Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

Christine sat up straight and turned to him as he parked.

  “You wanted to know about this.” He gestured to his necktie. “Come inside.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she’d follow. He didn’t stop inside the front door, merely dropped his keys on the hall table as he passed, heading up the stairs. He didn’t turn on any lights, stopping only when he reached the second-floor landing in front of the master-bedroom door.

  She followed, climbing the stairs to the top with a steady tread.

  “My father changed after my mother’s fight with cancer.” His voice sounded distant, as if the person speaking wasn’t him, was far away and detached. “He became more cynical. Gone was the open, optimistic man who’d raised me, who was like my best friend. I thought he’d get over her death. But she’d barely passed when he was called in to help rescue his friends and coworkers at the mill fire.” Slade swiped a hand down his tie. “He used to tell me I could do anything, be anything, if only I worked at it hard enough. But the loss of my mother and the deaths at the grain mill were too much for him. His glass became less than half-empty. It didn’t matter that I earned a partial scholarship to Harvard. His view of my chances at a happy life turned grim.”

  Christine slipped her hand into his.

  “He’d look at Evy and predict she’d leave me. He’d look at the twins and predict...” Slade swallowed, not wanting to recall the dire things he’d predicted. “He’d look at me and tell me not to reach for a goal or dream big, so I wouldn’t be disappointed. Success, for me, became mandatory, the route to proving to my dad that life was worth living. I got a job on Wall Street. I bought an apartment in Manhattan. And still he foresaw the worst.

  “Then the stock market collapsed, plunging me to ruin, just as my father had predicted. I lost my job, my salary, my savings, and my dad’s retirement.” He never should have talked his father into letting him manage his retirement, but he’d wanted to prove just how wrong his father was.

  “We came here to tell Dad in person Thanksgiving weekend. I told Evy if I couldn’t find a job soon, we might have to move back, at least until we got on our feet again. Evy told me she wasn’t moving from New York. She said she’d been unhappy for a long time and wanted a divorce.” Toddler twins and a cheating wife. His father had been right about Evy, at least.

  “She dropped me off here, at the house, and drove back to Santa Rosa to spend the day shopping with money we didn’t have.” His hand drifted to his tie. “Talk about denial.”

  Christine gave the hand she held a small squeeze. It was an I-know-this-is-hard-but-keep-going bit of encouragement.

  “Dad knew why I’d come. He’d seen the news. And it was the day he’d always told me would arrive—my failure.” Slade drew a heavy breath. “But he didn’t rub it in. He was different. Happy, almost. I apologized, expecting him to be heartbroken or upset. Instead, he talked about a trip we took to Yellowstone when I was a kid. He talked about how proud he was of me. He was like my dad again and I was relieved.” Slade gasped, “Relieved.”

  He should have seen the signs. He should have known that no one could flip their attitude around like that.

  “Dad suggested I take a walk and get some fresh air. I went down to the river park. I watched the river go by.” He sniffed, fighting back the tears. “I actually felt better. Lucky. My life was crap, but I had my dad back.” He tried to laugh, but laughter stuck in his throat. “Storm clouds were rolling in by then. It was one of those afternoons when the clouds got so thick it seemed like the sun had set.”

  Christine stroked his arm.

  “He didn’t answer when I got home. His door, this door, was pulled closed, but not latched. I pushed it open.” Slade put his hand flat on the locked door. “He’d used a belt. On the closet rod.” Slade’s fingernails dug into the wood. “I can blur those minutes and forget the horror and whatever else the room looked like. But not his face.” The eyes that stared calmly toward the door, as if he was finally at peace. “I’d lost everything then. My parents, my livelihood, my family.” He dragged in air. “And then I saw the note.”

  Christine slipped an arm around his waist, closed the loop with her other arm, clasping her hands over his hip. He wanted to stay cocooned in her arms forever.

  “He wrote, ‘It’s not worth waiting. Come with me.’” Slade tried to swallow. He couldn’t manage, so he continued hoarsely, “In that moment, when I saw no hope, no point in going on, it was as if I’d been programmed to...end it. I saw the other belt at my father’s feet.”

  Slade sank to the floor, taking Christine with him. “I started the process in a numb, dark fog, with silence roaring in my ears. Not knowing, not thinking. But then the sun broke through the clouds and I saw my mother’s face. In a picture on the bureau. I realized I didn’t want to die. Nothing was as hopeless as my dad made it seem.”

  Too late, his mind had crooned. It was the last thing he remembered before being saved by Evy, who hadn’t been able to stop screaming.

  He’d said enough to satisfy her curiosity. More and she’d know. She’d know and she’d leave.

  “I was fortunate. I stared beyond the brink of death, but it left its mark on me.” He kicked his legs out in front of him, letting the anger build, as it often did when he thought about the extremes his father had gone to, how fragile his own mental state had been. He’d never consider doing such a thing today. He’d seek professional help or a good listener, like Christine. “My dad is the reason I refuse to fail. He’s the reason I’m a millionaire. Every dollar I make, every goal I achieve proves to him that life is worth living.” That Slade could achieve his dreams. If only his father hadn’t stopped believing. “That’s why I have to sell the permit when the best bid comes in, to silence my father’s voice forever.”

  He’d told her. He’d confessed. He waited to see if history would repeat itself, if Christine would leave. He had to brace himself for it, for the pain and the crumpling loss. They sat silently. He couldn’t see her face in the shadows. Did she look upon him in disgust? In horror? With pity?

  Christine got to her knees. But instead of leaving, she sat in his lap. Her hands loosened his tie, slid the silky fabric free. She set his tie aside and went to work on his buttons, spreading the cotton across his collarbones.

  She smelled of vanilla and redemption. False redemption, since he hadn’t told her the entire story. He gripped her wrists and held her hands still. “Do you think he forgave me?”

  “For not going through with killing yourself? I’m certain he did.” She curled her hands up around his neck and slid her palms down to rest within his shirt at the base of his neck. She traced his scar with one finger. “The question is...do you forgive yourself? After all, you didn’t go through with it.”

  Her caring touch made him feel as though he’d been redeemed. But he hadn’t earned it.

  His hands traveled up her arms, down her shoulders, to rest on her hips. “I’ll never forgive myself. It wasn’t that I wanted to die. It was just that everything I’d taken for granted and worked so hard for were taken away. It was a moment of weakness. I learned the hard way that when things fall apart, you have to pick up the pieces and start over, not give up.”

  Tell her.

  She leaned in and replaced her finger with her lips.

  It was heaven.

  It was madness.

  Guilt made him stop. “I’m telling you this so you know, so you realize the darkness I’ve faced. You don’t have to pretend. I’m no one’s Prince Charming. You can go.”

  “I was kissing your neck a second ago. Don’t tell me you thought that was a pity kiss. Seriously, I was going to work on up to your lips, but now...” She removed herself from his lap and stood. “Now I’m just going to say that no one deserves to go through what you did or to be manipulated by a loved one.” Her voice trembled. “Other than stopping me from kissing you
, you seem pretty well balanced. Good night.”

  Slade listened to her go downstairs. The house creaked and groaned around him as if protesting Christine’s leaving. Slade didn’t protest.

  It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was how it should be.

  Christine walking out of his life.

  * * *

  EACH STEP THAT took Christine away from Slade seemed like a mistake. He needed her. And somewhere deep inside, Christine needed him, too.

  He took her seriously, even though she wore torn T-shirts and ratty shorts. He respected her opinion, even when he challenged her. His touch made her feel as if she could do anything she set her mind to.

  She stumbled on the front steps.

  I love him.

  How could that be? They’d only known each other a few weeks.

  She tested the idea again, her feet a slow cadence on the sidewalk. I. Step. Love. Step. Slade.

  Of course, it was true. She loved how he laughed with her. She loved how he watched out for her and the girls. She loved the flash of insecurity when he touched his tie or tried to ignore how the girls ignored him. It made her want to hug him fiercely, tell him not to worry, and kiss his insecurities away.

  Colossally bad timing.

  He was her boss. This was her one clear shot at solidifying the name she’d been building for herself in the industry. Dating him would tinge her reputation with favoritism, dilute what she was trying to do here, make people judge her wine on gossip rather than quality alone.

  He can’t move on.

  After all his talk about revitalizing the town, after all those days she’d seen or heard of Slade repairing and rebuilding houses and businesses, he still couldn’t stop trying to medicate his feelings by making money. And there was his shame. The shame that kept him buttoned up and pushed everyone who would love him away. How could she possibly combat that?

  “You’re a good woman, going in that house. I’ve waited years for someone to realize he’s a decent man.”

  The lone voice came from the porch at the corner house. A cigar glowed in the darkness. The aroma of cigar smoke lingered in the air.

  Christine wasn’t feeling like a good woman. She was a coward for letting Slade reject her.

  Slade didn’t think he deserved love, perhaps not even from his daughters. He kept himself buttoned up tight, both literally and figuratively. But he didn’t seem to want understanding from her, at least not the understanding she’d wanted to give.

  Christine went up the front walk until she could see part of the old man’s face. “Weren’t you at bowling the other night?”

  “I was. My name’s Hiro Takata.”

  Christine introduced herself and sat on his stoop, resting her chin in her hands to filter the strong cigar smoke. “You knew Slade’s father?”

  He nodded. “Daniel used to bowl with us, back before his wife died and the mill exploded. Kind of lost himself after that. Couldn’t get him to bowl or come out for an evening smoke.”

  “Was that the first time he tried to kill himself?” Her question, a whisper, seemed to echo down the street.

  “That I know of? Yep.” He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke toward the sky. “You planning on marrying that boy? He needs someone.”

  “He’s... There’s... It’s not like that.” What their relationship was, she didn’t know. Just because she loved him didn’t mean he felt the same depth of feeling or that there weren’t still obstacles in their path. Loving Slade wouldn’t be easy.

  “I was put in a camp here in California during the Second World War. Saw a lot of hatred based on the shape of my eyes.” Hiro’s voice hollowed and hardened, until it was darker than the night. “Saw my mother shrivel up and die during four years of internment. Takes a lot out of a man to see death.”

  Christine reached out and gently squeezed his hand. It was no larger than hers, the skin a combination of smooth calluses and age-roughened wrinkles.

  “I know how folks in town see me. I’m their mortician,” he said. “They laugh about how I can look at a corpse and see dignity and beauty. They think it’s morbid. But it’s how I honor my mother. Of honoring the life someone lived, no matter how they died. Dwelling on the end—on how they died—means dwelling on guilt and sadness.”

  “Christine?” It was Slade, standing on the sidewalk, looking lost and alone. He’d buttoned up his shirt and put his tie back on.

  “Good night, Hiro.” She released his hand and stood.

  “Ha, no one your age calls me that. To them, I’m Old Man Takata.” He chuckled.

  “Good night, Old Man Takata.” She waved, sucking in fresh air.

  “I heard voices.” Slade said, falling into step with her. “Takata can talk your ear off if you let him.”

  “I enjoyed talking to him. He seems lonely.” And he seemed to have some good insight about Slade.

  Slade smoothed his tie. “I thought you’d be home by now.”

  “What? Crying into my pillow?” The jagged hurt that he’d let her leave resurfaced, only to be replaced by the gentler idea of loving him. “Were you coming to check up on me?”

  “Yes.” He slung his arm over her shoulder, warm and tempting, tempting her to let things be, to ask no questions. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m just walking my friend home.”

  “Right, because you don’t deserve to be happy ever again.” Before speaking with Slade’s neighbor, she would’ve let the edge cut through her tone. Now the words were softened with love and understanding. She knew he wasn’t the same man he’d been the day his father died. She knew he’d never give up on life again. But he’d given up on love.

  “You’re going to serve a life sentence living in that house alone,” she said. “Wearing your ties and keeping everyone at arm’s length. Someday the kids in this town are going to call you Old Man Jennings. You won’t come out except at night when no one can see you and you’ll yell out the window at anyone playing in your yard.”

  “I think you’re confusing me with Takata. I don’t plan on staying in Harmony Valley.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve got you pegged.” She snuggled closer beneath his arm. “Faith and Grace will bring home the men they’ll marry and you’ll scare the crap out of them.”

  “You’re assuming I’m letting them get married. I’m not going to let them date until they’re thirty, if then.”

  “You wish.” She stroked his tie. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

  He sighed. “I could say the same for you. You told me in the park that we could handle being friends.”

  “I’m not the one who came out after I left.”

  They turned the corner onto Nana’s street, the only sounds Christine’s sandals and his hard-soled shoes on the sidewalk.

  “Maybe I didn’t like how you left.”

  They reached Nana’s driveway.

  “You, my friend—” she gently tugged his tie, as if that was the only thing keeping her from blurting out her true feelings and ruining everything “—don’t know what you want.”

  “And you do?”

  “I know I want a strong man by my side, someone I can come home to at night when my hands are stained purple from handling grapes all day, someone who won’t mind those purple hands all over his body.” She smoothed his tie. “I know I want to have kids and be a soccer mom, even though soccer season is during grape harvest. And I dream of one day owning my own vineyard with my own wine label. I’m a bit behind schedule, but I plan to have a long career, with at least one vintage of Harmony Valley Vineyards wines to my credit.”

  She hadn’t realized until that moment that she wasn’t going to give up on the winery. Or him.

  He didn’t say a word.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” Christine slipped from beneath his arm.
<
br />   “Wait.” He captured her hand.

  She looked at their joined hands—his large and strong, hers seemingly delicate. But she was stronger than she looked. She could set aside blossoming love and wait for him to heal completely. “I’ve already put myself out there tonight. I’m not going to ask you for a good-night kiss and strike out completely. I like you.” I love you. “But you hold my future in your hands.” In so many ways.

  When he would have spoken again, she cut him off. “I think there’s something between us and I’d like to give it a chance, but you have to meet me halfway.”

  “What if I’m not ready?” His voice lacked the steady quality she’d become used to.

  “Nobody with big career goals and dreams is ever ready. There’s always a condition attached or another column to fill.” She patted his stubbled cheek. “Good night.”

  She half expected him to pull her close, as he’d done the other night, regardless of her protests. If he’d heard what Old Man Takata said perhaps something had sunk in, perhaps he’d realize that he needed to open up in order to move on.

  But he didn’t reach for her. He didn’t press his body against hers. He didn’t cover her lips with his.

  Christine went inside, disappointed.

  But there was also hope. Hope because she loved him and she’d seen something in his eyes that led her to believe that he felt something for her, too.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “DID YOU SEE that another Hollywood movie raised millions of dollars for production through crowdsourcing?” Ryan said, making himself a cup of green tea in the farmhouse kitchen.

  “Crowdsourcing? That’s where anyone can donate money to finance something? Don’t they get a T-shirt for their ten-dollar investment?” Christine was on her second cup of coffee, trying to compensate for not sleeping well last night. She planned to use the dose of caffeine to tell Ryan this gig of theirs was in jeopardy.

  Slade was wrong. He didn’t need to prove to the ghost of his father that life was worth living by making tons of money. He needed to take off his tie and start trusting people again. His daughters. The town. Her.