Summer Kisses. Melinda Curtis
have turned out differently with Harold if he’d had a family member he was willing to confide in, instead of a daughter who considered him an inconvenience.
“Flynn’s too busy to talk now,” Edwin said gruffly. “We’re going on a trip in three months. I’ll talk to him then.”
That seemed a long wait for an old man.
“We used to sit out on the porch every night and talk, weather permitting.” Edwin shook a puffy finger at her. “Traditions are important in this family and in this town. I want traditions to live on. Like celebrating the successes of your neighbors every spring or walking the girl you’re courting home and kissing her good-night on the Harmony River bridge.”
“Did you follow that tradition?” she teased.
The old man had the sweetest blush. She was glad the world and Flynn weren’t losing him just yet. “A good man doesn’t kiss and tell. But I’ll tell you this—I would never replace a good-night kiss on a bridge with a good-night text message or whatever it is young people do nowadays.”
“I used to use Skype with my husband every morning when he was overseas.” Becca’s gaze caught on the picture over the fireplace of a young Edwin and his bride. Edwin wore his army uniform, his chest covered with medals, his stature approachably proud. His wife wore linen and lace, an unusual heart-shaped necklace and a smile Becca recognized—that of a joyous bride on her wedding day.
In his dress blues, Terry had looked just as proud the day they’d married, and Becca just as joyful. They’d taken pictures alone at the base chapel and then more pictures surrounded by Terry’s family and friends.
Edwin noticed her staring at the photo. “Irma died nineteen years ago this July. She was volunteering at the veterans’ hospital in Santa Rosa and had a brain aneurism. They told me she never suffered.”
Suddenly chilly, Becca zipped up her pink hoodie. She knew all too well how quickly love and family could be stolen away.
“Flynn arrived soon after Irma died. If it wasn’t for him, I might not have had the will to go on. I was almost grateful that my daughter, Maggie, thought I could give him a better life.”
Needing a distraction, Becca pointed to a picture of Flynn and a redhead. “Who’s that?”
“Flynn’s half sister, Kathy. They’re my daughter’s children. I took Kathy in a few years after Flynn. She and my great-grandson live in Santa Rose. That’s Truman on the mantle.”
Truman had the ginger coloring of his mother and uncle, but the reserved smile was unexpected for a little boy.
“Becca, you’re going to work for me and move to Harmony Valley permanently,” Edwin proclaimed. “Someday soon we’ll reopen the medical clinic here in town and you can work there. In the meantime, there’s plenty for you to do. All we have around here are old people.”
Becca would be happy with a few weeks of work and an impeccable employment reference.
The phone rang.
Edwin wrested a hand free of the afghan and answered. His face quickly drained of all color. “Thank, God. Keep me updated.” He hung up.
Couch springs creaked as she stood. “What’s wrong?”
“Part of the winery collapsed about half an hour ago.”
“Is...is...” Flynn all right? She couldn’t get the words out, not past the stab of pain in her chest.
She would have thought she’d be unfazed by death after everything she’d been through. But she wasn’t. It slipped in like a knife into a not-quite-healed scar somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
“Everyone is fine, including Flynn.”
Neither one of them spoke for a good minute. Maybe two.
“You should stay,” he said gruffly, staring at the ceiling. “Harmony Valley has everything you’re looking for.”
“Except a job,” she deadpanned, rubbing her hands on her thighs. She still felt shaken.
“Nonsense. I’m hiring you. I can’t wait for Flynn and his background checks. He’ll be busier than ever now with the winery.”
That suited Becca just fine.
* * *
THE HARD MILES prison put on a man were inscribed on Joey Harris more indelibly than the numerous tattoos on his arms. It was apparent in the wrinkles in his sunken cheeks and the way his skin clung to him like a second-hand suit, worn and slightly saggy.
The man who fathered Flynn stood with his hand outstretched.
Flynn felt as if he was falling, jerked back, plunged into memories he’d buried deep enough he should never have been able to find them.
Father’s Day. Eighteen years ago. His dad, looking young, strong and healthy, playing catch with Flynn on the front lawn of their apartment complex. Tall, handsome, those bladed cheekbones he’d given Flynn framing his infectious smile.
Flynn’s dad wasn’t like other dads. Sure, he was gone sometimes. He’d missed Christmas two times in a row. Sure, he had a temper. Flynn had gotten good at hiding behind the couch during his blowups, where everything from hammers to beer bottles might go flying across the room.
But lately his dad had been home every night, lately nothing more than a baseball had flown out of his dad’s hand. He walked Flynn to school and picked him up afterward. His dad knew how to fix things. He was like a magician—starting cars and opening doors without keys. Flynn’s dad was turning out to be the best dad ever.
The sirens were just background noise. The rhythm of the ball snapping into their gloves countered the volume-increasing announcement that the police were in a hurry. There must have been a car accident somewhere. Or a fire. The closer the sirens came, the more distracted Flynn’s father became.
“Dad, come on.” Flynn struck his eight-year-old fist into new, empty leather. Over the past few days, it’d been like Christmas in June. A new bike, a new video game system, new shoes and clothes for Flynn and his sister.
Instead of throwing the ball, his father turned toward the intersection down the block, watching as three patrol cars cut the corner on the wide turn. “Go up to the apartment,” he commanded without turning around.
The first cold tingle of dread prickled in Flynn’s belly. “Dad?”
His father spun, his scowling features a deadly, chalky white. “Go! Now!”
The jagged edge to his voice. The threat of more than a baseball being thrown.
Flynn fled, fighting back tears.
He got as far as the second-story balcony before the black-and-whites squealed to a halt, spilling booted uniforms and guns onto the sidewalk, aiming at his dad as if he were a criminal.
They couldn’t kill him. He was the best dad in the world.
Flynn hadn’t realized he was screaming until his father turned around, his hands high in the air, saying the words Flynn had assumed would be the last he’d ever exchange with him, “Get your butt inside!”
“Do you two know each other?” Dane asked, frowning when Flynn didn’t reciprocate Joey’s handshake.
The sun warmed Flynn’s face, but his insides were making ice cubes. Now he could name the emotion he’d seen on Becca’s face when they first met and he hadn’t immediately hired her. It was the same look he’d seen years ago on Joey’s face. Captured. Cornered. Trapped.
The question was: Why?
Slade stepped between Flynn and Joey, saving the moment that Flynn had no intention of saving.
Awkward? Who cared? The man had left him—no calls, no letters, no postprison visits. He didn’t deserve the title Father.
Joey—Flynn