Melinda Curtis - One Perfect Year

Title Page One Perfect Year Melinda Curtis www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author MELINDA CURTIS believes the most common topic in a bio is hobbies. Ask Melinda about her hobbies and you just might hear crickets chirp. She can tell you she likes driving fast cars (she grew up with two motorhead brothers), she enjoys long walks (with her puppy when Tally behaves), and likes the challenge of home improvement (she’s become quite good at tiling). However, she’s most likely to be found writing at her desk and dreaming about hobbies. Melinda lives in California’s arid central valley with her husband—her basketball-playing college sweetheart. With three kids, the couple has done the soccer thing, the karate thing, the dance thing, the Little League thing and, of course, the basketball thing. Now they’re enjoying the quiet life of empty nesters before the grandparent thing.

Dedication Nothing in my life would be possible without the love and support of my immediate family, extended family, and close friends. A special thank-you to my husband of thirty years for putting up with me and all the voices in my head clamoring for a happy ending. As always, special thanks to A.J. Stewart, Cari Lynn Webb and Anna Adams for their support throughout the writing of this book. Every writer needs a sounding board. You guys rock! I spent sixteen years working at a winery. In writing the Harmony Valley books, I relied on my memory, as well as questions to friends and family who still work and own wineries. Think of Harmony Valley as you enjoy a glass of wine from the Iron Gate Winery in Cedar City or the Jordon Winery in Healdsburg, but know that all mistakes regarding wineries and winemaking are my own.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHELBY HAWKLEY KNEW what it was like to go from fulfilled and happy to broken and sad, knew how fast it could happen, knew how it came at you from your blind side.

It could happen in a blink. It could stop your breath. It could break your heart.

It being disaster. It changing her life forever.

Just moments ago, she’d been happy, secure in the knowledge that things were looking up. And then she’d blinked.

“If there’s an earthquake now, there’ll be trouble.” Shelby stood in the middle of a narrow trail carved through her grandfather’s living room, willing herself not to blink.

Thirty or so five-foot-tall stacks of books, journals, periodicals and magazines occupied the space. It looked like crowded Manhattan skyscrapers, minus the straight-gridded streets. Her grandfather had created twisted paths, one of which ended at the television, leaving just enough room for him to sit on the hearth and watch the news.

“Don’t move and everything will be all right,” her grandfather replied, nonplussed. Warren Wentworth sat cross-legged, all sharp, bony angles, his hair a dry white mop. He looked like he’d been lost on this trail for too long, and had missed too many dinners.

“Grandpa, we’ve got to move. Now. ” Before she bumped something and their surroundings tumbled upon them. There’d been a time when she thought she and her loved ones were impervious to disaster. That period was long past.

Her grandfather turned off the TV, unfurled his limbs and rose, wobbling slightly.

Shelby reached for him, careful to keep her elbows within the confines of the path, hyperaware that she was prone to stumble if she didn’t keep her attention firmly on the floor. “How did this happen? This...this...book maze.”

He harrumphed. “Don’t overreact, hotshot. This is my library. I’m exploring the stacks. Didn’t you once tell me I wasn’t very adventurous?”

“Grandma said that.” Keeping her tone matter-of-fact, Shelby began backing toward safety, towing him gingerly along with her.

“It’s called the adventure of life.” Grandpa’s breath smelled of coffee. He couldn’t have been sitting on the hearth for long. “What fun would life be if it was a wide, straight road and you knew the ending?”

“What fun would it be if all this fell down on us?” His bones were old and fragile. “If this collapses...I’m just saying...I’m done with surprises and hospitals.” Morgues and funeral homes.

“You’re still grieving, love. I understand.” He squeezed her hands. “I miss your grandmother terribly.”

Grandma Ruby and Shelby’s husband, Nick, had died within a week of one another nearly two years ago. Shelby and her grandfather had leaned on each other through those difficult first few weeks. As only children from a long line of only children, the pair didn’t have a lot of family to rely on.

Shelby wasn’t still grieving. She wasn’t still lost. But she was cautious. She couldn’t say the same about her grandfather. “Tell me the rest of the house isn’t like this.” She’d had lunch with him a few weeks ago, but hadn’t come inside the place.

“Young lady, if it is, it’s none of your business.” He spoke in grandiose tones, as if he was a knighted explorer being led out of a newly discovered jungle instead of a retired veterinarian being led out of his living room in the small remote California town of Harmony Valley.

“I take that for a yes.”

“That is a no.”

Their footsteps were muted by the worn avacado shag. One more turn. One more twist.

“Where’s Mushu?” Her grandmother’s ancient cocker spaniel.

“That dog’s been spending a lot of time in the backyard.”

Shelby couldn’t blame her. One misplaced wag of the tubby dog’s tail and she’d be history. The house needed disaster-proofing.

Shelby navigated the fork toward the kitchen, refusing to dwell on how bony her grandfather’s hands were. One disaster at a time. “And Gaipan? Did you chase her outside, too?” The old Siamese was probably upset that she couldn’t sit on the back of the couch and dream of pouncing on the birds in the front yard. The couch was littered with books, haphazardly stacked, ready to tumble.

“Gaipan doesn’t like me. Never has,” Grandpa said. “She stays outside mostly, except when she’s hungry.”

They reached the kitchen, which was blessedly stack-free and optimistically yellow, just as her grandmother had been. Goldenrod Formica. Daisy patterned linoleum. Canary-yellow walls. The September afternoon sun angled through the windows facing the backyard, making Shelby squint. Mushu lay on the grass in the shade of a peach tree, a black ball of curly fur. Beyond the fence, the Jameros’ empty pastures rolled up toward Parish Hill. The Jameros had left town, like the majority of residents after the grain mill exploded and jobs disappeared, until the once quaint and charismatic town was quiet and quirky. Not exactly the thriving, supportive community of her youth, but a community she longed for nonetheless. And one that was growing again in dribs and drabs.

Shelby released her grandfather and sat on a walnut ladder-back chair. The room was clean and uncluttered—the collection of animal salt-and-pepper shakers lining the kitchen counter and grouped in the center of the kitchen table didn’t count. They’d been there as long as she could remember.

“Do you ever hear from the Jameros?” She couldn’t keep herself from adding, “Or from Dead Gage?”