Dandelion Wishes (10 page)

Emma choked on a lungful of air, so close he could reach out and kiss her. “That’s not true.”

His mouth worked over potential arguments, but his body kept urging him to use his lips in a completely different way.

Clamping his mouth firmly shut, Will took a step back. Then another.

“Ask Rose.” He crossed the street, heading toward Slade’s house, away from the accusations he resented, away from the grin that burned up his insides, away from the attraction that had him wanting something he could never have with Emma.

Her in his arms.

* * *

E
MMA
MARCHED
HOME
under a cloud-spotted sky. The things Will had accused her grandmother and town council of.
Slap-slap, slap-slap.
The way he’d implied Emma took everything he said personally.
Slap-slap-slap.
The way the logic of his argument about emergency services made sense.
Slap-slap.
The way her heart didn’t want to listen.
Slap.

A lone dandelion at the side of the road beckoned. Emma marched determinedly past it.

Will thought dandelion wishes were a waste of time. Will thought dandelion wishes spread weeds into the world. Will thought—

Emma spun around and plucked the dandelion free. She didn’t care what Will thought. She and Tracy had been making dandelion wishes since they were kids.

She turned toward home, stopping in the middle of the bridge over Harmony River. She tried to catch her breath. She tried to be as calm as the water flowing beneath her.

It wasn’t possible. Not even with a dandelion wish at the ready.

What would she wish for?

She could wish that Will would give up on his winery and go away. She could wish that Will would realize that her friendship with Tracy transcended accidents, mental challenges and artistic blocks. Or wish away the pull of Will’s appeal on both an artistic and a physical level. Or wish to erase that near kiss. And the suspicion that Will had wanted to kiss her again as they’d argued on Main Street.

Emma huffed. All her wishes involved Will.

Because Will needed to go away.

She blew the dandelion fluff out over the water.

The seeds twirled and pirouetted in a cluster that dispersed in the air before drifting slowly down to the water. Harmony Valley might change, but dandelion wishes would not.

Emma’s pulse calmed. Her frustration ebbed.

After the last fluff had disappeared downriver, Emma headed home. She let herself in the back door and poured a glass of lemonade, drinking it on the rear porch steps. In her self-appointed role as Harmony Valley’s unofficial protector, she should shadow Will the rest of the afternoon. But that near kiss felt like a dodged bullet, and Emma wasn’t ready to risk another showdown.

She stared at the landscape, wondering what Tracy was doing, wondering if she could go find her and try apologizing again. It was probably too soon. Her attention turned to her surroundings. The lawn sloped gently toward the bending river, framed on one side by the eucalyptus grove and wild blackberries, and on the other by Granny’s vegetable garden. It was the perfect place to paint.

If she had the courage to paint.

Emma sagged against the porch railing. Moping solved nothing. A few minutes later, she’d wrestled the wooden easel downstairs to the lawn. A few minutes more and a canvas sat on the easel. Trying to paint was better than trying to avoid thinking about it.

At least in theory.

Left hand clutching her sketching pencil over the canvas, Emma squinted at the landscape and fought the shakes, fought to quiet the cacophony of the accident.

A cloud drifted across the sun, shading the landscape, sucking the warmth out of the air. Emma’s arms prickled with goose bumps. Her determination wavered.

Maybe she could control her fears if she skipped a step—no sketching, just painting. She squirted oil paint on her wooden painter’s palette, her hands steady as set concrete. She started with big gobs of blue, yellow, red and white, then mixed colors with a brush to get different shades of brown, green, blue and gray. She didn’t usually work with more than one color at a time, but it had been so long since she’d mixed any paint that creating the shades brought a long-lost feeling of joy. But it was a silent joy. There was no musical soundtrack playing in her head. She’d take the silence as long as her talent returned.

It wasn’t until she carefully loaded the tip of a brush with murky green that her hand succumbed to that familiar tremble. With stilted, determined strokes, Emma tried to outline the edge of the river. But it was as if she’d gone back in time. The shrill complaint of braking rubber on pavement. The warning rumble of a big rig engine. She no longer saw the river. Images from the accident flashed before her. Heart stopping. Breath stealing.

Gasping, she stumbled back, blinked away the harrowing memories. All she’d succeeded in doing was to paint a green line that might have passed for a caterpillar if she was in kindergarten. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

She dropped her palette and paintbrush onto the grass, and ran into the house, intending to go up to her room. But at the end of the hall was a picture she’d painted of Yosemite’s Half Dome. The realization hit her that she’d never paint like that again.

Emma walked out the front door, collapsing on the porch swing, listening to red-winged blackbirds chatter to each other in the eucalyptus grove. The only birds she heard in the city were seagulls. And that was a backdrop to angry commuter car horns, chants from irate protesters and the constant chatter of people on cell phones.

Harmony Valley was special just the way it was. And yet, it wasn’t perfect. Emma didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in Will’s arguments. But how could she not? There were too many elderly people living here to have emergency services so far away. What if Granny Rose fell? What if Mr. B. had another heart attack?

And eventually, without any new businesses and no one younger than sixty, the town would die out. Emma didn’t want that, either. But that didn’t mean Harmony Valley had to be torn down and rebuilt with cookie-cutter subdivisions. If the oak tree in the town square came down and the landscape in the valley changed, its character would change.

Maybe Emma would be more open to the town being developed if other things in her life were certain. Granny Rose’s mental health. Tracy’s friendship and forgiveness. Her own ability to follow through on her passion.

Every fear is silly when you say it out loud.

Will’s words. He’d meant that some fears weren’t based in fact. But Emma had seen the world through an artist’s perspective all her life. She’d been so lost behind an artist’s lens that she’d crashed. She was lucky she hadn’t killed Tracy. Who knew that being an artist was such a dangerous profession?

Her glance landed on the coloring book on the patio table. Emma picked it up and opened it to a fresh page, marked by a forest-green crayon.

Emma traced the heavy black lines with the nubby green crayon.

Lightning didn’t strike, but her heart was pounding so fiercely she couldn’t hear the birds anymore.

All Emma had was green. Her hand barely trembled as she started shading the drawings with long, even strokes. Her mind shifted into neutral as she patiently colored within the lines. When she was done her hands were steady, her heart calm.

Emma stared once more at Parish Hill and murmured, “Someday.”

But when she returned her attention to the coloring book, it wasn’t a landscape she sketched in the margin, but her grandmother’s beloved face.

* * *

W
HAT
WAS
WRONG
with Emma?

From behind blackberry bushes near the river, Tracy had tried to psych herself into talking to Emma. She’d watched her start to paint and then throw down her paintbrush in disgust. Emma never gave up on a painting after a few short minutes. And when she’d stomped out to the front porch, Tracy couldn’t squelch her curiosity. She’d stayed hidden in the eucalyptus grove as she rounded the house. Emma wasn’t getting any additional paint supplies. She was sitting in the porch swing, coloring.

Tracy worked her way back around to the blackberry bushes bordering the backyard, but the canvas was facing the house so she couldn’t see what Emma had painted.

When Emma told Tracy that she should wait to move back to the city until she’d had more therapy, Tracy had wanted to run away. She’d wanted Emma to say she’d do whatever Tracy needed, whatever she wanted to make her happy, not treat her like an invalid.

Tracy would die of embarrassment if Emma caught her spying, but she had to find out what was on that canvas. Emma had mentioned some injury and Tracy was curious. Had she broken her fingers or wrist? Was her vision wonky?

Tracy darted out from the cover of the blackberry bushes. It took her ten seconds to get to the easel. Her breath came in labored gasps and her leg muscles shook as if they’d give out at any moment.

And there was Emma’s latest masterpiece. A green worm.

No wonder Emma was upset. It looked like a finger painting. Tracy had made better pictures than that in therapy.

She picked up the brush—it still had green on it—and painted antennae on the worm. And then wings. Lifting the palette, she dabbed white polka dots on the creature. She filled in the blue sky, plastered the bottom of the canvas with black. Finally there was no blank bit of canvas left.

Power surged through her veins. She’d done something without permission and now felt like she could take on the world. And all because she’d painted a picture on a canvas. Wait until Emma found out.

Tracy grinned, admiring her work once more. And then terror struck.

Oh, dear God. Emma was going to come out here and discover what she’d done. She could be watching her right now.

Tracy spun around, her nervous gaze darting to the windows and doors, but no one came out.

How would she explain this? Will would think she needed to see a psychiatrist, or at the least that she missed the rudimentary arts and crafts at Evergreen. He meant well, but he thought a mosquito bite meant she’d contract the West Nile virus.

What was she going to do? She didn’t want anyone to know. Not Will or Emma. She didn’t want to be sent back to the hospital.

She dropped the palette and brush on the grass, grabbed the canvas and ran.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“W
HAT
’
S
UP
,
W
ILL
?” Slade stepped out of his kitchen onto the back porch, looking like he’d been in earnest negotiations and had lost. Black hair bunched to one side as if fisted in frustration; tie knot loose, the ends flapping in the breeze. “You don’t even like basketball.”

In the middle of trying to make a layup into the rusted hoop bolted above Slade’s detached garage, Will didn’t bother answering. Emma was his problem, not Slade’s.

The ball bounced off the rim and into the grass separating Slade’s driveway from Old Man Takata’s. When Slade hadn’t answered the door, Will had needed something to wear down the sharp edge of frustration.

“I heard you knock,” Slade continued. “But I was on the landline with my divorce lawyer. This lack of cell service is starting to get old. I may have to purchase my own communications tower and put it in the backyard.”

Will picked up the ball and gestured toward the house. “I was beginning to think you had a woman in there.”

Slade came down the steps and held out his hands, asking for the ball. “A woman? No woman is coming inside this house ever again. Do you know what the bridge club calls this place?”

“No.” Will passed the basketball to him.

“The Death and Divorce house. No family has lived here untouched. The idea of a woman in there makes me cringe.” Slade dribbled twice on the cracking pavement and then put up a beautiful, arcing shot that went through the orange metal hoop without touching it. And Slade did it in khakis, dress shirt and a tie, with a grin that dismissed his earlier annoyance with his ex-wife’s legal maneuvering. “Correction. The idea of
anyone
in that house makes me cringe.”

Will rebounded the shot, refusing to be envious of Slade’s skill. “If it bothers you that much, you can sleep on the top bunk at my house. My dad wants to keep the bunk bed for his grandchildren.” Not that he had any grandchildren on the horizon.

“I’ll survive.”

And that was the problem with Slade. He was all about survival. It would have creeped Will out to sleep down the hall from the room where his father committed suicide. Not that he would have chosen the bunk bed, either. A man had to have some pride. Will dribbled toward the basket, intending to try for another layup.

Slade intercepted him, blocking his path, forcing Will to transition to a pull-up jump shot that Slade easily swatted away.

“Denied!” Slade ran down the ball. “If you would’ve spent more time when you lived here shooting hoops than on your computer—”

“We wouldn’t be rich.”

“I hate it when you’re right.” Slade put up another fifteen footer, which would have swished if the hoop had a net.

Will bit back a curse. He’d always been the last kid picked on a team—he loved sports, but he sucked at them. He let the ball bounce to the grass on the side of the driveway. “Come on. We need to meet up with Flynn at El Rosal. Wouldn’t want to miss drinks with Mayor Larry.”

When they reached the town square, Flynn paced beneath the oak tree, settling and resettling his Giants cap on his head.

“I don’t know how your visits went, but I was accused of being a little upstart, a disgrace to Harmony Valley and an unprincipled child.” Flynn ticked off his negative attributes on his fingers. “I feel like I should be twisting my villainous mustache.”

Slade patted Flynn on the back. “I’m no better than Donald Trump.”

“I don’t respect the free will of others and I can’t see the heart in this town,” Will added. “People think I’m a control freak.”

“Sorry, dude.” Slade couldn’t quite contain a grin. “That last one I can’t argue with.”

“Me, either.” Flynn’s grin didn’t sting like Emma’s had. “But let me tell you. When I’m old, I’m coming up with more colorful put-downs.” He opened the door to El Rosal. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Grandpa Ed talked a television reporter into coming by this week to interview you.” Flynn pointed at Will.

“Me? Why not you or Slade?”

“He said you’re the most photogenic. Pretty boy.” Flynn grinned.

They entered El Rosal. The small Mexican restaurant was the only sit-down option in town, the only takeout option in town and the only bar in town. The chairs and tables were painted bright primary colors. Mexican pop poured out of the speakers, while baseball played on a television screen over the bar. About fifteen residents had come in for dinner, a drink or company.

Larry sat at the corner of the bar, where he could see and talk to anyone in the restaurant—the tie-dye king lording over his subjects. In his sixties, Larry was among the younger residents of Harmony Valley, tall with a lanky body kept toned by his vegetarianism and love of yoga. But the lack of body fat gave away every emotion in his bony face.

Flynn paused on the threshold. “Ten bucks says Mayor Larry started a tab for us.”

Slade ran a hand through his hair. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Will said.

Mayor Larry was well-off, having married into wealth the second time around. He could afford to pay for a round of drinks.

Larry caught sight of them and waved. “Well, hullo, boys! Juan, get these boys a beer.” The mayor slapped Flynn on the back when he took the stool next to him. “I started a tab for you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Flynn held out his hand toward Will.

Who dug in his wallet for a ten.

Will’s dad sat at a table in the corner alone. His faded blue-flannel shirt made his thin blond hair look nearly gray. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he called to Will.

“Can it wait? We have a meeting.”

“It can’t wait. Sit.” Ben pulled out the royal blue chair next to him. He was nursing a bottle of beer and working his way through a basket of tortilla chips. “I saw you with Emma today. It looked like you were arguing.”

It could have been worse. He could have been caught kissing Emma. If that were the case, he imagined his father would be prepping an entirely different conversation.

“For Tracy’s sake, you’ve got to work things out with Emma.” His dad tapped the table with a forefinger. “Accidents happen, usually because of a combination of coincidence and bad luck, topped with a dose of poor judgment. The important thing to remember is that the crash was an accident. If you don’t move on from it, it can control your life.”

“Do you know how hard it is to stay strong for Tracy? Blaming Emma...” Will looked away, toward the ball game. “Blaming Emma gives me strength.” What would happen to that strength if he forgave Emma? If he kissed her? If he—

“Your sister is home now. She’s doing well. Let this thing with Emma go.”

How could he forgive Emma? “Did you forgive Harmony Valley Grain after Mom’s death? Would you have been able to sell them your corn if they hadn’t closed down?”

“Thankfully, I didn’t have to make that decision,” Ben said, staring out the window toward the old grain silo. “Forgiveness takes more energy than anger ever could. Someday the anger’s going to go away and you’ll be left with nothing. And then you’ll be wondering where the time went. I hope you realize that before it’s too late.” And then he stood up and left.

Will sat very still. The clank of dishes, the jumbled chorus of voices, the roar of the televised crowd at the baseball game after a hit all closed in around him, shrouding him in an uneasy bitterness he didn’t want to let go of.

Will felt small and petty, like a boy holding on to a grudge for a school-yard slight. Causing his sister injuries that could last a lifetime wasn’t inconsequential. Emma was to blame. She’d admitted it.

Why did he have to forgive her?

How could he ever forgive her?

* * *

E
MMA
WAS
STILL
doodling in the coloring book when Agnes’s faded green Buick pulled into the drive.

The three councilwomen got out of the car with the slow deliberation of the elderly. Emma could remember a time when they had practically danced out of the vehicle and up the stairs, ribbing each other good-naturedly and singing snatches of show tunes.

“How was the botanical garden?” Emma hurried down to help Mildred.

Granny Rose popped her head up from the backseat. “We saw the most beautiful
Rhododendron occidentale
. It was pink with darker pink striations that you would have loved. So delicate. So vibrant. I wish you’d stretch yourself and paint flowers.”

At this point, Emma would be happy to complete a paint-by-number project.

“Took us forever to see everything. What’s that old saying?” Mildred’s usual round, warm smile was noticeably absent. She looked worn-out as she hefted her briefcase-size purse onto her shoulder. “You’re only as fast as your slowest team member? I’m always holding up the show.”

“You’re not.” Agnes, who stood five feet tall on a good day, wrestled Mildred’s candy-apple-red walker out of the trunk, snapped it out and wheeled it over to her friend.

“We brought home a bucket of chicken, mashed potatoes and biscuits. None of us felt like cooking.” Granny Rose walked by, arms full of food containers. “I had the most marvelous nap in the car. I never nap, but I do feel gloriously refreshed.” She paused at the front door, taking in the porch swing and the coloring book on the cushion. She turned to Emma with a look that questioned.

Emma shrugged, too self-conscious and unsure of what her crayon doodles of her grandmother’s face meant to say anything.

Granny Rose grinned and went inside.

“I miss driving,” Mildred said. “Sometimes I feel like I should ride in the trunk with my walker.”

“You’re not baggage,” Agnes scolded, and then for Emma’s benefit added, “She’s been feeling sorry for herself since her daughter and grandkids moved down to Healdsburg. She can’t drive anymore and they can’t come see her every weekend.”

“I can too drive.” Mildred lumbered over to the steps. She set the walker aside and gripped the handrail.

“You can’t see the road. For the safety of others, you’ve chosen not to drive.” Agnes gestured for Emma to carry the walker up while she climbed behind Mildred, her hand at her back to steady her if needed.

“Well, I can choose to drive again, can’t I? I still have my license.”

“It expires in three months. That’s one less thing you need to tote around in that luggage-size purse of yours. You’ve got everything but the kitchen sink in there.”

“I like to be prepared,” Mildred grumbled.

“Oh, you are. I went searching in her bag for breath mints today,” Agnes told Emma. “Do you know what I found?”

Emma shook her head.

Mildred stopped climbing. “Not this again.”

“A wrench!” Agnes crowed.

Mildred’s round cheeks brightened with color. “You never know when you’ll need to tighten a loose bolt.”

“That’s for sure.” Agnes winked at Emma.

Once they’d helped Mildred up the steps, she wheeled herself into the dining room with all the agility of the race-car driver she’d once been.

Emma went to the kitchen to help Granny Rose, sparing a moment between gathering napkins and utensils to look out the back window. She stopped digging in the silverware drawer for forks. “Granny, did you bring in the canvas I was working on?” She’d die of embarrassment if she had.

“No, dear. I thought it was odd that you’d left your easel and paints out there. But sometimes you get distracted and scatter your things around.”

“I’m not thirteen. And a twenty-by-twenty-four-inch canvas is missing. It’s too heavy to have been blown away in the wind.”

“You can look for it after dinner. Come sit down.”

“Yes, let’s eat.” Mildred had taken a seat at the table. “I’ve got bingo tonight with Will. He’s been driving me ever since he came back to town. Poor boy has no luck.”

“Really?” Canvas forgotten, Emma set the table with knives, forks and napkins. “Do you think he’ll bring Tracy?”

“I don’t know,” Mildred said. “Do you want me to call and ask?”

“No, thanks.” Emma tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I’ll call later.”

Granny Rose met Emma’s questioning glance with a nod of agreement. It looked like they were going to play bingo tonight.

After they’d all dished out plates and started to eat, Emma asked, “When was Harmony Valley’s economy based on marijuana?”

The grandfather clock ticked several long seconds in the silence.

The elderly trio passed around indecipherable glances that had Emma’s heart sinking. They put their chicken back on their plates and meticulously wiped their fingers.

“Emma,” Agnes began, ever the group’s spokesperson. “It’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?”

“Because we can see the condemnation in your eyes,” Granny Rose said gently.

“I’ll reserve judgment if you tell me the truth.” Uncertainty fluttered restlessly in her stomach. How would Emma know if they told her the truth? She only knew what she wanted to hear—that Will was wrong.

“It happened in 1970,” Mildred said softly. “Long before you were born.”

“We were protesting the war.” Agnes took up the story. “People of all ages came from various states to join the student protests in San Francisco. When it was over, a lot of people didn’t have the means to return home.”

“And a couple were on the lam,” Mildred cut in.

Rose and Agnes shushed her.

Agnes cleared her throat. “Civil disobedience is a trivial charge. Anyway, we brought some people home with us. After all, Harmony Valley has always been a place that gives shelter to the world-weary. And our weary camped out on Parish Hill.”

The fluttering in Emma’s stomach eased. Their story sounded plausible. “Larry was with them?” Mayor Larry was the town’s most ardent love child.

“Yes. The town loved Larry and his friends. They brought a young, refreshing culture.” Granny Rose’s face glowed with pride, as if she was responsible for expanding the valley’s cultural base. “Larry and Delilah knit sweaters and tie-dyed T-shirts. Others sang and played music in the town square.”

“They baked the most delicious brownies,” Mildred added sweetly.