Melinda Curtis - One Perfect Year

There would be no “what-if” hypotheses about a future with Shelby, which were foolish, childish ideas to begin with. There would be no arguments about his being disloyal since Shelby was now free—disheartening, to say the least. There would be no 2:00 a.m. sleep-depriving worries about where Shelby was, if she was dating, if she felt as alone as he did.

Gage parked his truck in his old driveway on Adams Street and zipped up his jacket against the early morning autumn chill. When he’d informed his parents he was volunteering for the harvest, they’d told him not to go by their former house. But how could he not?

“Helping two kids through college,” his dad had said. His parents lived in Santa Rosa now, both working at a livestock auction instead of their ranch. “We could only afford the taxes on the place. And now it’s not as if anyone’s going to buy it.”

The once cheerful blue and white house seemed to have given up hope of the Jameros returning. The roof on the ranch home sagged beneath wisps of fog. Someone had been by to cut the weeds where the lawn used to be. Boards from the tree fort that Gage and Nick had built dangled dejectedly from the oak tree in front. The basketball hoop over the garage was rusted, the netting frayed. He thought of his sister, always trying to join in the game. The curtains were drawn. Not only did the house not want to see the desolation outside, it didn’t want anyone to see the similar emptiness on the inside. Down the road, where Nick used to live, was much the same.

There was nothing left to keep Gage in Harmony Valley. All he needed for closure was to tell Dr. Wentworth, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Gage walked next door, taking the shortcut through the side yard.

Doc had the kitchen door open and waved him closer. “Heard you drive up. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

Mushu waddled over to meet Gage, her black curly fur in bad need of a grooming. He knelt down to give her some love, stroking her while doing a brief health inspection. No tumors, no scaly skin, no sensitive spots. Just matted fur.

The cocker spaniel didn’t follow him inside, despite the tantalizing scent of bacon. “You’ve either been overfeeding Mushu, or she’s got a hyperthyroid issue.”

“She’s fat.” Dr. Wentworth looked at Gage over the top of his thick glasses. “I’m busy, so I set out a dog feeder. She’s like a hobbit. She eats more meals than she needs to.”

“It’s not healthy for her.” Gage caught sight of the stacks of books and magazines in Doc’s living room. “What’s all this?”

“My research. I’d like to discuss it with you.” The old vet dished a plate of scrambled eggs mixed with bite-size chunks of potato, red pepper, cheese and bacon, and handed it to Gage.

After the night he’d had, the hearty meal was a welcome sight. Gage took a seat at the table. Whereas his abandoned home looked like a candidate for demolition, Doc’s was bright and lived-in. It was on the tip of Gage’s tongue to ask if Shelby knew about the clutter, when she came through the front door, looking haggard.

“Shoot. I forgot this was here and I’m too tired to go around.” Shelby wended her way carefully through the tall stacks. Her blue eyes were dark-rimmed, betraying her exhaustion. They stayed firmly trained on the path in front of her. “But I’m relieved Grandpa didn’t knock anything over.”

“Hey!” Doc protested.

Gage held his breath, prepared to leap up if she misstepped and knocked over anything.

She didn’t. Instead, her gaze stumbled into his as she entered the kitchen. “You didn’t come in this way, did you?”

Gage shook his head, grateful that he wasn’t being given the silent treatment, grateful that her effect on him wasn’t as strong as when he’d first seen her last night. “I came in the back.”

“Which is the door I told you to use, Shelby,” Dr. Wentworth scolded, filling another plate for his granddaughter. “What’s your schedule today, hotshot?”

“This hotshot is taking a nap, first thing.” Looking just as tired as Gage felt, she sank into a kitchen chair opposite him, accepting the food and glass of milk her grandfather put in front of her with heartfelt thanks. “I’m meeting Christine downtown after lunch. We’re going to choose a site for the temporary wine cellar.”

“Aren’t wine cellars underground?” Gage had the strongest urge to put an arm around her shoulders and tuck her close. Instead, he made a mental list of the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table—a pair of Mallard ducks, a pair of kissing geese, brown spotted cocker spaniels, bumble bees and Siamese cats. “I didn’t think anything downtown had a big enough basement.”

“There isn’t. But we have to make do.” Shelby’s response was all business. “The wine cellar was left out of the original winery plans, made before they hired Christine. The grapes we picked will ferment at the winery’s main facility in steel tanks. Then they’ll be put into oak casks, which require climate controlled storage while they age enough for bottling. The sooner we get a wine cellar cobbled together, the better off we are in terms of wine quality.”

“You plan to use one of the vacant stores downtown?” Gage had overheard some volunteers discussing it while taking a coffee break during the night.

She nodded.

Doc turned off the burner and moved the pan to the rear of the stove. “You can shower if you want to, Gage, before we check out the clinic.” He joined them at the table with a loaded plate for himself. “I could wash your clothes while you nap in the guest room.”

“That’s very domestic of you,” Gage said with a straight face. No offense, but he didn’t want Doc anywhere near his skivvies. It violated the Man Code.

“Grandpa, you’re embarrassing him.” Shelby grazed Gage with a sideways glance. “And me.”

“I’m being hospitable.” Doc’s rumble filled every corner of the kitchen. “Gage is here to talk details on reopening my practice.”

Gage swallowed quickly, nearly choking on his eggs. “About that—”

“You’re not seriously considering moving back?” Shelby blurted, her gaze intense. “I thought you didn’t want to live here.”

“Well, I—”

“The boy needs a job.” Dr. Wentworth shook his fork in Shelby’s direction.

Shelby shook hers right back. “I’m sure the boy has dreams that don’t involve treating overweight cocker spaniels and aging dachshunds with back problems.”

The familiar way they argued had Gage hiding a smile.

“Are you implying the challenges in practicing here aren’t good enough for him?” Doc squinted at Shelby over the top of his eye-glasses.

“Yes.” She popped a bite of potato in her mouth.

Dr. Wentworth pounded a fist on the table, rattling shakers. “Why don’t we wait to hear what the boy has to say?”

They both turned to him expectantly.

Gage chose a bumblebee from the collection of shakers at the center of the table, and peppered his food, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

“You see,” Shelby said at the same time her grandfather said, “I told you so.”

They each stabbed a bite of food.

Gage couldn’t prolong disappointing Doc any longer. “I have a job. Starting in January, I’m going to be the veterinarian for a group of racing stables in Lexington, Kentucky.”

They both stared at him with equal parts dismay and pride.

“So far,” Shelby murmured, while her grandfather muttered, “Dogs, all mighty. I should have called you sooner.”

Had Nick been alive, the ensuing silence would have been filled with a supportive comment. Instead, Gage found himself stepping in. “Shelby’s right. I wouldn’t be happy here. It’s my dream to work with racehorses.”