Dandelion Wishes. Melinda Curtis
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 this 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.