Читать книгу Summer Kisses - Melinda Curtis - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

ROSE AIMED HER antique ladies birding binoculars out the window at Agnes hurrying back to the car. “Where did you get that ring?”

Drat. Agnes was hoping that her two friends wouldn’t notice the ruby ring. And Rose hadn’t until she’d retrieved her binoculars, a pair Agnes assumed would only magnify the appearance of a bird if she was standing beneath the tree it was in. And only if it was a small tree.

Agnes slid behind the wheel of her beloved Buick, a pair of binoculars draped around her neck. “I got a call from Mayor Larry. Part of the Henderson barn just collapsed.”

From the backseat, Rose gasped.

“Was anyone hurt?” Mildred lowered her own binoculars.

“No.” Agnes started the car and headed toward Jefferson Street and the Harmony River bridge. The morning sun had yet to chase away the briskness in the air. It reached through the windows and chilled Agnes to the bone.

“Agnes, about the ring?” Rose was doggedly annoying sometimes.

“Which ring?” Agnes tried to play dumb.

“The red ring as big as a stapler on your finger,” Rose said sarcastically. “Do you think I’m as blind as Mildred?”

“I take offense to that,” Mildred half turned, her eyes barely visible behind her thick lenses.

Rose huffed. “As if you noticed Agnes was wearing a new ring.”

Harold’s ruby ring glinted on Agnes’s right hand. She’d returned the engagement ring to him decades ago on the Harmony River bridge. The same day the army informed her there’d been a mistake—her husband hadn’t died in the Battle of Inchon. He’d been captured, freed and was coming home, leaving Agnes to choose between her childhood sweetheart and the man who’d picked up the pieces of her heart when she thought her first love was dead. “I can’t believe we’re talking about a ring when there’s been an accident at the winery.”

“Thank heavens no one was hurt or killed.” Suitably distracted, for now, Rose clutched the back of Agnes’s seat as she took a corner faster than usual. “Do you think they’ll realize this is an omen and quit?” Rose wasn’t a proponent of change.

“More likely they’ll realize the barn is past saving.” Mildred raised her binoculars to her thick glasses, twisting the dials for a clearer view, which was nearly impossible given Mildred was legally blind. “Sometimes you need to cut your losses and move on. No regrets, right, ladies?”

Agnes pressed her lips closed and tried not to look at the ruby ring. She had regrets aplenty. If she’d chosen Harold that day instead of honoring her wedding vows, maybe her life would have been different. She was nearly eighty and she’d never gone skydiving or driven a race car, something both of her friends had done. Her days were spent cleaning and gardening, meeting up with Mildred and Rose to go to a museum or the botanical gardens. She’d been a boring, devoted housewife, and that was no doubt why her kids and grandchildren rarely came to visit.

The ruby winked at her, reminding Agnes of all that life had to offer. She could hear Harold’s baritone whispering in her ear: come away with me.

She’d been unable to run away. She’d needed to stand by the promises she’d made. She had more promises keeping her here today, as she tried to breathe some much-needed life into Harmony Valley before it became a ghost town.

“It’s a shame when old things give out.” Rose sniffed. “I just wish this winery business would go away.”

“Rose, please.” The winery was Agnes’s only means to attract some of her family back to Harmony Valley. 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 army uniform, his chest covered with medals, his stature approachably proud. His wife wore linen and lace, an unusual heart-shaped necklace and a smile Becca recognized—that of a joyous bride on her wedding day.

In his dress blues, Terry had looked just as proud the day they’d married, and Becca just as joyful. They’d taken pictures alone at the base chapel and then more pictures surrounded by Terry’s family and friends.

Edwin noticed her staring at the photo. “Irma died nineteen years ago this July. She was volunteering at the veterans’ hospital in Santa Rosa and had a brain aneurism. They told me she never suffered.”

Suddenly chilly, Becca zipped up her pink hoodie. She knew all too well how quickly love and family could be stolen away.

“Flynn arrived soon after Irma died. If it wasn’t for him, I might not have had the will to go on. I was almost grateful that my daughter, Maggie, thought I could give him a better life.”

Needing a distraction, Becca pointed to a picture of Flynn and a redhead. “Who’s that?”

“Flynn’s half sister, Kathy. They’re my daughter’s children. I took Kathy in a few years after Flynn. She and my great-grandson live in Santa Rose. That’s Truman on the mantle.”

Truman had the ginger coloring of his mother and uncle, but the reserved smile was unexpected for a little boy.

“Becca, you’re going to work for me and move to Harmony Valley permanently,” Edwin proclaimed. “Someday soon we’ll reopen the medical clinic here in town and you can work there. In the meantime, there’s plenty for you to do. All we have around here are old people.”

Becca would be happy with a few weeks of work and an impeccable employment reference.

The phone rang.

Edwin wrested a hand free of the afghan and answered. His face quickly drained of all color. “Thank, God. Keep me updated.” He hung up.

Couch springs creaked as she stood. “What’s wrong?”

“Part of the winery collapsed about half an hour ago.”

“Is...is...” Flynn all right? She couldn’t get the words out, not past the stab of pain in her chest.

She would have thought she’d be unfazed by death after everything she’d been through. But she wasn’t. It slipped in like a knife into a not-quite-healed scar somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

“Everyone is fine, including Flynn.”

Neither one of them spoke for a good minute. Maybe two.

“You should stay,” he said gruffly, staring at the ceiling. “Harmony Valley has everything you’re looking for.”

“Except a job,” she deadpanned, rubbing her hands on her thighs. She still felt shaken.

“Nonsense. I’m hiring you. I can’t wait for Flynn and his background checks. He’ll be busier than ever now with the winery.”

That suited Becca just fine.

* * *

THE HARD MILES prison put on a man were inscribed on Joey Harris more indelibly than the numerous tattoos on his arms. It was apparent in the wrinkles in his sunken cheeks and the way his skin clung to him like a second-hand suit, worn and slightly saggy.

The man who fathered Flynn stood with his hand outstretched.

Flynn felt as if he was falling, jerked back, plunged into memories he’d buried deep enough he should never have been able to find them.

Father’s Day. Eighteen years ago. His dad, looking young, strong and healthy, playing catch with Flynn on the front lawn of their apartment complex. Tall, handsome, those bladed cheekbones he’d given Flynn framing his infectious smile.

Flynn’s dad wasn’t like other dads. Sure, he was gone sometimes. He’d missed Christmas two times in a row. Sure, he had a temper. Flynn had gotten good at hiding behind the couch during his blowups, where everything from hammers to beer bottles might go flying across the room.

But lately his dad had been home every night, lately nothing more than a baseball had flown out of his dad’s hand. He walked Flynn to school and picked him up afterward. His dad knew how to fix things. He was like a magician—starting cars and opening doors without keys. Flynn’s dad was turning out to be the best dad ever.

The sirens were just background noise. The rhythm of the ball snapping into their gloves countered the volume-increasing announcement that the police were in a hurry. There must have been a car accident somewhere. Or a fire. The closer the sirens came, the more distracted Flynn’s father became.

“Dad, come on.” Flynn struck his eight-year-old fist into new, empty leather. Over the past few days, it’d been like Christmas in June. A new bike, a new video game system, new shoes and clothes for Flynn and his sister.

Instead of throwing the ball, his father turned toward the intersection down the block, watching as three patrol cars cut the corner on the wide turn. “Go up to the apartment,” he commanded without turning around.

The first cold tingle of dread prickled in Flynn’s belly. “Dad?”

His father spun, his scowling features a deadly, chalky white. “Go! Now!”

The jagged edge to his voice. The threat of more than a baseball being thrown.

Flynn fled, fighting back tears.

He got as far as the second-story balcony before the black-and-whites squealed to a halt, spilling booted uniforms and guns onto the sidewalk, aiming at his dad as if he were a criminal.

They couldn’t kill him. He was the best dad in the world.

Flynn hadn’t realized he was screaming until his father turned around, his hands high in the air, saying the words Flynn had assumed would be the last he’d ever exchange with him, “Get your butt inside!”

“Do you two know each other?” Dane asked, frowning when Flynn didn’t reciprocate Joey’s handshake.

The sun warmed Flynn’s face, but his insides were making ice cubes. Now he could name the emotion he’d seen on Becca’s face when they first met and he hadn’t immediately hired her. It was the same look he’d seen years ago on Joey’s face. Captured. Cornered. Trapped.

The question was: Why?

Slade stepped between Flynn and Joey, saving the moment that Flynn had no intention of saving.

Awkward? Who cared? The man had left him—no calls, no letters, no postprison visits. He didn’t deserve the title Father.

Joey—Flynn refused to think of the man as his dad—did a civilized meet-and-greet with Slade, all the while keeping his gaze trained on Flynn.

Presumably, he was still looking at Flynn when Flynn walked away.