Summer Kisses

by Melinda Curtis

  Flynn glanced over toward Jefferson Street.

  A caravan of cars were parked along the street. His grandfather’s black Caddy. Agnes’s green Buick. Old Fords and Hondas. Trucks and SUVs. It seemed like everyone in town had come out to see the end of an era.

  Agnes, Mildred and Rose stood by the Buick with their binoculars. Truman and Abby leaned out the back window of the Caddy.

  “All clear?” Dane called.

  “All clear!” Joey answered, sparing a glance toward Flynn as he flicked his gray ponytail over his shoulder. And then he blended into the crowd of construction workers.

  “Let’s take her down!” Dane waved at the backhoe operators.

  The big yellow rigs started up with a loud rumble, sending bursts of black smoke into the air. The backhoes lurched forward. The chains attached to the center beam lost their slack. Wood groaned.

  Flynn stood and leaned on the porch railing. Slade and Will joined him a moment later.

  The groans twisted into high pitched creaks as the backhoes inched forward, accented by the pop-snap-pop of mooring bolts giving way and the high-pitched metal protests of the bending tin roof. Amazingly, the barn’s beams held.

  “She’s not going without a fight,” Flynn murmured, privately rooting for the barn. He valued roots and history, all except his parents’ section of the family tree.

  And then there was a cascade of snapping wood and the barn gave way, beams bouncing into the ground, sending clouds of dust into the air.

  The construction crew cheered.

  No such cheers came from the audience along Jefferson Street.

  “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” Will said as reverently as if they were in church.

  “Kind of late for doubts.” Slade smoothed his tie. “What’s for dinner at your house, Flynn?”

  “Mooch off Will for once,” Flynn countered, grateful for the change in mood, but knowing he’d set another place for dinner.

  * * *

  “AGNES! AGNES!” FROM the back of the Cadillac, Truman waved Agnes over. She’d parked her Buick behind them. “Wasn’t that awesome?”

  Becca’s diminutive host came over to Truman, resting her right hand on the open rear window. “My heart’s pounding.”

  While Truman recounted the collapse, despite Agnes having seen it, Becca noticed Agnes wasn’t smiling. And she wasn’t wearing her ruby ring.

  The muggy heat that had been building during the morning, that had been building in the Cadillac, built in Becca, until she burst open her car door and glared at Agnes across the roof of the car. At least, she glared at Agnes’s forehead. The older woman was so short, not much of her face was visible above Truman’s window.

  “Where are you going?” Edwin hadn’t said much during the demolition. He’d stared out the window, rarely blinking, as if his mind was occupied elsewhere.

  “I thought I’d help Agnes get Mildred and her walker back in the car.” Drawing on a drained store of patience, Becca walked back to assist Mildred, making sure that Rose buckled herself in the backseat.

  The grass alongside the road had been freshly cut, compliments, no doubt, of Flynn. The air smelled green with a frosting of diesel fuel.

  Becca pushed the candy apple–red walker around to the Buick’s trunk. “Agnes, can you open the trunk?”

  Agnes said goodbye to Truman and walked back slowly. Given the car was what the residents liked to call “a classic,” the trunk wasn’t automatic. Agnes had to insert a key into the lock.

  Although she kept her voice down, Becca wasted no time in subtleties. “What happened to Harold’s ring?”

  Agnes rubbed a hand over the bare fingers of her right hand. “People were starting to ask questions.”

  “Harold wanted you to have that ring.” Becca’s hands plopped on her hips. She’d risked a lot to bring Agnes the ring. If Agnes didn’t appreciate it, it had been a foolish risk.

  “I can’t tell people who gave me the ring,” Agnes said in a hushed tone of voice. “If I did, I’d have to explain everything.”

  Becca opened her mouth to argue, but Agnes wasn’t finished.

  “And I can’t make something up. Don’t you dare ask me to lie.” Agnes gasped and bent to pick something up. She held up the small copper disk and whispered, “Harold.”

  Becca scanned the ground beneath her feet. Nothing.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Rose craned her gracefully wrinkled neck out the window.

  “I’m making sure Becca isn’t allergic to shellfish,” Agnes lied smoothly, fisting the penny in her hand. “I want to make shrimp for dinner.”

  And this from a woman who professed not to want to lie. Penny or not, Becca rolled her eyes.

  “You were going to have shrimp and not invite me?” Rose pouted.

  “What does it mean?” Agnes was pale, her gaze darting about the ground as if she suspected Harold’s ghost lurked at her ankles.

  “Harold would be disappointed,” Becca whispered as she walked away. She knew that she was.

  But that didn’t mean Becca couldn’t understand where Agnes was coming from.

  Secrets were hard enough to keep without announcing you had one by waving a ring on your finger.

  * * *

  AN HOUR AFTER demolition, the construction crew swarmed the debris. Dane’s plan was to salvage sections of the tin roof and as many beams as they could. He’d been right about the market for old barn parts. They had no trouble finding buyers.

  The audience on Jefferson Street had long gone, as had Will, off to another meeting with their legal team to sign the agreements they’d made with Mayor Larry, who was trying to stall once more.

  An old man rode his three-wheeled bicycle down the gravel driveway toward the barn.

  Joey stopped the cyclist where the driveway branched. The two men had a short conversation and then Joey pointed out Flynn, without looking around, as if he knew exactly where Flynn was.

  Flynn tamped down his annoyance. He always knew where Joey was, too.

  Smiling broadly, Slade followed Flynn off the front porch to greet their visitor.

  As the bike rider pedaled closer, Flynn realized it was Snarky Sam. His was one of the few remaining shops in town. It was part antique shop and part pawn shop. The small, spritely man wore a green-checkered flannel shirt and a scowl. “Flynn, I hear you’ve got some skill as a handyman.”

  “Some,” Flynn allowed, aware that Joey hadn’t returned to the job site, but was listening in twenty feet away.

  “I’d appreciate you stopping by the store.” Sam studied the wreckage that had been the barn. “Shame, that. Progress comes at too high a price.”

  Flynn ignored Sam’s disapproval. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve got no electricity in my storage room. Dang near tripped over a stack of fans last night.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t a bulb that needs replacing?” Slade barely suppressed a grin.

  “My conversation is with Flynn.” Sam bristled. “You get me? And I just replaced the bulbs in that fixture last week.”

  “We’ll come by in a couple of days,” Flynn reassured him. “In the meantime, don’t walk in there after dark.”

  “I’d appreciate it. And while you’re visiting, you might look at my storage shelves. Seems like they might take a tumble.” Sam pedaled his bike in a meticulous circle and then just as slowly pedaled back to the main road.

  “We’ll come by?” Slade chuckled. “You and Truman?”

  “Me and you, buddy. You’ve got nothing better to do.” Flynn flipped Slade’s tie. “And you’ve been dying for me to ask you to help. Admit it.”

  Slade stepped back, one hand protectively over his tie. “I’m good with a hammer. I think I proved that when we built a float for
the spring festival.”

  “Even Truman can swing a hammer. For this job we need my electronic wiring skill.” Flynn was a hardware engineer by trade, able to design and program intelligence on computer chips, or figure out code to work on certain kinds of computer chips. “Once that plumber fixes the leak at Phil’s barbershop, we’ll need someone with drywall experience to patch it up. Have any experience with plaster board?”

  “I’m not skilled labor.” Slade smirked. “But I’ve watched a lot of do-it-yourself shows this past year and I can steady the ladder for you.”

  “Then you’ve got enough experience to help me and Truman.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this,” Slade said with a shake of his head.

  “You won’t.” Flynn thumped him on the back.

  “I’ll help you.” Joey walked over. “I know how to drywall and paint, and I know the basics of electricity.”

  Flynn held his ground. “We’re not going to hotwire a car.” The last thing he needed was to be working side-by-side with Joey.

  Joey’s face reddened. But before Flynn could turn away, he blurted, “You don’t want to be responsible if the place burns down, do you? And harm comes to the old man?”

  Flynn and Slade exchanged worried glances. While Flynn was comfortable rewiring a computer, a building was another story. And Slade was probably only comfortable plugging in his headphone wires to his phone.

  Flynn understood the trapped look on Joey’s face all those years ago and on Becca’s face when she’d first arrived. He imagined Slade was seeing the same look on his face now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WHY IS THE message light flashing on the answering machine?” Becca asked Truman the morning after the barn came down.

  She was a little late because she’d talked to her lawyer on Agnes’s house phone. Hank still didn’t know what opposing counsel was up to, and was glad to hear everything in Harmony Valley was going well. His definition of well being that Edwin was alive and hadn’t given her any gifts. “Where were you last night that none of you could answer the phone? Did you drive into Cloverdale for ice cream?”

  “Grandpa Ed said not to answer because Flynn and I were too tired and busy to accept more work. Uncle Slade joined our crew, but we’re still not caught up.” Truman’s little face beamed. He loved being on Flynn’s repair crew. And he seemed to love being here.

  Becca couldn’t associate the boy she’d first met with this one.

  Edwin wheeled his walker around the corner of the kitchen slowly and carefully took his seat at the table. “Are we having pancakes for breakfast?”

  “You’re having oatmeal.” Becca put a steaming bowl in front of him and added a dollop of nonfat milk. “With a bowl of fruit.”

  “Not even strawberries with sugar?” Edwin’s face fell. “According to my doctor, my heart won’t get any better. Seems a shame to waste it on oatmeal.” He looked up at her hopefully. “How about a strip of bacon?”

  Truman was giggling over his pancake.

  “If you eat your oatmeal, tomorrow we’ll have turkey bacon,” Becca promised. “Now, about the messages on the machine.”

  “Word’s gotten out. Free repairs.” Edwin’s voice began with annoyance and transitioned to pride. “I raised that boy right. Flynn can’t pass a motorist without stopping to help. You’ll be the same way, Truman.” Edwin stirred his oatmeal once and then pushed the bowl away. “What else is there to eat?”

  “Oatmeal is part of a heart-healthy diet.” Becca pushed his bowl back toward Edwin. “Why doesn’t Flynn listen to the messages?”

  “We didn’t tell him,” Truman piped up. “He fell asleep on the couch last night. Grandpa Ed put the phone ringer on silent. The only way we knew there was a call was because the machine would start talking.” Truman did his best robot impersonation. “We can’t come to the phone right now.”

  “I almost had another heart attack when Felix Libby’s voice came on the loudspeaker about some broken cat contraption.” Edwin chuckled. “I made Truman put the entire thing on mute.”

  Becca turned on the phone ringer in case Flynn tried to call. “Did Flynn take your blood sugar this morning?”

  “Yes, before he left an hour ago. I took my insulin, too. Flynn was mumbling something about Mildred’s clogged bathroom sink.”

  It was official. Flynn was a saint. And saints didn’t appreciate people who withheld the truth, no matter how well intentioned. It was a good thing to remember when the naked dreams plagued her in the middle of the night.

  “First business of the day, Truman. I want you to listen to all the messages and write down all the names and telephone numbers, and whatever needs fixing.” Becca realized that at age seven, Truman might not be the best speller, but she was sure if he didn’t take good notes, someone would call back.

  Edwin played with his oatmeal some more before pushing the bowl away again. “Second business of the day is a trip to Cloverdale. I realize the world has advanced beyond the typewriter, but I couldn’t wait for Flynn to loan you his computer any longer. I typed up the letters and envelopes last night. All I need is postage.”

  Becca scrambled for a delay tactic, something to postpone the mailing until she could reach Flynn. Flat tire? Hot day? Busy schedule? Yes, their schedule. “We can’t go into Cloverdale, you have therapy this morning.”

  “I called and cancelled. This is more important.”

  “Edwin!”

  He looked up at her, a wry half grin on his face. “I’m an adult. I make my own decisions.”

  But how the court viewed his decisions and what Becca did to help or hinder them was another thing entirely. One that could cost her her career.

  * * *

  “THIS GUY LOOKS like he’s ready to subpoena somebody,” Slade said.

  Flynn and Dane looked up.

  They were expecting the building inspector to review their cleanup on the demolition. They couldn’t start new construction until they passed inspection.

  The man who got out of the nondescript minivan immediately set Flynn’s teeth on edge. He wore a cheap, rumpled suit and tie, but accessorized it with a calculating smile, as if he was assessing the net worth of everyone he saw. “I’m looking for Flynn Harris.” But he looked right at Flynn.

  “That’s me.” Out of the corner of his eye, Flynn saw Joey amble closer. He flashed Joey a shutter-quick frown meant to convey the eavesdropping and meddling needed to stop.

  Joey ignored him and came closer still, his nose twitching like Abby’s when she evaluated a stranger.

  “I’m Wes Webber.” The suit pulled out his business card and handed it to Flynn. “Private investigator. Can I talk to you alone?”

  If anything, Joey got twitchier.

  Something wasn’t right. Flynn led the man over to the far curve of the driveway, leaving Joey, Slade and Dane huddling together like gossipy old women.

  “What’s this about?” Flynn demanded. But Flynn could guess. It was Joey. He’d stolen something.

  “Rebecca MacKenzie.” Webber paused, cataloging Flynn’s reaction.

  Flynn didn’t disappoint. He took a step back, needing to shore up his equilibrium. “Becca?”

  The rumpled suit nodded. “She worked for my client’s grandmother. There’s a question of missing funds.”

  Flynn felt his protective hackles rise, but he said nothing. Because to say anything was to admit he knew something. He wasn’t Joey Harris’s kid for nothing.

  Webber studied Flynn as if he was an outdated display at the Tech Museum. “I went by your house just now, but there was no one home.”

  Flynn looked quickly around the driveway, as if expecting to see his grandfather’s Caddy, but it wasn’t there and hadn’t been. He’d told Becca not to take his grandfather out. He’d told her to let
him know when they had to go out. He’d told her, and she hadn’t listened.

  Unless she’d taken him to the hospital.

  Flynn ground his teeth together tight enough to pop a filling.

  “Ten thousand dollars in missing funds,” Webber was saying. “I’m building a case against her.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” There was no way Flynn should be upset with this man. He was only doing his job. It was Becca who’d put herself into the position of being accused. She’d probably accepted the money under the stress of impending loss and the feeling of being part of the old woman’s family. Flynn should be mad at her. Instead, he wanted to deck Webber.

  “I hear she’s taking care of your grandfather.”

  Flynn wasn’t going to make it easy on the guy. “Meaning...”

  Webber held up his hands and looked at Flynn as if he was a sucker about to get his palm read at the local fair. “I don’t imply anything. I seek out the facts to back up crimes. And I’m good at my job. Rebecca’s case is going to pretrial in a few weeks and I’m going to collect as much evidence and testimony as I can against her. She’s a master manipulator. Everyone she’s worked for thinks she really cares about people.”

  “She does care. She cares too much. Don’t come by my house. Ever. Again.” The accusations alone would give his grandfather a heart attack.

  Flynn handed Webber his card, but the private investigator stepped away and laughed.

  He laughed as if he knew something Flynn didn’t. “Keep it. You’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  BECCA SLIPPED OUT the screen door with Abby when she heard Flynn’s truck parking in the driveway. The midday sun glared off Flynn’s windshield. She held up a hand to shade her eyes, but still couldn’t see his face.

  She heard Flynn get out of his truck, blinked at him when he came closer, still in a haze of sunlight and whispered, “They’re napping. Your lunch is on the back porch.” And then she turned to go back inside, intending to change Edwin’s sheets.

  Flynn had other plans. He captured her hand and led her along the wraparound porch.