скачать книгу бесплатно
“You’ve got a way to go until you can live on your own again.” Much as it worried Will to think about Tracy living alone, odds were against him being able to protect her forever. But if things worked out the way he wanted here in Harmony Valley, those odds evened out.
Her scowl intensified. “My. Car.”
Will shook his head. “Doctor’s orders. No driving.”
Tracy opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but closed it again and stomped off toward her room. A door slammed, shaking the entire house. Shaking Will’s resolve.
The family portrait over the fireplace tilted. His mother, immortalized at age thirty-nine, gave him a lopsided, infectious smile. He set the family photo to rights, wishing it was as easy to right the rifts in the family and keep everyone safe.
Will’s father Ben came in through the kitchen door carrying a large duffel bag with Tracy’s belongings. His boots and faded jeans showed the wear and tear of years working on the farm. “Where’s Tracy?”
“In her room.”
Ben put the duffel on the scarred kitchen table. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the sink. “Give her time. She went from being an independent, healthy woman to someone who’s had to depend on others for everything.”
“She shouldn’t have gone to that conference in Las Vegas with Emma.” Just the thought of Emma Willoughby induced chest-tightening resentment. She’d walked away from the car accident unscathed.
“Son, I know you want to protect your sister, but people have got to make their own choices.” Ben rubbed a hand back and forth over his thinning blond-gray hair. “I was wrong to let you shut Emma out. I was afraid of losing Tracy. But now—”
“There’s only one choice here, Dad.” There would be no repeat mistakes. No playing with fire. “Aren’t you even the least bit angry at Emma for what’s happened to Tracy?”
“Of course I’m angry. It isn’t fair, what Tracy’s going through. But those girls have been friends since they were toddlers.” His father leaned against the sink, watching Will sit at the head of the kitchen table. “Where one went, the other followed. And oftentimes, they followed you.”
“Tracy’s not following Emma anymore.” The first thing Will had done upon learning the details of the accident was ban Emma from the hospital. The road had been clear, the day sunny, Tracy dozing in the passenger seat. There were no drugs or alcohol in Emma’s system. She hadn’t been on the phone or texting. And yet, Emma had crashed the car. She was to blame, the same as he knew Harmony Valley Grain was at fault for his mother’s death. “Emma’s too much like her grandmother. Too irresponsible.”
“I like Rose. Nobody can say that old girl doesn’t live life to the fullest. Tracy and Emma have always done the same.” Ben arched faded eyebrows. “Maybe you ought to try it.”
“Yes, because look where it got Tracy. Responsibility comes before fun.” That was how Will had become a millionaire so quickly. And now he was determined to help revitalize his hometown before he increased his fortune further. If only Rose could be made to see that change wasn’t a four-letter word. “Rose may be on the town council, but she doesn’t understand her responsibilities. She won’t even consider our proposal to rezone the Henderson property for a winery.”
“Sometimes it takes more subtlety than a hammer, son. You and your friends tried to ram change on Rose like an unexpected enema.”
That was an image Will didn’t want to contemplate. “Two members of the town council asked us to develop a business and jump-start the local economy. They should have told Rose they wanted to bring some life to this town. How is this my fault?”
Will, Flynn Harris and Slade Jennings had struck gold a few months ago when they’d sold their popular farming app for millions. They’d returned to their childhood home to decompress before coming up with their next big idea. But life in the one-gas-station town moved slower than the Harmony River. If cell-phone service was spotty, internet connections were an urban myth. The population was almost solely comprised of retirees who lacked skill and comfort with technology. Withdrawal from work and the world left Will and his friends sleepless, jittery and irritable. And most concerning? They hadn’t come up with a new app idea.
The winery was a solution to everything—their burnout and boredom, the town’s nearly nonexistent economy and Will’s dilemma about a way to protect Tracy in case her brain damage was permanent.
“I don’t see why you can’t take over here and make a living being a real farmer. Generations of our people have worked this land. You should be proud of your roots.”
“Dad, for the hundredth time, I don’t want to be a farmer.” Will lived for the chaos of programming and development. He thrived on long days and longer nights challenging his brain to wrestle down code that would accomplish the impossible. Will, Flynn and Slade had spent five years living their work, programming and troubleshooting, working out of a crappy apartment in San Jose as they scraped by on the most pitiful amount of venture capitalist funding on record.
Ben scoffed. “If you start a winery, you’ll be a farmer. Or will this winery be a hobby?”
What Will hoped was for Tracy to run the winery. Using her business degree would give her purpose and keep her from being judged by anyone who assumed her IQ was tied to her halting speech. Will had to convince Tracy it was best to move home permanently. He was waiting for the right nonscowling moment to tell her.
“It’s an investment, Dad. My passion is programming.”
“A hobby, then.” His father crossed the living room to restraighten the picture over the fireplace. He didn’t turn around when he’d finished, but stared at the family portrait and the love he’d lost.
Will communicated better with his sister these days than he did with his father. The two men were never on the same wavelength and things had only become worse since the accident, when Will had taken charge of Tracy’s care. “I’m headed over to see Rose and then I’ll be at Flynn’s house.”
Ben gave a wry chuckle. “The old girl can see your agenda a mile away. You’ll never get her vote.”
“It’s Sunday.” Will shrugged, forcing an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. “Rose likes me on Sundays.”
CHAPTER TWO
HOURS AFTER LEARNING of Tracy’s release, Emma parked her car behind Granny Rose’s sea-foam-green-and-white Victorian home in Harmony Valley and climbed the creaky planked steps to the front door. As a freelance graphic artist working mostly on print advertising for magazines, Emma could work on her laptop wherever she chose, uploading her completed work when she found an internet connection. She could design in Harmony Valley for a few days, hoping she might see Tracy, and upload her work before the weekend.
After the accident, the Jacksons had been guarded, not only with who visited Tracy, but with details of Tracy’s condition. Granny Rose had learned that Tracy suffered from aphasia, but had never gotten a straight answer from Tracy’s father as to why Emma was being kept away. She’d know how best to approach the Jacksons about visiting now that her friend was home. Well, home to their hometown anyway. Next best thing to their apartment.
The welcoming aroma of pot roast and the familiar canned sound of Gene Kelly on vinyl drifted out an open window. Granny Rose didn’t have an answering machine or a cell phone. She hadn’t answered her house phone earlier and didn’t know Emma was coming.
“I’m singing in the rain. Just singing in the rain....” Gene Kelly’s voice floated beneath her grandmother’s breathless vibrato and above the shuffle of her shoes on the wooden floor. It was Sunday night and Granny Rose was reenacting one of her favorite musicals.
Emma opened the stained glass door, stepped inside and froze.
The last time she’d seen Granny Rose dance was a month ago. She’d been wearing a white silk button-down and a black pencil skirt. Fred Astaire had been spinning on the ancient phonograph.
“I’m laughing at clouds. So dark up above....” Her back to Emma, Granny Rose tipped an Elvis umbrella over her shoulder. She was wearing a pair of faded red long johns that drooped from her skinny butt. They probably would have bagged even more if her waist hadn’t been cinched into a white tutu.
Rose, in yellow duck boots, tripped and nearly fell onto the antique coffee table, sending the wood-trimmed settee skittering into the wall.
“Granny!” Emma dropped her purse and ran to steady her grandmother.
Granny Rose shrieked. She elbowed Emma in the ribs, stomped on her foot and stumbled free. Turning, she hit Emma on the head with the Elvis umbrella.
Emma crumpled beneath one of the best Sedona landscapes she’d ever painted. The orchestra swelled.
“Granny Rose.” She lifted her head. “It’s me. Emma. Your granddaughter?”
Gene Kelly closed the song softly. Granny Rose lowered the umbrella and stared in bewilderment. “Emma?”
Emma nodded. Blood pounded in her foot and at her temple. “Is that the tutu from my dance recital when I was twelve?”
Granny Rose’s gaze dropped to the stiff white tulle. She looked around the cluttered living room, taking in the phonograph needle butting against the record label. “My raincoat is at the dry cleaners.” Her breathless voice lacked its usual confidence. “Is it time for cocktails?”
“Yes.” Emma could use a stiff drink.
“I didn’t expect you.” Granny Rose steadied Emma as she stood, although the eighty-year-old needed a bit of shoring up herself. Her huffing as she caught her breath seemed to bow her shoulders. “If you stay until next weekend you can come to the Grand Marshal Selection Ceremony.”
“I’d like that,” Emma said, studying her grandmother cautiously. “Tracy moved back home today,” she added. “I was hoping—”
Someone knocked on the door.
Granny Rose straightened instantly. “I bet it’s that computer nerd again. He should know it’ll be a daisy-wilting day in winter before he gets my vote.”
“Who?”
“You know, what’s-his-name.” Rose in her duck boots headed toward the door, thrusting the Elvis umbrella ahead of her like a sword.
“No, no, no.” Emma didn’t know how a computer nerd could set Granny Rose off, but she hooked Rose’s bony elbow and spun her around. “You can’t answer the door like that.”
“It would be rude of me not to answer the door.” She spoke in a tone one could only learn from a semester at Vassar.
“I may not have been a debutant,” Emma protested, “but even I know you can’t greet guests in Grandpa’s underwear.”
Granny Rose looked at herself. Her hands flitted over the tutu. And then she handed Emma the umbrella. “Don’t be fooled by the way he looks. He’s got an agenda and he’s not above charming you out of your pants to get to me.”
* * *
IN THE TIME he and his partners had been trying to get their property rezoned for the winery, Will had encountered both support and opposition in Harmony Valley. But the real wild card was Rose Cascia. Most days, she was a hellion on wheels, running roughshod over Will’s efforts to garner support for their winery. But on Sundays...
Her Sunday-afternoon hobby involved dressing up and performing musicals in her antique-filled living room. And on Sundays, Rose was usually in a good mood and seemed happy to see him. Will always made a point to stop by.
But this Sunday, as he powered off his music and removed his iPhone earbuds, it wasn’t Rose who answered the door. It was a disheveled woman in a red dress leaning on an umbrella as if it was a cane. As soon as she saw him, she seemed to do a double take.
A warning bell went off in his head, urging him to pay attention, access his memory banks.
“I’m so glad you stopped by.” She gave him a tentative smile. “I was going to come over to your house tomorrow. So I could apologize to Tracy and your family in person.”
Memory clicked into place. He hadn’t seen her in four years. Her cheekbones were more prominent, her makeup more subtle, but her dark eyes were the same.
Emma Willoughby.
Will’s ears rang. He couldn’t help himself; he clambered for something his father disapproved of.
Retribution.
He’d waited six months to rip into Emma for nearly killing his sister. The first two weeks he’d sat at Tracy’s bedside, wondering if she was going to die from the injuries Emma’s careless driving had inflicted. And after Tracy had turned the corner to recovery, he’d spent more than five months trying to imagine every excuse Emma might give for the accident.
And yet Will stood on the porch, staring at the woman, unable to speak.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Was he all right?
“Are you kidding me?” he exploded. “No one in my family will ever be all right. Tracy came this close to dying.” Will thrust his hand in front of Emma’s face, his thumb and forefinger almost touching.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her face pale. “It was an accident.”
He drew a deep, shuddering breath and stared over Emma’s shoulder.
In the living room, the tiny wood-trimmed love seat sat cockeyed in a corner. The delicately carved walnut coffee table tilted on two legs against a bookshelf.
“Is Rose hurt?” Will pushed past her and called, “Rose? Rose, where are you?”
Rose’s voice warbled a show tune from somewhere in the back. Thank God.
“Granny’s changing.” Emma released her ribs to brush her dark bangs off her forehead with one hand, flinching. Her fingers came away bloody.
What on earth had happened in here?
Will’s conscience warred with his need for retribution. Emma would live. But she needed something to stop the bleeding and possibly an ice pack. Without asking what had happened, in two strides he was at the narrow hall table. He reached into a porcelain vase for a bandage, which Rose kept close at hand, he knew, for emergencies.
Emma stared up at him as he lifted her bangs out of the way and bandaged her wound. Her hair smelled like flowers and felt like silk. “Is Rose getting ready to perform?”
“No more performances today.” Guarded dark eyes caught his skeptical glance. She backed away to thread the umbrella carefully into the stand on one side of the door. And then she gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I’d like to visit Tracy.”
Will didn’t hesitate. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“She...she said that?”
He looked away and didn’t say anything.
“You haven’t asked her,” Emma said. It wasn’t a question. Color returned to her face in a slow creep of pink that seemed to fortify her. “You haven’t asked her, but I will.”
Will crossed to stand very close to Emma, so close he registered a green fleck in her dark chocolate eyes. “Let me be clear. My sister trusted you with her life. An apology isn’t enough, could never be enough.”
Rose swept into the room in low-heeled pumps and a black skirt that fell just below her knobby knees. Her white hair was in a tight bun. Her hard gaze landed on Will.
“I don’t think I’ve had time to tell you, Emma,” the older woman said. “But this man wants to convert Harmony Valley from a peaceful small town into a soulless tourist destination.”
So much for being welcome on Sundays.
CHAPTER THREE
WILL JACKSON KNEW how to push Emma’s buttons.
He hadn’t always. When she was a kid, he’d been her and Tracy’s reluctant rescuer. When she was a teenager, he’d been like a nosy, overprotective older brother, one who’d had the potential to be attractive, if he’d removed his braces and learned how to use hair product. And then he’d gone away to college and transformed himself into a serious hunk, determined that Tracy never have any fun.
Today, authority exuded from Will like heat waves off a summer sidewalk. He didn’t need a power suit. His navy polo and faded blue jeans couldn’t disguise the stench of carefully managed success. He had the lean, lanky body of a surfer. Only his sun-kissed gold locks were conservatively trimmed and his fierce blue eyes didn’t miss a thing. The man was well put together, handsome and heartless.
The last time Emma had seen Will was four years ago. He’d been waiting for Tracy outside their apartment. She and Tracy had just returned from a hot road trip to Tijuana for a friend’s bachelorette party. Hot being the operative word since Tracy’s air conditioner had died in Bakersfield, and the California valley was having a record heat wave. Despite short shorts, a tank top and cornrowed hair courtesy of a beach vendor, Emma’s deodorant had given out hours before and she was sweltering. She didn’t look, smell or feel like entertaining a man who was far from being her biggest fan.
Will had taken Emma in with one quick, disapproving glance, then ignored her, preferring to ream out Tracy for taking off without letting him know where she was. They’d been twenty-two, for crying out loud.
Emma understood that Will probably hated her for causing the accident, but what she’d never been able to understand was why Will had seemed to hate her in the first place. It didn’t help that she’d been a mess when he came to the door today. Since she was a teen, he’d treated her like she had the Congo Cooties.
Emma fingered the bandage beneath her bangs and sighed.
And now, according to Granny Rose, Will wanted to remake Harmony Valley. He probably planned to cancel everything that gave the small town its character, like the annual Beer Belly Serenade and pumpkin bowling for the Harvest Queen crown.
Emma sagged uncomfortably on her grandmother’s thinly padded, red-velvet settee as the strains of South Pacific’s chorus built. Even Granny Rose’s pot roast at dinner hadn’t cheered her up. There were too many unanswered questions banging about in her head: whether Granny Rose’s long-johns performance was anything to worry about; how much of a threat Will posed to Harmony Valley’s cherished way of life; if she’d ever be able to paint or sketch again; whether or not Tracy could forgive Emma for the accident.
Granny Rose sat in her rocking chair by the window, moving in time to one of her favorite musical numbers. She didn’t own a television. And she didn’t look as if she was up to answering questions. Her lids were heavy and her lined features slack.
“I bet Tracy’s happy to be home. There’s no place like Harmony Valley,” Granny Rose mused.
