Dandelion Wishes. Melinda Curtis

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      CHAPTER FIVE

      THERE WAS NOTHING Emma disliked more than being made to feel she was a shrew. And that was what arguing with Will did to her.

      She’d apologized to him twice, but he still treated her as if she’d pointed a gun at Tracy and pulled the trigger. It left a bleak, bottomless sensation in her belly. Oh, she’d like to blame Will for that feeling, but her guilt was the cause, not Mr. Perfect’s lack of forgiveness. She shouldn’t care that he’d refused her attempt to apologize twice. The only absolution that should matter was Tracy’s.

      Emma outran the emptiness as best she could. She’d biked back to Granny Rose’s, driven the riding mower over the half-acre lawn and pulled some stubborn weeds out of the small vegetable garden. She’d called her mom and left a voice mail about Granny Rose, requesting a callback that probably wouldn’t come for days. In the middle of a murder trial, her defense-attorney mother only dealt with life-threatening emergencies. Granny Rose being Granny Rose didn’t qualify.

      Emma didn’t want the easel but she couldn’t stand the thought of Granny Rose climbing up the rickety attic stairs and wrestling it down, either, so she carried it to her room. And just to punish herself, she put a fresh canvas on it, got out her sketching pencil and stood like a statue, left hand hovering unsteadily over the canvas.

      Since she was a little girl, she’d loved to color, draw and paint. She lost herself in the process of creation, her senses taking in the scene she was trying to capture to an internal soundtrack that was sometimes soothing, sometimes lively and always passionate. But now all she heard was the repercussion of a diesel engine bearing down on her, the trumpet of brakes locking. She was aware of sliding, losing control and the uneven rasp of Tracy’s struggle to live.

      She couldn’t imagine Will losing himself in a moment. He noticed everything, as he held himself with a rigid grace the Renaissance masters would have loved to paint. If Will was naked.

      Not that Emma wanted to imagine him without clothes. She didn’t sketch or paint people and she certainly shouldn’t be imagining her best friend’s brother in his birthday suit. But the seed had taken flight, just like her dandelion wish. And instead of mentally planning out the foggy-morning image of Harmony Valley’s bridge before moving her pencil, she found herself dwelling on the golden glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the elegant taper of tan shoulders to his waist, the bunch and release of his quads as he ran uphill. But even those vivid images didn’t liberate her talent, or free her hand, or quiet the internal wail of frustration when the canvas remained blank.

      Granny Rose believed Emma could overcome this block. Emma wasn’t so sure. Even as she stood there, her breath came in labored, near-panicked gasps, and not just because her art had deserted her.

      What if Tracy never forgave her?

      * * *

      “WE USED TO eat ice cream with girls on that bench under the oak tree.” Slade stood at the northern corner of the town square, fiddling with a solemn black tie. He hadn’t looked at Will all morning as they’d called on various residents and discussed the benefits the winery would bring the town. “I haven’t seen anyone under there since we’ve been back.”

      The midmorning sun warmed what had been a brisk spring breeze, bringing with it the smell of chicken grilling at El Rosal, the one restaurant left in town.

      Tracy wandered over to the wrought-iron bench beneath the town square’s lone oak tree.

      In his memory, Will saw Tracy as she’d been a year ago—a glow to her cheeks and clothes that didn’t hang off her petite frame.

      He thought of Emma’s determination to see his sister, regardless of who got hurt; all the ways Slade couldn’t hide his despair at being alone; Tracy’s resentment; the town’s resistance. His worries stacked on each other until the possibility of failure weighed down his shoulders and dragged at his heels.

      Will hadn’t found an opportunity all morning to mend his rift with either his sister or Slade. They had a bit of time to kill before their next appointment. He opened his mouth to apologize.

      And Flynn interrupted. “The ice cream parlor closed when I was in high school.” Flynn gazed wistfully into the window of the empty corner shop as he adjusted his Giants cap over his tangle of reddish-brown hair. “Maybe we should open an ice cream parlor instead of a winery. It’d make Rose happier.”

      Will rolled his shoulders back and crossed his arms over his chest. When the stakes involved his sister, he stood firm. The winery would succeed. “Harmony Valley is at the end of the road. Who’s going to drive this far for ice cream?”

      “How about gelato?” Flynn grinned. “I’d bring a date out here for gelato.”

      “You aren’t very discerning in your women or the places you take them.” A hint of a smile slipped past Slade’s bad mood.

      “We need to focus on the winery and related businesses. That’s the only way to attract significant outside revenue when Harmony Valley is about as convenient to the rest of the county as the sun is to Uranus.”

      “Ouch. Okay, I give.” Flynn held up his hands, exchanging a look with Slade that seemed to say Will needed to be humored.

      “A lot of people are going to come to the council meeting tonight.” Will forced himself to uncross his arms and draw a breath. “If enough of them speak on our behalf, we might sway Mayor Larry or Rose.”

      “If people speak positively.” Slade fingered his tie, the movement taunting Will like a red flag in front of a bull. “You’ve lost your perspective. Admit it. This isn’t about saving the town. It’s about you overcoming another challenge, proving something to us or your dad or someone.”

      “Prove?” Will sputtered. “I love the smell of success the same as the next guy, but this has nothing to do with my ego. We made a commitment to—”

      “You committed!” Slade’s words burst out as if he’d been holding them in too long. “I’ve been crunching numbers and waiting to see how this plays out. But I’ve said all along that wineries are a money suck. I’m all for a tax shelter, but not this one. If I had my way, Harmony Valley would be a ghost town.” Slade stopped and turned away, as if he’d said too much. But then he added in a muted voice, “You should feel the same way after losing your mom here.”

      Will followed Slade’s gaze to the skeleton of a grain silo visible over the treetops. The Harmony Valley Grain Company had been the primary employer in the small town until the grain elevator had exploded, killing Will’s mother and three others. The company had closed before the embers were cold, forcing the workforce to move, other businesses to fold, schools to shut down and leaving nothing behind but cash settlements to grieving families.

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