letting in a brisk breeze that did nothing to cool the heated frustration that built inside her. The more time she spent with people who talked easily, the higher her frustration level. She needed an outlet.
And then she began to paint, white over black. White clouds. A white sun. A white picket fence. Nothing as detailed and true to life as Emma would have done. But it didn’t matter. Tracy worked at a pace that had her breathing heavily and sweating. She painted until long after midnight, long after she heard anyone moving about the house. She painted until her arm ached and there wasn’t any more white paint left in the can.
She stood in the midst of chaos and anger. But it was chaos and anger of her making. A feeling of joy spread through her chest.
She wasn’t in control outside her bedroom. But here, she was queen and master of all things. No one completed her sentences in her room. No one treated her like an invalid. Here she felt like she had before the accident—in charge of her own destiny.
She didn’t want to think about how small her world had become.
She’d take things one day at a time.
Tomorrow, she’d have to get more paint.
Fire-engine red would do nicely.
Paint smudged, exhausted and smiling, Tracy crawled into bed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WILL WAS WAITING for her.
The realization made Emma pedal faster.
He was stretching, getting ready for their race up Parish Hill. But he spotted Emma the moment she crossed the bridge into view. He’d tossed out a challenge last night at the bowling alley and again when they’d rescued Granny Rose. She hadn’t planned on showing up, preferring to stay with her grandmother. But Agnes had appeared early to have coffee with Granny, who was lucid once more and planning her daily rehearsal of The Music Man.
And somehow, this prickly friendship she and Will had developed was helping to soothe the hurt between her and Tracy. Emma wasn’t going to examine her feelings more closely because this was as far as their friendship went—bowling challenges and races up Parish Hill.
Ahead, the fog hovered low above him, like a canopy, and clung to the ground in wispy tendrils at his ankles. Beads of water dotted his blond hair like a crown. The morning was gray. And still he managed to look bright, shiny, glowing.
When she got closer, Will grinned and spun around, heading toward Parish Hill.
Emma pumped the pedals. Soon she was inching past him up the first switchback.
“Careful of those gears.” His voice was deep, but on the verge of breathlessness.
She didn’t waste words. She didn’t dwell on those places inside her that sparked when he spoke. She concentrated all her being into pedaling, all her focus into staying on the bike. There would be no changing gears today. She’d stay in the same one all the way.
Second hill. Third. Emma pulled away. Her lungs strained. Her legs threatened to drop off. This ranked among one of the stupidest things she’d ever do
ne. She’d made a tactical error. He’d outmaneuvered her. Emma was out in front and he was a full switchback below her. If she collapsed or quit first, all Will had to do was take a few steps farther and he’d win.
She needed a distraction. The bright orange of a poppy petal. The rich brown of the earth. The glint of sunshine off a blue jay’s wing.
The growl of a motor filled her ears. Tires squealed.
Gripping her handlebars, Emma flashed back to the accident, but the sounds were different, higher pitched, farther away. This wasn’t a memory induced by her mentally composing a painting.
Emma yelled a warning.
More rubber protested on pavement.
A car was coming fast. Too fast.
And then a vintage blue Volkswagen Beetle exploded around the corner above her, swinging wide, right at Emma.
Ice filled her limbs, her lungs, her veins.
Time slowed.
The car drifted. Tires screeched on a trajectory of death.
Emma’s.
She jerked the handlebars and pumped the pedals. Her front tire bounced off the pavement at the same time the car’s rear fender clipped the bike’s sprockets, whipping her off the road.
Airborne, she felt the wind rush over her, muting the sound of the rampaging car.
Emma plummeted through the air toward the steep slope and tumbled to earth with a breath-stealing thud. She rolled and tumbled. The world spun in a kaleidoscope of color. She ate dirt. Banged against rocks and branches and all sorts of hard things that hurt and promised to hurt worse later. She’d never stop rolling. She’d never—
If she didn’t stop, she’d slide across the next switchback and into the path of the car.
Panic gave her jellied limbs strength. Emma flung her arms and legs into a big X and flopped onto her back, hoping she’d stretch wide enough to snag something.
Her foot hooked on a tree root with a jolt of pain and she spun to an ankle-twisting halt. Realized she was screaming. Stopped. Gasped for air. Registered the sound and smell of burning rubber. Remembered Will was somewhere on the road below.
Dandelion Wishes Page 15
