Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  “I told the judge,” Evy was saying. “I told the lawyers. I was afraid of what he might do to my girls, of what he might convince them to do.”

  Flynn swore. “Slade is more stable emotionally than you are.”

  Will stepped out of the crowd. “If you were so worried about your girls, why did you leave them here in the first place?”

  “It was part of the revised child-support agreement.” Evy kept moving closer to Faith. “I had to give them to him or risk everything.”

  “The money, you mean,” Will said. “You wanted more money.”

  “The best schools cost money.” Evy’s huge diamond glinted in the headlights.

  “So you made your ex-husband look like a monster to his daughters and then left them with him?” Flynn said too casually.

  Evy didn’t flinch. She’d convinced herself what she was doing was right.

  If their roles were reversed, Slade couldn’t say he wouldn’t do the same, because he’d do anything to protect his kids.

  “We’re fine, Mom.” Grace spoke up. “And Dad is fine, too. You were wrong. You don’t have to worry. Go back to New York. We have nearly a week left.”

  “Grace, do as your mother says.” Slade’s quiet words seemed to stun the crowd. They stopped Flynn and Will from coming closer. They didn’t understand the lengths Evy would go to. She’d make the twins suffer more than they were now. “Go get your things.”

  “I won’t leave you, Dad.” Grace jutted her chin out. “We won’t leave you. Don’t make us go.”

  Evy’s bitter laughter filled the air. “Even your father knows that he can’t be trusted with you. You can see the darkness in his eyes. His father still has the power to take him any time or he would have sold this house long ago.”

  Evy didn’t know him at all, but Slade had no more fight left.

  “Slade?” Christine stared at him. There was no sparkle in her eyes. No smile, either. He’d crushed her optimism and her defenses.

  “Dad, say something.” Grace tugged at his hand.

  “Dude.” Flynn came to stand next to him. “Tell her you won’t let them go.”

  The house. The closed windows. The locked door. The bedroom upstairs that hadn’t been touched in eight years. Eight years...

  The closets. The belts. The ties. Eight years of seeing his father’s face. Eight years and it was still as vivid in his mind as if it had happened yesterday.

  He could tell himself ten ways from Tuesday that he wouldn’t try to kill himself again, which was true, but he hadn’t put the past behind him. And until he did, he didn’t deserve to make anyone any promises.

  “Pack your things, girls,” Slade whispered, staring at Evy. And then stronger: “Pack your things and go.”

  Grace sobbed and ran into the house. Faith glared at him and ran after her.

  “I told you before, Slade, you can’t be close to anyone ever again.” As if she hadn’t done enough damage, Evy targeted Christine, closing the distance separating them. “You’d trust him? You’d trust him not to crack after a fight and finish himself this time? You’d trust him alone with your kids, when they’re screaming for some toy he didn’t buy them? You’d trust him not to lie to you when he can’t even stop lying to himself?”

  Christine hadn’t taken her eyes off Slade, but still, she said nothing.

  * * *

  THE TWINS WERE GONE. Evy was gone. The old-timers were gone. The windows were shut.

  Evy and the twins were headed to the airport. The potluck attendees were presumably spreading the good gossip they’d witnessed before tucking themselves into bed—Remember when Daniel Jennings hung himself? It was nearly a double suicide.

  Slade’s generation remained, having pow-wowed outside and said goodbye to the twins before following him into the house—Will and Emma, Flynn and Becca, Christine and Nate. Flynn had sent Truman home with Agnes.

  Christine sat on the foyer floor, back to the wall, arms wrapped around herself. She hadn’t stopped staring at him.

  Nate stood a few feet from her, legs and arms akimbo, as if Slade were a suspect and Nate was ready to block any attempt Slade made to run.

  Nate. Now, there was a man who’d do right by Christine. Tall, principled, and brave. Wouldn’t catch Nate trying to off himself. Or lying about it. Wouldn’t catch Nate choosing profit over promises.

  The rest of his friends were wedged onto the couch beneath the front windows.

  “I don’t need an intervention.” Slade sunk deeper into his father’s chair, wishing they’d all go away, even Christine. Especially Christine.

  “We disagree.” Will’s gaze was as firm as his grip on his fiancée’s hand.

  “Life doesn’t hand out second chances just for them to be squandered,” Emma said. Seeing as how she’d been in a car accident that almost killed Will’s sister and had come away unscathed, Slade couldn’t argue with her, much as he wanted to.

  “You shared an apartment with us for five years and never said a word.” Flynn sounded betrayed. “I gave you grief over those ties and...I would have understood if you had said something.”

  And sabotage their tentative relationship? Not likely. “It didn’t concern you.”

  “It concerns me now.” Flynn clenched his fists, pounding them on his thighs. “The way you let Evy walk all over you. The way you forced the twins to walk away. Your determination to sell and walk out of our lives. Yeah, it concerns me.”

  “And what was I supposed to do? You saw what happened when I opened the door upstairs. I couldn’t go into the room. I haven’t gotten past it.” Slade dragged a hand over his face, watching Christine watch him. “Evy’s right. They’re safer with her.”

  “It’s not a question of their safety.” Becca placed a comforting hand on her husband’s fist. “None of us here believe they’d ever be in danger with you. But those girls love you. And your ex-wife has suppressed that love for years. If you let them go now, she’ll make sure you never get another chance with them.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “We do.” Christine spoke, her voice as rusty and broken as the trust she’d placed in him. “We understand you’re scared. The great and mighty Slade Jennings, who can stand up to conglomerates and legal teams and bargain for what he wants. The man who can meet any goal he sets. You’re too scared to face this.”

  She stood and went upstairs.

  A door opened.

  He was afraid he knew which door.

  “Whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, you’ve got some form of PTSD.” Nate would know, being former military. “You hide it well. But hiding it means you’ll never rid yourself of it. It’s got a firm spot in your chest.”

  Christine came back downstairs. She was barefoot. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Had her shoes dropped on the driveway when he’d carried her across?

  She didn’t stop or say good-night. She just walked out.

  Whatever it was inside Slade that had kept him going this long deflated. He slumped farther into his father’s chair.

  Flynn got up, tugging Becca with him. They went upstairs. After a few minutes, they came back down and left. Flynn didn’t have his baseball cap on.

  Will and Emma went next. A pilgrimage up the stairs, a few steps into the room, and then back down.

  Nate pointed a finger at him. “Stay.” And then he, too, went up. This time a door closed before he returned.

  “I haven’t known you a long time, man, but I like you.” Nate stood in the foyer.

  Nate was perfect for Christine. Honest, steadfast.

  “You don’t need any of us here holding your hand. Only you can get yourself out of this. Just know we’ve got your back.” And then Nate left.

  Leaving Slade alone in a house that was quieter than he wante
d it to be.

  * * *

  CHRISTINE COULDN’T SLEEP that night. She didn’t believe that Slade was suicidal. She believed he was having trouble letting go of the guilt and the anger.

  But that didn’t stop a quiet voice in her head that kept repeating, What if you’re wrong?

  She’d wanted to stay with him until he believed he was worthy of love—hers, his daughters’, his friends’. But Nate had convinced her that Slade wouldn’t accept her love until he’d accepted the past as part of who he was.

  What if she went to sleep and Slade tried something? What if Nate sent her a text message during the night that she was needed at Slade’s and she didn’t hear it? What if this crazy plan they’d come up with to help Slade heal didn’t work?

  Slade had been humiliated in front of his closest friends and a good portion of the small town. He’d let his daughters go without putting up a fight. He’d lied to her about what happened all those years ago.

  Lied.

  About something so important it shaped who he was today. How could Christine ever trust him again?

  She wanted to erase Evy’s words, because they’d created doubt where she’d had none before about Slade and his suicide attempt, and more importantly about the strength of the bond between them. She wanted to be with him, holding him and reassuring him things would be all right.

  But he had to face this on his own. And come out stronger for it. Or they had no future.

  At dawn, she dragged herself out of bed. She went into the garage and took out one of the high-heeled, red sequined ruby slippers. She put it on her window sill. It was a statement, of sorts, that only Slade would understand. She loved her shoes and wasn’t giving them up. It was her equivalent of leaving the light on until he came home.

  At work, she had several messages in her inbox requesting help getting in touch with Slade.

  The sharks were circling, trying to find him, trying to find the partnership’s weak spot. Who knew what they’d do with the information that he had a doozy of a weakness?

  She had several serious texts, plus one voice mail from her father—all with the same message. It’s time to bail.

  She ignored the queries, ignored her father, and tried to book some meetings, review her schedule, process invoices. She was going to change the course of Alexander history and stay when things looked grim. Her decision went against the high standards of quality her family held so dear.

  She wanted to do the right thing for herself and for the people she’d made a promise to by taking this job—people like Phil and Old Man Takata, like Mayor Larry and Nana. Like Flynn, Will, and, of course, Slade. She was choosing to be loyal and fight for a quality wine to be made here, even if she fought with new owners.

  Flynn and Will had reassured her they weren’t selling. She was embarrassed to admit that she had more readily believed them than when Slade tried to tell her the same thing.

  Nate sent out a group text in the morning: Didn’t go upstairs at all.

  Meaning Slade hadn’t ended the hold his father had over him.

  Her cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Grace: Back in New York. Tell Dad we love him.

  Grace wouldn’t let her mother brainwash her that easily again. There was still time for Slade to salvage his relationship with his daughters.

  Christine tucked her cell phone back in her pocket and kept working.

  And braced herself for the next battle, as certain as a sunrise—her dad’s arrival.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SOMEBODY WAS KNOCKING on Slade’s front door.

  No one ever knocked on the Death and Divorce House door.

  Disoriented, Slade sat up on the couch, fitting each shirt button through a hole before he stood. He gazed around the living room, but couldn’t find his tie.

  Christine must still have it from the night before.

  “’Bout time you answered.” Takata stood on his doorstep in cargo shorts that almost drooped off his nonexistent hips and an orange-and-blue Hawaiian shirt. He looked like a half-starved Macaw. He pounded his cane on the porch. “I need you to drive me somewhere.”

  “I thought that was Becca’s job.”

  “That girl’s too busy with people who need her help. Go get your keys.” He shouldered his way across the threshold. “Why haven’t you gotten rid of the chair Daniel hated?” He did the cane shuffle over to Slade’s father’s chair. “Your mother bought this for him. He hated it.”

  Slade let the screen door close. “My dad loved that chair.”

  “He loved your mother,” Takata corrected, choosing to sit on the couch. “The chair he hated. Said it made him feel like he was driving a lowrider. Just look at it—it’s not a chair for anyone over five feet. What does a tall man do with his legs in a chair like that?”

  Slade did look. He did see. “I hate that chair.”

  “Most people, when they hate stuff, they get rid of it.” Takata thumped his cane on the floor. “Hop to, boy. I have places to be.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without a shower and some coffee.” He half wanted Takata to give up on him.

  The old man didn’t. He rested his hands on top of his cane. “I’ll wait for the coffee.”

  Slade set the coffeepot brewing and went upstairs to shower, passing by the closed door to the master bedroom. He had no idea what his friends had done in his father’s room last night. Curiosity had yet to beat anxiety, had yet to make him open the door.

  Showered, fresh shirt, fresh slacks, fresh tie, and Slade was back downstairs.

  “You didn’t shave.” Takata waved him back upstairs.

  “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “I am, but that doesn’t mean I want to be seen with someone who looks like he was on Miami Vice.”

  “You watched that movie?”

  “I’m talking about a television show in the ’80s. Speedboat? Five-o’clock shadow? You look like you’re out to bust somebody.” Takata sighed. “Where’s my coffee?”

  Coffee wasn’t all Takata wanted. He wanted eggs. And some of the cantaloupe Slade had yet to slice into, which was sitting on the kitchen counter.

  An hour later, they were on the road.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Slade asked.

  “Get me to the 101 and head south” was all Takata would say.

  They ended up in front of a very small shop in Healdsburg, tucked away on a back street.

  “A tobacco shop?” Slade frowned. “Are you out of cigars?”

  “I’m out of Cubans.” Takata glanced furtively up and down the street. “They’re illegal, you know. They only sell them on the down low. Cash.” He handed Slade some bills. “If you go in there and they think you’re a cop and they don’t sell me my Cubans, I’ll...I’ll...”

  “You’ll what?” Slade almost smiled at the idle threats of a man half his size.

  Takata poked a finger in his direction. “I’ll make your life next door to me a living hell.”

  “Like it isn’t already?”

  That comment earned him a wrinkle-edged glare.

  Less than ten minutes later, Takata had his precious underground Cuban cigars, and they were back on the road to Harmony Valley. Before they took the highway exit home, Takata made him stop at a grocery store, where he bought a small bouquet of flowers.

  “Take a right on Kennedy,” Takata directed as they came into town.

  “Why?” That would take them directly past the cemetery.

  “Because I said so.” Despite Takata never having been a father, he had the lingo down.

  Slade turned onto Kennedy. “We’re not stopping.”

  Takata huffed, “Then slow down as you pass and I’ll jump out. Just don’t run me over as you speed away with my Cubans.”


  Biting back a comment about ornery old men, Slade turned into the iron gates of the Harmony Valley Cemetery. The air-conditioning in the truck that had felt so comfortable moments before now blew out icicles that made every muscle in his body shiver.

  “Head toward the back.”

  “I’m not going to his grave.” Cold. Slade was so cold. Goose bumps blanketed his arms.

  “Don’t make everything about you,” Takata muttered. “My mother and wife are entombed in the back. I haven’t been out here in months. It’s not as if Larry wants to drive me over every Sunday. And no one wants to come in the heat.”

  Slade shut up and drove to the rear of the small cemetery. He parked, planning to let Takata have a private visit with his family, but Takata said, “Bring the Cubans and the flowers.”

  Slade glanced toward the hill where his parents were buried. So close. Too close.

  He got out of the truck. It was like stepping out of a meat freezer into a broiling oven. The temperature transition weakened his knees. It had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn’t been this close to his parents since his father’s funeral.

  The heat didn’t seem to bother the old man. He kept trundling along. Slade followed him up the shady path toward a grand tomb tucked in the back of the cemetery.

  “When I owned this place, I wanted nothing but the best for my loved ones in their eternal rest.” Takata paused to catch his breath halfway up the hill.

  “You don’t own it anymore? Who does?”

  “Larry. He’s bought up lots of property in town. Stands to make a fortune if your winery is successful. That’s why he fights you over every penny. He’s over-leveraged and short on cash.”

  They continued their slow ascent to the top of the small hill and sat on a bench in front of Takata’s family tomb. The heat and surroundings were oppressive, despite a poplar that provided shade, and the occasional weak breeze that barely rustled its leaves.

  Slade put the box of Cubans and the flowers on the bench between them. He stared at his loafers. “Nice view.”

  “Don’t lie. Being here bothers you, doesn’t it?” Takata removed a cigar from the box. “I take comfort that my loved ones are here, at my back. You probably don’t think about your parents over there to the left, taking care of each other.”