Summer Kisses. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ She wanted the chance to mention to one of the men starting the winery that her granddaughter, Christine, was an award-winning winemaker. She wanted the chance to mention that her daughter, Joanna, loved dealing with the public and might enjoy working in the tasting room. But she didn’t want to appear as if she was asking for any favors.

      She didn’t want to be one of those old women who schemed and manipulated.

      But if it was all she had left...

      * * *

      EDWIN WAS QUIET on the ride home. Abby rested her head on his shoulder. He squinted frequently into the side-view mirror, as if checking to see if someone was following them.

      “Here we are at your house, safe and sound.” Becca tried to sound reassuring. At her last job, Harold’s edema had caused bouts of disorientation, especially when the old man was tired. A little grounding and reassurance were called for. “Are you expecting someone? Perhaps the person you saw back at the winery?”

      “No. I thought I saw... But it couldn’t be.”

      “Well, we’re the only ones here now.”

      Abby was their chaperone as they made their way into the house, waiting patiently as they paused on each porch step so Edwin could catch his breath.

      “You don’t have to fuss over me. I was military intelligence.” Settling into his recliner, Edwin smiled with the half of his face unaffected by the stroke. “Although you couldn’t tell by looking at this old body, I directed campaigns and prevented wars.”

      Becca could have guessed the old man’s profession by looking around the house. Edwin’s good deeds had been acknowledged and rewarded with framed ornate military accommodations and medals. He’d be remembered as an honorable war hero, while she...

      Becca’s composure wavered like a flag in a hostile breeze. How would she be remembered? As a compassionate woman who helped the elderly she cared for? Or—as Virginia O’Dell’s family accused—a woman who took advantage?

      She never should have given Agnes that ruby ring. But how could she refuse Harold’s dying request to prove he’d never stopped loving Agnes? Becca’s protests to him about amending his will went nowhere.

      It was the look on Agnes’s face that made the risk worth it. The delight she’d tried to hide that a former lover had remembered her, tears she couldn’t conceal when emotions overwhelmed her—grief, joy, regret, happiness. She’d hugged Becca as if she’d delivered Harold himself into her arms.

      Just for a moment, Becca felt she belonged somewhere again. She’d welcomed the invitation to spend the weekend, hanging out with Agnes and her energetic friends. Baking banana nut muffins and singing show tunes.

      A cool breeze coming off the river fluttered through the screen. Becca draped a deep green afghan over Edwin, who was staring at Flynn’s graduation picture. His eyes were hooded, haunted. She rearranged the pillows beneath his feet and stepped back to survey her work, pausing to pat Abby’s head. “Who did you think you saw back there?”

      “Someone from the past.” Edwin lisped slightly more than he had yesterday, a sign the morning’s events had taxed his strength.

      Abby padded over to the door, circled a spot on the foyer’s black and white linoleum twice and lay down with a contented grunt.

      Becca sat on the blue plaid couch. Dust puffed out of the cushions. She knew she shouldn’t pry, but something was bothering Edwin, and she hated when her clients weren’t mentally and physically at ease. “Was it someone from Flynn’s past? Or yours?”

      Edwin’s gaze ricocheted to Becca’s. Difficult as it was in the chair, he thrust his chest forward, and his shoulders back. “I didn’t say.”

      “Of course, you didn’t,” Becca soothed. “It’s none of my business.” But she wondered nonetheless as she stared at the divots in the orange carpet marking where the coffee table had recently been moved. “Have you had breakfast? Do you like scrambled eggs?”

      Edwin sighed. “I can make my own breakfast.”

      Not hardly, in his weakened state.

      “It’s okay to ask for help or accept a little help while you’re on the mend.” Why was independence the hardest thing for seniors to give up? When Becca was eighty, she wouldn’t put up a fuss if someone wanted to cook for her.

      “I’ve never asked for help and I’m not starting now.” Edwin glanced toward the remote resting on the end table nearest him, just out of reach. “Could you turn on the television?”

      Becca laughed. Edwin quickly realized he’d asked for help and did, too.

      As their laughter died away, Edwin stared at Flynn’s picture again. Worry etched a stockpile of wrinkles around his eyes. She’d seen that look before—in the eyes of her mother, her grandmother, and most recently, Harold Epstein.

      “Sometimes...” Becca tried to stop herself. She didn’t need any more trouble. But stress hindered recovery, and knowing Edwin had been in military intelligence, he probably had plenty of secrets, perhaps ones he still kept from Flynn, perhaps ones he didn’t really want to take to his grave. She suspected he needed an outlet, a sympathetic ear, a keeper of secrets. Not her, of course. She’d made that mistake before and look where it’d gotten her. “Sometimes you might need help of a different kind. For example, you might want to get something off your chest or need help sorting through a box you stored in the attic.”

      There was a wounded quality to Edwin’s gaze that indicated Becca’s words struck a target the old man may not have realized he’d been harboring.

      “Mostly, you should ask for a hand when you’re unsteady. The rest of it—” the bucket list, the last wishes, the people he needed to make peace with. There was no hurry except to unburden himself. According to town gossip, he had years left in him “—just know that Flynn can help you if you talk to him.” That was good. She didn’t need to get involved.

      Perhaps things would have turned out differently with Harold if he’d had a family member he was willing to confide in, instead of a daughter who considered him an inconvenience.

      “Flynn’s too busy to talk now,” Edwin said gruffly. “We’re going on a trip in three months. I’ll talk to him then.”

      That seemed a long wait for an old man.

      “We used to sit out on the porch every night and talk, weather permitting.” Edwin shook a puffy finger at her. “Traditions are important in this family and in this town. I want traditions to live on. Like celebrating the successes of your neighbors every spring or walking the girl you’re courting home and kissing her good-night on the Harmony River bridge.”

      “Did you follow that tradition?” she teased.

      The old man had the sweetest blush. She was glad the world and Flynn weren’t losing him just yet. “A good man doesn’t kiss and tell. But I’ll tell you this—I would never replace a good-night kiss on a bridge with a good-night text message or whatever it is young people do nowadays.”

      “I used to use Skype with my husband every morning when he was overseas.” Becca’s gaze caught on the picture over the fireplace of a young Edwin and his bride. Edwin wore his СКАЧАТЬ