.
hand back and forth over his thinning blond-gray hair. “I was wrong to let you shut Emma out. I was afraid of losing Tracy. But now—”
“There’s only one choice here, Dad.” There would be no repeat mistakes. No playing with fire. “Aren’t you even the least bit angry at Emma for what’s happened to Tracy?”
“Of course I’m angry. It isn’t fair, what Tracy’s going through. But those girls have been friends since they were toddlers.” His father leaned against the sink, watching Will sit at the head of the kitchen table. “Where one went, the other followed. And oftentimes, they followed you.”
“Tracy’s not following Emma anymore.” The first thing Will had done upon learning the details of the accident was ban Emma from the hospital. The road had been clear, the day sunny, Tracy dozing in the passenger seat. There were no drugs or alcohol in Emma’s system. She hadn’t been on the phone or texting. And yet, Emma had crashed the car. She was to blame, the same as he knew Harmony Valley Grain was at fault for his mother’s death. “Emma’s too much like her grandmother. Too irresponsible.”
“I like Rose. Nobody can say that old girl doesn’t live life to the fullest. Tracy and Emma have always done the same.” Ben arched faded eyebrows. “Maybe you ought to try it.”
“Yes, because look where it got Tracy. Responsibility comes before fun.” That was how Will had become a millionaire so quickly. And now he was determined to help revitalize his hometown before he increased his fortune further. If only Rose could be made to see that change wasn’t a four-letter word. “Rose may be on the town council, but she doesn’t understand her responsibilities. She won’t even consider our proposal to rezone the Henderson property for a winery.”
“Sometimes it takes more subtlety than a hammer, son. You and your friends tried to ram change on Rose like an unexpected enema.”
That was an image Will didn’t want to contemplate. “Two members of the town council asked us to develop a business and jump-start the local economy. They should have told Rose they wanted to bring some life to this town. How is this my fault?”
Will, Flynn Harris and Slade Jennings had struck gold a few months ago when they’d sold their popular farming app for millions. They’d returned to their childhood home to decompress before coming up with their next big idea. But life in the one-gas-station town moved slower than the Harmony River. If cell-phone service was spotty, internet connections were an urban myth. The population was almost solely comprised of retirees who lacked skill and comfort with technology. Withdrawal from work and the world left Will and his friends sleepless, jittery and irritable. And most concerning? They hadn’t come up with a new app idea.
The winery was a solution to everything—their burnout and boredom, the town’s nearly nonexistent economy and Will’s dilemma about a way to protect Tracy in case her brain damage was permanent.
“I don’t see why you can’t take over here and make a living being a real farmer. Generations of our people have worked this land. You should be proud of your roots.”
“Dad, for the hundredth time, I don’t want to be a farmer.” Will lived for the chaos of programming and development. He thrived on long days and longer nights challenging his brain to wrestle down code that would accomplish the impossible. Will, Flynn and Slade had spent five years living their work, programming and troubleshooting, working out of a crappy apartment in San Jose as they scraped by on the most pitiful amount of venture capitalist funding on record.
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.