Dandelion Wishes

by Melinda Curtis

  He should have kissed Emma out of his system days ago. Now he’d have that tension buzzing between them as they worked out their differences for the town’s future. That take-my-time kiss he’d taunted Emma with was going to be an empty threat, something he’d think about on his deathbed, pondering if it was his biggest regret or his greatest triumph.

  “Why can’t you present the town with a contract saying you won’t sell?” Emma demanded, gaining steam. “Is making a buck at the expense of this place that important to you?”

  Slade shook his head. “Not good business.”

  “Boys!”

  Everyone looked at Flynn’s grandfather.

  “Boys, you’re forgetting our strategic advantages.” Edwin pounded his cane on the carpet. “You’ve already commissioned plans to renovate the buildings while keeping their charm. You’ve already decided to scale back production. You’ve got a talented artist at your disposal. She can design the float to showcase these things.”

  Will wasn’t convinced. “And the vote? How can we control the vote?”

  “There will be three floats in addition to yours—one from the Ladies Auxiliary, one from the Lions Club and one from the veterans.” Edwin pounded his cane again. “Those three floats don’t change from year to year. Our residents are too old to crawl around on a trailer and risk breaking a hip. Your float doesn’t have to be good enough to enter in Pasadena’s Rose Parade to win.”

  “That’s all?” Flynn asked dubiously.

  Edwin’s smile widened until it looked to be cradling his rather large nose. “No. We have one more advantage. In case of a tie, the Grand Marshal casts a vote.”

  “And Tracy’s the Grand Marshal.” Slade smiled slyly at Will.

  “You can’t cheat,” Emma said.

  “They won’t need to.” Edwin gestured toward Emma. “Your talent is enough to win it for them.”

  Emma exchanged stares with Will. His dared her to paint. Hers dared him to admit she couldn’t.

  “So we’re agreed. We have two weeks to prove our case,” Flynn said.

  “And we walk away if we don’t get approval by then,” Slade added.

  They both turned to Will, who tore his gaze away from Emma and agreed.

  “Forget for a moment that Slade can’t be trusted not to bail on the town if a bigger winery makes you an offer,” Emma said later, as Will walked her home along the fragrant riverbank. “I didn’t agree to help.”

  “You could have refused at any time, just like Tracy could have refused your Grand Marshal nomination.”

  “You could have told them,” Emma complained, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as if that was the only thing holding her together. “I can’t do this.”

  “The Emma of old would have at least tried.” Will put an arm over her shoulder. She smelled of roses and fresh air and felt like a tightly wound clock whose springs were about to snap. Every muscle beneath his arm was tense.

  “Like you’ve tried to reassure the town with anything other than your word?”

  “Slade is my business partner. I can’t guarantee anything but my intent.”

  She made a frustrating noise. “You shouldn’t put your arm around me.”

  “I’m not going to kiss you.” Not that the idea was far from his mind. “You looked cold.”

  “I’m not cold. I’m upset. I’m backed into a corner I can’t get out of, even if I wanted to.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  She made that frustrated sound again.

  They veered off a side path toward Rose’s Victorian, walking in silence until they got to the porch steps. Emma turned to face him, sliding from beneath his arm.

  “This is going to be a disaster. We’ll both be free to leave in two weeks.” She sounded relieved. “We’ll go about our separate lives, me to pursue my art and you to do whatever it is you’ll do next. My mother’s trial will probably be over. She’ll swoop in and bully my grandmother into a safer environment with people who’ll watch over her. It’ll be for the best, but it’ll break her heart.” She turned toward the stairs.

  “Wait.” He reached for her hand. “You want Rose to live here forever?”

  Her brows furrowed. “If it was possible, yes. I can’t see her living anywhere else. Can you?”

  “I can.” He tugged her closer until their feet were almost touching. Not because he intended to kiss her, but because upheaval in a family was hard. She might need a supportive hug. One friend to another. “I can see her staging a production of South Pacific in a retirement center.”

  Emma’s grin was reward enough for not kissing her. His hands were only sliding up her arms to make their good-night hug quicker.

  Emma’s grin faded. “Will?” A whisper.

  His hands reached her shoulders. His fingers traced along her collarbone, coming to rest on her neck. All he had to do was drop his arms around her shoulders to give her that friendly hug.

  Instead, his fingers reached upward until his palms cupped her cheeks.

  “Will?” Emma whispered again, her dark eyes luminous in the porch light.

  He leaned closer. A hug and a kiss on the cheek. An appropriate good-night between friends.

  Her eyes drifted closed and he experienced his first twinge of trouble.

  His lips brushed hers. A light caress. Still chaste. Still friendly.

  Except he couldn’t seem to draw his mouth away from hers.

  And Emma’s arms slid tentatively around his waist.

  Their kiss danced on the edge of exploration. On a sigh and the hint of a dream he’d once had.

  The front door opened, dousing them in light. “Emma?”

  Emma sprang back and darted up the stairs. She called good-night over her shoulder, her footsteps echoing on wood, echoing in his heart.

  Now he had his answer.

  If he never kissed Emma again, it’d be one of his great regrets on his deathbed.

  * * *

  WHEN WILL GOT home, the heat of Emma’s kiss a fresh memory on his lips, his father was ensconced in his recliner reading the paper as if everything was normal. As if Will’s world hadn’t been tilted even further off its axis.

  “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

  EMMA 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.”