Dandelion Wishes (18 page)

“Where’s Tracy?” Will asked.

“Where else? In her room.”

“What’s she decided about being the Grand Marshal?” He wasn’t going to force her to do it, as if he could force her to do anything, but it would help ease his mind about the winery if she accepted. Will knocked on Tracy’s bedroom door. “Tracy, can I come in?”

“She’s been in there for hours,” Ben said from the living room.

Tracy didn’t answer when he knocked and called for her again. Worry tightened the knots in Will’s stomach and respect for privacy flew out the window. He retrieved the L-shaped master key from above the bathroom door frame and unlocked Tracy’s bedroom door.

The fact that he had to shoulder the door open didn’t calm him. She’d shoved a pile of clothes against it.

“What the...?” Will froze.

Tracy had her back to him. Earphones blared music he could hear ten feet away, explaining why she hadn’t answered his knock. She was painting a dandelion the size of her head on the wall in the corner. Her window was flung open and her furniture was shoved in the middle of the room. A mosaic of paint spills created a trail around the perimeter, ruining the carpet.

Tracy had painted everything—from the walls to the ceiling—in black, then added neon color—oversize blades of grass, a red barn with out-of-proportion doors hanging askew, cows with pink spots in a field. Her enthusiasm for painting far outmatched her skill.

Ben appeared at his shoulder. “So this is what she’s been doing with all that paint.”

“We should call someone, shouldn’t we? Her doctor? Her therapist?” Will stepped farther into the room, trying to put his feet on firm ground instead of clumps of paint-encrusted carpet.

What kind of person hid this kind of activity? Had she lost her grip on reality? Or was this Tracy’s way of coping? She’d been better since she’d locked herself away.

Perhaps sensing she was no longer alone, Tracy turned, her face a textbook illustration of happiness—easy smile, rosy cheeks, relaxed gaze. All that changed at the sight of them. Her mouth pinched downward. Her face paled. Her eyes narrowed. “Get out!”

“Tracy, we need to talk.” What did this mean? Was this compulsion of hers another negative side effect of her injury?

“Get out!” Tracy’s shriek was laced with pain. Her eyes darted everywhere, her expression reminiscent of Rose’s at the town council meeting.

Will had new respect for what Emma was going through.

His father tugged Will’s arm. “Let’s regroup in the kitchen. Tracy, that means you, too.”

Tracy stomped out after them, breathing in ragged gasps that threatened to morph into sobs the likes of which Will hadn’t seen since Carl Quedoba had dumped her in high school.

The family took up their customary defense positions—Will in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, Ben leaning on the counter by the sink, Tracy short pacing in front of the refrigerator. There was a moment or two of preargument silence as they each played out scenarios in their heads.

“Honey,” Ben began. “About the paint—”

“Explain it to us.” Will extended his arms. “Explain why you felt the need to hide what you were doing from us.”

“I knew...
you...
wouldn’t. Understand.” She nailed Will with a glare so laser-like intense he felt he might disintegrate. Her paint-stained hands fisted like a boxer’s, ready for a fight.

“I’m trying to.”

Tracy jabbed the air in his direction. “You. Do not. Own me.”

“I’m trying to build a winery so you’ll have a job and a life here.”

“Don’t do. Me any. Favors.”

“I only want you to be safe. And happy.” But it was clear now that he was smothering her. Emma was right. He charged in and plowed the field the way he saw it, without consideration for the feelings of others—Rose, Tracy, even Emma.

Arms up in surrender, Ben stepped between them. “Can I get a word in here? After all, I am your father and this is my house.” He spared a glance at the family portrait above the fireplace, as if silently asking his wife for help.

Will had lost his mother without warning. After almost losing Tracy, he wouldn’t surrender her to some problem they hadn’t seen coming without a fight.

Crossing her arms over her too-thin chest, Tracy backed up until she was leaning against the sink. Will held his position, held himself so still he almost wasn’t breathing. When had things fallen apart? And why hadn’t he realized it sooner?

Ben washed his hands over his face. “First off, Tracy, that’s your room. I don’t care what you do in there as long as you don’t burn the place down.”

“Dad.” Tracy nearly bowled him over with a hug. “Oh, Dad.”

“However, that doesn’t mean you don’t have some explaining to do, young lady.” Ben released his daughter. “We care about you. We’ve sat at your hospital bedside and made decisions that we thought were best for you until you were at a point where you were capable of making them yourself.” Ben looked at his son. “Now, Will... He likes to set boundaries and throw money at the problem.”

Will had heard enough of his faults recently not to argue. That didn’t mean his father’s opinion didn’t sting.

Ben’s gaze drifted back to Tracy. “If you agree, I’m sure he’ll pick another fancy rehab hospital for you to go to.”

Eyes suddenly brimming with tears, Tracy shook her head vehemently.

Will’s throat thickened until his voice sounded rusty. “She’s not going to another facility. She’s fine right here.”

Tracy’s mouth began to form a battle cry, making Will quickly amend his statement. “If she wants to stay.”

Ben stroked Tracy’s short blond curls twice before letting his hand fall to her shoulder. “I’m a believer in giving people a chance to work through the bad stuff in their own way. And lately, you seem to be doing better. Is it because of the painting?”

Tracy hesitated a moment before nodding.

“You hated painting in the hospital,” Will pointed out.

She tossed her hands in the air. “They tell. Me to. Paint. E-emotions. So stupid.”

Will wasn’t sure he understood the difference with what she was doing in her room, but if it made Tracy happy...

“They told you to paint out anger.” Ben watched Tracy closely. “You plopped a big red glob of paint on the paper and went back to your room.”

“I was. Angry.”

Will chuckled. “You got Mom’s temper.”

“As if you didn’t,” Ben teased.

“The painting makes you feel better?” Will asked.

“Yes. I control what. I paint.”

Control was something Will understood. “Well, then, let’s make sure you have a good supply of paint.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

E
MMA
HAD
SPENT
far too long thinking about Will’s kiss last night to dwell on it this morning. She had better things to do.

Like stare at the bare, thirty-foot trailer Felix had delivered twenty minutes ago.

Not one of the men making up the three winery musketeers had shown up for its delivery. Had they decided to give up after all and not told her?

There was nothing to do but stand around, listen to some overly happy birds twitter and look at the scenery—neat rows of grapevines and an unobstructed view of Parish Hill. Emma wasn’t looking at the scenery and subsequently putting herself through another panic attack while she passed the time waiting for those three prima donnas.

Nor was she going to spend any more time thinking about Will’s lips on hers.

She made it as far as the corner of the barn when she heard a truck coming down the gravel drive, horn honking.

It was Will.

She supposed she’d have to see him sometime. Reluctantly, Emma turned around. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. I needed a peace offering.” He hopped out of the truck. “I didn’t think it would take me that long to rescue this. The back rim is bent and the main sprocket broken, but with a little work, you’ll be able to ride again.” Will lifted her bike out of the truck bed and set out the kickstand.

“Thank you.” She came closer to inspect the damage, running one hand over her cheek. “I expected it to be a lost cause.”

“Nothing’s ever completely lost.” Will drank her in a moment before reaching into the truck cab. “I brought my laptop, too. The revised architectural designs are on it.”

A cat meowed from inside the cab. Emma peeked in the open truck window. A one-eyed Siamese peeked at her through the slats of a small carrier. “You adopted one of Felix’s cats?”

“Sort of.” He’d moved closer to her in that way he had, lowering his voice as if afraid someone else might hear. “I got Ping for you. I thought you could paint with him.”

Emma stared from Will to the cat and back.

“He’s kind of impossible to ignore,” Will added when the cat meowed again. “But it’s nice to have someone around to keep you company when you’re struggling with something.”

“I can’t have a cat in my apartment.”

“You can have one here. And you said you’d be moving. Maybe your next place will allow cats.”

“It’s an impractical gift.” Impractical, but thoughtful. She was touched. “What if it doesn’t work out?”

“I’ll take him.”

The cat’s fur was the color of faded sandstone with rich dark-chocolate highlights. “But how did you convince Felix to let you have him? He wasn’t about to let you adopt one of his cats yesterday.”

“Ping can be very persuasive.”

On cue, Ping meowed, confirming Will’s story.

“Now, about the new vision for the winery.” Will set a laptop on the driver’s seat and keyed in his password. “I got these this morning.”

Emma leaned in to look. This architectural design salvaged the existing red barn, and the welcome center was the original farmhouse. “Felix will be thrilled.” Never mind how Will got architectural plans on a Sunday. “This is why he let you have Ping.”

Will grinned. “We all have our secrets.”

Like good-night kisses. Emma desperately needed to back away. Her feet remained firmly planted near his fire. “This is exactly the kind of idea I can get behind, except...” Emma looked up at Will. “If you want my full support, I have a couple of conditions.”

“The oak tree stays,” Will said solemnly, his gaze dropping briefly to her hand; the one he’d held the night Granny Rose had handcuffed herself in the town square, the hand he’d clung to beneath the table last night.

“Thank you. That takes care of condition number one.” Condition number two was a stickier subject. “I can be an extra pair of hands on the float, but don’t ask me to draw or paint anything for you. I can’t do it.”

It was Will’s turn to study Emma. But instead of arguing, his gaze softened. “I may have a solution to that. Are you sure you can’t sketch? Because if you can rough out our plans for a revitalized town square, we can use that for the theme of the float. I think I found a painter. I figured this would be a 3-D diorama and—”

Emma’s hands had started to tremble at the word
sketch.
“No.”

“Emma...”

“We’ll need someone else to draw
and
paint.” She thrust her palms in the back pockets of her jeans. “You know I’m beyond blocked. I’m lucky I can edit print ads with someone else’s photos and artwork.”

There wasn’t enough distance between them. He was looking at her too intensely. Her feet moved this time. “I’m going to get over this, but I can’t do it overnight.”

He kept staring. She could almost see his brain working. “I give you permission to sketch this out.”

Not forgiveness. Permission. Emma wanted to scream. “Your permission doesn’t matter. I don’t have permission here.” She tapped her heart, suddenly realizing the truth. “It’s about forgiving myself. In order to create, I have to lose myself in the moment. I lost myself when I was driving Tracy. And the other night after bowling when Granny Rose slipped away, I was trying to sketch and didn’t hear her leave. I’m not ready to forgive myself. My grandmother’s safety is at risk, as well as the safety of others. Don’t ask me to do this.”

His stare probed. He considered. After a moment, he nodded. “Get in. You need to see something.”

“Why?”

“For once in your life, Emma, do something I tell you without asking.”

“You’re assuming you know what’s good for me. Throw me a bone and I’ll go with you.”

He nodded. “We’re going to my house. Now get in.”

A few minutes later, Emma ascended the steps to the Jackson home. “Why are we here?”

“You’ll see.” Will led her inside and down the hall to Tracy’s room.

The smell of fresh paint increased as they moved deeper into the house, but the walls she saw were a dingy white that hadn’t felt a brush or roller since Will’s mother died.

Will took a master key from above the door frame.

“Whoa.” Emma backed up. “If Tracy locked the door, we shouldn’t go inside.”

Ignoring her, Will opened the door. “Okay, don’t go inside. You can look from the hallway.”

Emma stood firm. “It’s not right.”

“Look.” Will tugged her forward, until she bumped into his solid chest.

She kept her face averted, but the smell of paint was intense, calling to her artistic curiosity.

Emma turned her head. “Oh.” So much black. A bold statement as a backdrop to the colorful murals on every wall. Emma almost didn’t notice the disarray of Tracy’s furniture. Or the canvas with a flying worm on the dresser. She recognized the squiggly line as the worm she’d tried painting days ago, but Tracy had filled the rest in.

“Tracy’s been painting her walls for a week now. And she’s been more confident, happier even.” Will ran his hand down the slope of her back. “Art heals, Emma. It heals and it forgives. You can’t just stop creating.”

“But I have stopped. In my case, art doesn’t heal, it disables. It puts those I love at risk.”

Will shook his head. “You don’t get it. Tracy—”

The back door opened and Tracy charged down the hall. “What are. You doing? My room. Mine!”

“I’m sorry.” Emma held up her hands and stepped out of the room. Why hadn’t she left when Will took down the key? She and Tracy would never rebuild their friendship now.

“I wanted Emma to see this,” Will started to explain. “I brought her here. I made her come inside.”

“It’s beautiful,” Emma said gently.

“Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!” Tracy slammed the bedroom door and locked herself in.

“What’s going on in here?” Ben stood at the back door.

“I was trying to help Emma and I messed up. I’m sorry, Tracy.” The pain in Will’s voice was wrenching.

Without thinking, Emma put her arms around him and rested her head on his chest.

* * *

“I
SCREWED
UP
,
Dad.” Will sat on the living room couch, his head in his hands. Emma had left and already he missed the feel of her arms around him. “How am I going to make this right?”

“It’s my fault.”

Will raised his head and stared at his father, who stood across from him. “You didn’t invade Tracy’s privacy.”

“No, but you’re my firstborn. I raised you to take on responsibility from an early age. And now you take on too much. You can’t make things right for everyone. People need to find their own way.” His sigh carried the weariness of years as a single dad. “People will still ask for your help from time to time, but you have to put the brakes on your impulse to fix everything for everybody.”

“Hard habit to break.” He felt so defeated. “It’s apparently what I think I do best.”

“We’re all a work in progress. You’re ahead of most people in this world by just knowing what your faults are.” Ben glanced up at the family portrait. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better by you after your mom died.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Will said gruffly.

His father stood and patted Will’s knee. “Apologies are part of every relationship, along with forgiveness.” He headed toward the front door.

“But what am I going to do? About Tracy and the float and...everything.”

Ben paused. “You have to give things up, son. The responsibility, the control, the judging. Life’s mountains are high. Let someone else carry the load for a while.”

Impossible. If he let things go, his life would be chaos.

His dad opened the door.

“Wait.” Will stood, closing the distance between them. “Wait.”

And then they were hugging as they hadn’t hugged since learning about Tracy’s accident.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too, son.” Ben’s voice was husky. He thumped Will’s shoulder. “Remember, the way to get to the top of life’s most challenging mountains is easy. Just take one step at a time.”

* * *

“T
HAT
CAT
’
S
GOING
to be more trouble than he’s worth,” Granny Rose said, watching Emma release Ping from his carrier.

She had taken the cat when she’d left Will, along with the small bag of kitty litter and cat food she’d noticed on his floorboards. Granted, it was an armful, but she hadn’t had far to walk. And Ping’s cries had helped drown out the memory of Tracy’s anger.

With a tentative meow, the one-eyed cat crept out of the carrier, sniffed at the bowls of food and water then proceeded toward the makeshift litter box. He gave it a sniff before slinking over to Emma with a superior look.

Emma leaned down and stroked his short, silky fur. “Do you want to stay in Harmony Valley, Granny Rose?”

“I’m going to die here, come earthquake or high water.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s this about?”

“I’m going to need you to sit here with me and Ping. And sing.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because I don’t like the soundtrack that plays in my head when I try to paint.” Emma met her grandmother’s clear gaze. “Because if you want to stay here, you need emergency services restored, not to mention a doctor’s exam for those mood swings of yours.”

Her grandmother huffed. “I have never had mood swings in my life.”

“Call them whatever you like. As soon as Mom’s trial is over, she’s going to show up on your doorstep with a brochure for a retirement home in Sacramento. You know how stubborn she can be. You need to reassure her you’ll be safe here.”

“How does me sitting here and singing with a cat do that?”

“It won’t. Unless I can paint.” Emma faced the easel.

Granny Rose started to sing “A Spoonful of Sugar” from
Mary Poppins.

At Emma’s feet, Ping meowed pitifully.

Emma reminded herself this was important. Being able to paint the float wasn’t about her lifelong dream. It was about helping others. Painting as volunteer work. She liked that angle.

But when she picked up a brush, her hands didn’t like that angle, or any other one she could think of.

The diesel engine roared louder than the voices of Ping and Granny Rose.

* * *

O
NE
STEP
AT
a time.

After lunch, Will surveyed his team and tried to quell the nervous beat of his heart.

Flynn and Slade had assembled tools on the old barn’s workbench. Tracy stood at the barn door, arms crossed and scowling. Facing the bare trailer, Emma sat on an old milk crate, looking as closed off as she had that day beneath the willow.

Will put his hands in his jeans pockets, took them out, put them back in again.

One step at a time.

“Here’s the thing.” Will recited the words he’d been practicing all morning, words that were humbling because they were an admission that he wasn’t perfect. “My name is Will, and I’m a control freak.”

They all stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. All except Emma. She tilted her head expectantly.

Her consideration gave him strength. “I need to step back and let you lead.”

Emma began to smile.

“Why do you want me to lead?” Flynn deadpanned.

“No, idiot.” Slade pushed his shoulder. “The collective you, as in all of us.”

Flynn rubbed his shoulder, grinning. “I knew that. The question is, why is our fearless leader stepping back?”

“It’s come to my attention that I can be an overbearing jerk, trying to force what I feel is right on other people. I tend to think I know what’s best for everyone, which isn’t the way to be a good brother.” He nodded at Tracy. “Or a friend.” He nodded at Slade and Flynn, and then turned to Emma. “Or a...friend.” That was awkward.

Will pressed on. “I jumped at the chance to start a winery without telling my business partners all the reasons why. I considered my sister’s challenges a disability and tried to plan her life accordingly. And I set the boundaries of her friendship when I had no right to interfere. I could go on, but at this point, I’ll apologize.”

Slade cleared his throat. “There’s no need to apologize to me.”