Dandelion Wishes (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

“W
HAT
A
BEAUTIFUL
day,” Granny Rose said cheerfully the next morning, pouring Emma a cup of coffee. She wore white slacks, a crimson button-down cotton shirt and snowy Princess Leia braids over each ear. The agitation and paranoia of the night before were gone. “Our garden club is going to the San Francisco Botanical Garden. Although there might be a shower or two here today, the weather in the city will be spectacular.”

“No!” The word burst out of Emma with a heave that sent her stomach pitching in panic. She’d tossed and turned all night waiting until morning came. “I need you here while I make phone calls.” To her mother and the doctor. “And what about the winery initiative? Are you giving up the fight?”

“I’m not taking a day off. I’m picking my battles and my battlefield.” Granny Rose set Emma’s coffee cup on the table and then sat down opposite her, so calm and unlike the restless, suspicious woman from the night before. “Besides, Will’s not getting my vote. I made that very clear last night.”

“He won’t back down.”

Granny Rose laughed. “Will can’t get anything approved without three votes. It’s a stalemate. Larry and me versus Agnes and Mildred.”

“What if Larry caves in?”

“He won’t.”

“What if he does?”

“Mildred is practically blind. She couldn’t see how wrong Will’s ideas were. She’s in charge of the Spring Festival. Where will she hold it if the town square becomes the size of her carport? Besides, Agnes and Mildred are going into the city with me today.” Granny Rose came over to hug Emma, bringing the scent of rose water with her. “Who knows? I could sway them back to no growth. It’s a long car ride. What are you doing after you visit with Tracy? Something creative I hope.” She pulled out a coloring book from beneath a stack of mail on the table and pushed it toward Emma. Her grandmother had scattered the books around the house, believing the simplest creative exercise fed deeper artistic expression.

With a sigh, Emma dutifully flipped through the coloring book, recognizing some of the pages she’d meticulously filled in when she was younger. Much, much younger.

When she held the coloring book, Emma didn’t feel the same trepidation she did when she held a paintbrush. A small victory over fear, but a victory nonetheless. Suddenly, she was reluctant to let the book go. She could feel a crayon or pencil inside the newsprint pages and was struck with the urge to color something.

“Don’t look like it’s the end of the world. That dear girl will forgive you. I know it. Now, I hope you make time for your muse.” Granny Rose took one of Emma’s hands in hers. “I look forward to seeing what you’ve done when I get back. It’s been too long since the world has experienced an Emma Willoughby work of art.”

The world would have to wait a lot longer.

Someone honked in the driveway.

“That’ll be Agnes.” Granny gathered her purse and camera. “I’ll be back in time to make dinner. Toodles!”

After finishing her coffee, Emma took out the bike. But instead of heading for Parish Hill, where she might encounter Will, she rode out East Street and crisscrossed town. She needed some exercise before making her calls. And she hoped the ride would calm her nerves before she went to see Tracy.

Emma pedaled past abandoned homes with knee-high weeds in front, past tidy vineyards and green pastures filled with plump sheep, past charming little houses with flowers blooming around garden gnomes and plaster fairies. The houses in Harmony Valley were a hodgepodge of eras and styles—Victorian, arts-and-crafts bungalows, cottages and the more recent one-story ranch-style home. But none of them looked like a corporate California mission.

If Will had his way, the character of the town would change into something sterile and soulless. If Will had his way, Emma’s well of inspiration would be poisoned, and she and Tracy would never rekindle their friendship.

Will would not have his way.

* * *

S
HORTLY
AFTER
EIGHT
, Emma had talked to Granny Rose’s doctor. He’d said it sounded like Sundowner’s Syndrome, a form of dementia exacerbated by stress and fatigue with symptoms that manifested themselves mostly at the end of the day. But he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to see Rose and agreed to have his nurse call her tomorrow to make an appointment under the guise of a checkup. In the meantime, Emma was to make sure her grandmother got plenty of rest and avoided stress.

When she hung up the phone, Emma knew what she had to do—stop Will’s mission-style mother ship from landing in Harmony Valley so her grandmother wouldn’t have to.

Emma next left a voice mail for her mother, updating her on Granny Rose and the doctor’s opinion, and asking her to please, please, please call the house.

And then the doubt set in. What if Mr. Blonkowski
was
coordinating the winery campaign? Perhaps he didn’t realize how upsetting it was to Rose. Emma had gone to school with Flynn, Mr. B.’s grandson, who’d witnessed Rose’s episode. Perhaps she could persuade Flynn to stop being such a radical agent of change.

And so, at eight-thirty, Emma knocked on Edwin Blonkowski’s door. She had barely enough time to squeak in a visit with Mr. B. and Flynn before her visit with Tracy at nine.

“Emma.” Mr. B. shuffled to his screen door in a pair of stained blue coveralls, leaning heavily on a cane. His hair was salty, his nose more bulbous than ever, but his blue eyes were as sharp as they’d been eight years earlier. “How are you?”

Before she could decide how or what to ask, Mr. B. had a question of his own. “Do you remember the painting you did of Flynn all those years ago?”

“Vaguely.” Of all the things she wanted to discuss, painting hadn’t made the list. She hid her hands in the drape of her long skirt.

“I still have it in my bedroom. Would you like to see it?”

And torture herself by examining one of her early works? Not really. “About the winery...”

But Mr. B. was already shuffling down the hall, leaving Emma out on the porch. She heard him moving around in the back of the house. And then something clattered to the floor.

“Mr. B.? Are you all right?” Emma opened the screen door, stepping onto the black-and-white linoleum in the foyer. “Is Flynn home?”

“I’m fine,” Mr. B. called. “I knocked over some books trying to get the picture down.”

To her left, in the living room, a muted rerun of some game show played on the television. To her right, a map covered the kitchen table. Emma drifted closer, her Indian print, ankle-length skirt swishing with each step. She’d loved those yellowed maps as a kid. Mr. B. had marked battles and enemy lines on them and in the process brought history to life.

But this wasn’t an old war map. This was a map of Harmony Valley. Houses were highlighted in blue and orange and yellow. Mrs. Chambers’s cottage in blue. Granny Rose’s house in orange. Yellow sticky notes on several houses were labeled with dates and times. Those with today’s date were on the east side of Harmony Valley. 9:00 a.m. Ten. Eleven. Drinks with Mayor Larry at El Rosal. And so on. Each appointment had a name scribbled beneath it. Flynn. Slade. Will. Sometimes a combination of the three.

Granny Rose was right. Mr. B. was directing the offensive with the precision of General MacArthur. Harmony Valley wasn’t prepared for such an onslaught. The combined forces of Will and his friends plus Flynn’s grandfather would demolish the charming town and build it into something cold and industrial.

Anger shuddered like cracking ice beneath Emma’s skin, freezing her limbs until she stood with rigid indecisiveness over the map. She wanted to rip it into tiny pieces, scattering its shreds into the river. But that wouldn’t stop them.

Emma couldn’t break her gaze away from the orange highlighting Granny Rose’s home. Her grandmother had been marked as the enemy. All those years ago Mr. B. had been adamant about one thing—wars had been lost when generals didn’t understand their adversary. He’d used examples from history where guerilla warfare had led to successful coups, because no one could predict the opposition’s tactics in advance. No one knew what the opposing army was willing to sacrifice to win.

A declaration of war unfurled its battle flag in Emma’s chest, sending resolve spreading like the warming rays of dawn.

Mr. B. knew Granny Rose, but he didn’t know Emma, as well. Not the adult Emma anyway. She’d lead the guerilla forces. Well...an immovable force of one.

It was a little after eight-thirty. Emma was due to see Tracy at nine. At one, Will would be out at... Emma leaned over. Felix Libby’s house. And then—

Something else tumbled to the floor at the rear of the house.

“Mr. B.? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine. I finally got the wire free.”

Emma drifted back to the foyer and pretended to watch TV, her mind busy planning her next move.

Mr. B. shuffled down the hall, about as intimidating in appearance as a character on Sesame Street. Emma knew better. She wanted to rail against him for betraying Harmony Valley, but before she could say anything, he handed her a framed, dusty canvas. Apprehension hit the pause button on honorable intentions.

Emma took the painting gingerly, afraid of dropping it, willing her hands not to shake. Her eyes followed the brushstrokes first—too short and heavy. The colors in the painting clashed; the blue of his eyes too rich, Flynn’s reddish-brown hair too bright. There was too much background and not enough of her subject. Even then she’d been fascinated with landscapes.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She’d tried to paint Flynn winding up for a pitch. She’d gotten his body proportions wrong—too much butt, not enough torso. Yet, from what she remembered, she’d captured Flynn’s determined expression—the tug of his chin to the right, the tense set to his mouth, the young, piercing gaze of a fierce competitor.

Emma wanted to close her eyes and bring back that feeling of joy she’d had when painting; she wanted to hum to herself as she led her brush in a soft caress over the canvas. Her ears felt like they were being stuffed with cotton and her hands trembled. If she didn’t collect herself soon, she’d be in no shape to talk to Tracy.

Emma gave the painting back to Mr. B., a bittersweet pang of regret making her fingers numb and cold.

“It’s my favorite picture.” Mr. B.’s gruff voice filtered through the cotton in her ears.

“I’m glad you enjoy it. About the winery—”

“I’m sorry change upsets your grandmother.” The older man’s expression was reserved. “But change has to happen if the town is to survive. You want Harmony Valley to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course, but—”

“And you realize that every choice has a cost, every path chosen sacrifices something down another road?”

“Yes, but—”

His broad smile challenged his bulbous nose for prominence on his face. “Then the boys can count on your support. Now, you’d best be on your way. You don’t want to be late to see Tracy.”

“How did you—”

“There are no secrets in Harmony Valley. I can assure you that will never change.”

“Some things should change,” Emma muttered after she left, turning down the river path that would lead her to Tracy.

* * *

“I
WANT
. Y
OU
.
To go.” Tracy resisted stomping her feet. That would make her look childish. She resisted tugging her jeans up higher on her rail-thin hips. That would make her look weak. Lacking polished speech, she had to carefully control the visual impressions she made, especially with her brother.

Will leaned against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

“Dad left.” Tracy had told her father she wanted to speak to Emma alone, and he’d gone to pick up fertilizer in Santa Rosa. He wouldn’t be back for hours.

Emma was due to arrive any minute and Tracy didn’t want Will chaperoning. He’d kept Emma from her for six months. Six months! It felt like a lifetime. A lifetime without the friend who’d kept her secrets and shared her dreams.

The aching loneliness. The gut-clenching worry. The raging anger. No one understood what she was going through. But Emma would. She wouldn’t talk to Tracy like she was a child. And because of that, speech would come easier to Tracy. She imagined words tumbling out of her mouth as quickly as laughter.

“Why. Can’t—”

“Are you sure you want to see her?”

Tracy made a sound that was half growl, half yowl. She hated how Will always doubted Emma. She hated aphasia and the fact that she couldn’t string together a quick argument. She could sing along with rapper Pitbull in her head, but open her mouth and it was as if she couldn’t crank her brain’s handle fast enough to pump out the words.

Hot tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks. She blinked and turned away from Will, snatching up her notepad and pen, scratching out a message.

Tracy shoved the notepad beneath Will’s nose.

I want to talk to Emma alone.

Because she needed Emma to help her escape from Will and Harmony Valley. She’d decided to return to their San Francisco apartment.

With barely a glance at her scribbled command, Will shook his head.

“Leave. Me—”

“I’m not leaving you alone. You’re not sure you want to see her. I can tell.”

The way Will tried to read her mind and finished her sentences made her feel stupid. In the eyes of her brother, Tracy was handicapped, disabled, incapable of living independently. Tracy felt as insignificant as a plain number two pencil in a mechanical pencil world. “No!”

But the truth was, she didn’t know. Tracy had been dozing in the passenger seat. And yesterday—

“Don’t forget Emma was dancing yesterday. When was the last time you danced?”

Tracy’s breath hitched. To keep from speaking, she ground her teeth. Her brother didn’t need to know what had happened the night before the accident. They’d been in Las Vegas, after all.

Someone knocked at the door.

Tracy glared at him. One last command for him to leave.