Melinda Curtis - Dandelion Wishes

Leaving the road clear for Will to reach the next switchback first.

The thrill of victory propelled him to the elbow in the road. There was no sense going any farther. They were both spent. Will walked in small circles, attempting to fill his lungs with much-needed oxygen, trying to keep his muscles from convulsing him into a permanent fetal position. He’d been clutching his bottle of water and now drained it. After a few moments, he rasped, “You suck.”

She’d righted the bike and was walking it up the hill, feet digging in to build enough energy to reach him. “I had you all the way.”

“Doesn’t matter. I won.”

“Nobody won. We didn’t make it to the top.” Emma popped out the kickstand and removed her helmet. Her hair was plastered to her head and sweat trickled down the sides of her splotchy red face.

And yet, there was something about her that wasn’t unattractive to look at. Her inviting curves. Her challenging grin. Her warrior attitude that dared any man to take her on.

A memory surfaced. Emma wearing a red backless prom dress that clung to every dangerous contour, her dark tresses woven in a bride-like style threaded with delicate white flowers. Also not unattractive.

Emma wiped at her temples with her forearms, and directed her frustration at an inanimate target. “Stupid chain.”

Will took a second, more assessing look at her. His system was in cool-off mode. Rivulets of sweat dripped off the ends of his hair. Most of the rest of his body was just as soggy and droopy. Emma looked about as sexy as he felt.

Which was great. That moment of attraction must have been due to oxygen deprivation. The prom memory was a fluke. It wasn’t like he’d taken her to the event. He’d only made a preprom appearance to intimidate Tracy’s date. “Did you lose track of what gear you were in? You had me until that last gear change.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She grinned as if she’d won the Tour de France.

That smile somehow managed to trap the air in Will’s lungs. Something about Emma burrowed under his skin in a way he vehemently rejected, and had been rejecting since he was in high school. She never played it safe. She never obeyed the rules. She was like a predinner chocolate—temptation you couldn’t resist, even when you knew it was wrong.

He exhaled forcefully. “As soon as I catch my breath, I’ll fix your chain.”

Where had that offer come from?

Emma’s mouth puckered as if she was going to refuse him, but then she laughed and nodded.

They looked out over what they could see of the valley and the hills that bordered it, an uncomfortable silence settling between them as if they were both remembering they were at odds. Not that this was unfamiliar territory. Will’s most vivid memories were of Emma opposing him. Convincing Tracy to go tubing down the Harmony River when it was still raging from spring rains. Dragging Tracy to a New Year’s Eve celebration in Union Square when the girls were naive freshmen in college. Driving with Tracy to that bachelorette party in Tijuana despite the fact that a young woman had been abducted in that city a few weeks earlier.

Oh, Emma was good at flashing a “forgive me, I know I’ve been bad” smile and a good excuse: We knew what we were doing. It was all innocent. Everything turned out fine. Only that time, everything hadn’t turned out fine. Tracy had almost been killed.

Emma plucked a dandelion from her feet, studied it for a moment and then blew its white parachute seeds into the wind. She knelt to pick another one, closed the distance between them and held it up to Will. “How about a dandelion truce?”

Generations of farming blood had him warding her off with one arm. “It’s a weed.”

“It’s a dandelion.” Emma twirled the stem back and forth. “Kids make wishes on them all the time.”

“And blow the seeds of a weed out into the world.” If wishes could make Tracy whole, he’d blow an entire crop of dandelions into the wind. But chances were those dandelions wouldn’t result in wishes. They’d sprout up in his vineyard. “Farmers kill dandelions.”

“Suit yourself.” Emma studied the white puff, drew a deep breath and blew another handful of delicate white parachutes on to the breeze.

Will knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help himself. “What did you wish for?”

“If I told you,” she said in a solemn voice, as if she truly believed in dandelion wishes, “it wouldn’t come true.”

Will felt a chasm open between them, shored up by differences like belief in fairy tales, Santa Claus and happy ever afters. He stood with the realists. She danced with the dreamers. It had nearly cost his sister her life. He was right to bar her from seeing Tracy. Wishes couldn’t make his sister well.

Emma knelt by her bike and fiddled with the chain. Apparently she’d decided she didn’t need his help. “What’s a good time to come by and see Tracy?”

“Don’t. I talked to Tracy last night and she doesn’t want to see you.”

“You’re lying.” Her hands, splotched with grease, shook.

“I’m not,” Will lied. He’d do anything to protect Tracy. “Flynn and Slade were there. Ask them.” He was betting she’d never do it.

“You can bring a thousand friends to testify she doesn’t want to see me and I still won’t believe you.” Emma’s face was as closed off as the latest firewall software to a cyber attack.

“Don’t come by, Emma. You’ll be the one to get hurt this time.”

“I don’t care.” She pushed her chin in the air, but her lip trembled.

And he was twelve all over again, bending to her will. “At least wait until tomorrow. The trip home tired her out.”

She nodded stiffly. “All right. But I don’t need your permission. And I wouldn’t try to keep her locked up in that house forever. She’ll resent you for it.” The chain dropped onto the sprocket. Emma jammed her helmet on, hopped on the bike and left, her rear brake squealing at him as she returned the way they’d come.

“I don’t have to keep Tracy in the house forever,” Will muttered to himself, catching sight of a drifting dandelion seed floating on the breeze. “Just until you leave.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THERE WAS NOTHING Emma disliked more than being made to feel she was a shrew. And that was what arguing with Will did to her.

She’d apologized to him twice, but he still treated her as if she’d pointed a gun at Tracy and pulled the trigger. It left a bleak, bottomless sensation in her belly. Oh, she’d like to blame Will for that feeling, but her guilt was the cause, not Mr. Perfect’s lack of forgiveness. She shouldn’t care that he’d refused her attempt to apologize twice. The only absolution that should matter was Tracy’s.

Emma outran the emptiness as best she could. She’d biked back to Granny Rose’s, driven the riding mower over the half-acre lawn and pulled some stubborn weeds out of the small vegetable garden. She’d called her mom and left a voice mail about Granny Rose, requesting a callback that probably wouldn’t come for days. In the middle of a murder trial, her defense-attorney mother only dealt with life-threatening emergencies. Granny Rose being Granny Rose didn’t qualify.

Emma didn’t want the easel but she couldn’t stand the thought of Granny Rose climbing up the rickety attic stairs and wrestling it down, either, so she carried it to her room. And just to punish herself, she put a fresh canvas on it, got out her sketching pencil and stood like a statue, left hand hovering unsteadily over the canvas.

Since she was a little girl, she’d loved to color, draw and paint. She lost herself in the process of creation, her senses taking in the scene she was trying to capture to an internal soundtrack that was sometimes soothing, sometimes lively and always passionate. But now all she heard was the repercussion of a diesel engine bearing down on her, the trumpet of brakes locking. She was aware of sliding, losing control and the uneven rasp of Tracy’s struggle to live.