Season of Change. Melinda Curtis

worry too much.” Flynn’s smile didn’t often annoy Slade, but it did now as he slapped Slade on the back. “Build the wine cave. You know it’s the right thing to do. Another building creates more jobs.”

      “But—”

      “The farmer’s market is open!” Truman ran in from the sidewalk, Abby at his heels. “Come on, everybody!” He spun around and ran away, the little dog still by his side. Truman was staying with Flynn while his mom was in rehab for alcohol addiction. In the past month, the little guy had gone from a shy, quiet boy to a talkaholic. Slade hoped Harmony Valley would have the same effect on his daughters.

      The twins, who’d been twirling in office chairs, stood up and looked at Slade.

      “Go on,” Slade said. It wasn’t much of a farmer’s market. One vendor came in from Jimtown with baked goods. A few residents sold their extra fruits and vegetables. The tomatoes and corn were usually excellent. “We’ll talk about this with Will later.”

      “You worry too much.” Flynn stood.

      “And you don’t worry enough.” Slade wasn’t going to throw away a million dollars on the winery without seeing some kind of projection of return. It was irresponsible. He’d get Will on his side, and then the two of them would outvote Flynn.

      “Thanks for the help. I think we’re ready for the plumber.” Nate came down the stairs, ending the partnership conversation. He studied the rusted bars. “These just need a good sanding and a coat of paint.”

      Nate had accepted the job of sheriff, which could only be funded when Harmony Valley’s population topped eighty residents. They were currently at seventy-eight, not counting Slade. Having been put on paid administrative leave from his last job, where he’d lawfully arrested the mayor’s son with good cause and refused to drop the charges, Nate was happy to prepare for his new position, despite burst pipes

      Flynn loaded up his tools. “I say it’s time for some of Olly Bingmire’s ice-cold lemonade. She’ll be out at the market about now.” He carried his toolbox to his truck.

      Olivia Bingmire had been making fresh-squeezed lemonade for the farmer’s market for as long as Slade could remember. It wasn’t a cure-all for the blues, but it came close on a hot day. Slade headed toward the door, pausing to look at Nate. “You coming?”

      “What about the plumber?”

      “He’s got Flynn’s cell-phone number on speed dial.” Slade waited for Nate to join them. “It’s time you started meeting the people you’re going to swear to protect. Besides, we could use your hammer on our next few stops.” They left the jail door open in case the plumber showed up.

      “I thought you told Truman he could hammer the nails into Sam’s fence?” Nate looked confused.

      “I did.” Slade fought to keep a straight face. “That’s why we’re going to need an extra hammer.”

      The three men walked toward the town square, leaving their trucks parked in front of the sheriff’s office.

      A slender woman with long dark hair came around the corner of El Rosal, a cloth bag tucked in the crook of her arm.

      “Becs!” With a nod to the men, Flynn veered across the street to meet his wife, Becca, who’d wisely brought a cloth bag to make it easier to carry her purchases home.

      Truman dragged the twins from table to table, his shrill, happy voice carrying down the street. “Make sure you always, always, always buy the brownies from the Jimtown table early. They go fast.”

      “Your daughters aren’t very talkative.” There was a hint of polite inquiry behind Nate’s statement.

      “They’re shy.” Slade watched his daughters, hoping it was true.

      Nate had a long-legged amble that made him look as if he was walking slowly, when in fact he was covering more ground in fewer steps than Slade, who considered himself tall at six foot. And yet, there was something rigid about Nate’s posture that contradicted his easy stride.

      Wanting to change the subject, Slade, who didn’t normally pry, found himself prying. “Did you serve in the military?”

      “Two tours in Afghanistan. Army. You?” The sheriff was a man of few words.

      Slade shook his head. “Four years at Harvard. Two years on Wall Street.”

      They exchanged respectful grins.

      Flynn and Becca walked arm in arm in front of them.

      For some reason, an image of Slade walking with a certain blonde came to mind. For the right reasons, Slade erased it. “You ever been married, Nate?”

      “No...I... No.” His stilted answer was out of character for the normally staid sheriff.

      This time Slade chose not to pry.

      About thirty residents clustered about the tables, many leaning on canes and walkers. The only residents under the age of sixty were Nate, the partners, Truman, and the twins.

      They reached Olly’s table. Slade bought a glass for himself, the sheriff, and the girls, who ran to him obediently when he called.

      Nate was quickly snatched up by the locals, who circled him as if he was a celebrity.

      Slade stood with the girls, drinking lemonade, wishing one of them would lean against him or hug him like they used to.

      Grace looked at Slade’s hand three times before gripping it and tugging him over to the Jimtown table to look at their baked goods. Faith skipped next to them.

      Slade could hardly breathe, for fear of making the girls go back to their no-touching, somber silence. Grace pointed at the brownies and then looked up at him with big green eyes and a sweet little pout.

      Slade nearly tossed his wallet to her, barely daring to ask, “Only if you say please.”

      Grace and Faith exchanged glances. Worry and determination flashed across their faces. Grace waved a hand as if swatting away a bug and faced Slade. “Please.”

      One word. Barely a whisper. His heart was lost.

      Slade ordered two brownies, feeling like the luckiest man in the world, so lucky that when he saw Old Man Takata sitting alone on the wrought-iron bench beneath the oak tree, he bought the man a glass of lemonade and sat with him.

      “Weren’t you sitting here this morning?” Slade asked.

      “I was. I like watching the world go by.”

      “It’s getting hot outside.” The temperature was quickly climbing to uncomfortable. Slade knew all too well about uncomfortable summer days. He tugged at his tie.

      “I have lemonade.” Takata raised his glass.

      Mae Gardner, president of the bridge club, flounced over in a flowered dress and brown orthopedic sandals. Her shoulder-length gray frizzy hair curled like a storm cloud about her lined face. “Slade, dear, when are you going to move out of that house?”

      Takata, who was normally as slow and deliberate as a turtle on land, snapped to attention. “Ain’t nothing wrong with his home.”

      Unwilling to give ground, Mae plopped a fist on her hip. “Why should such a fine young man live there after the shameful thing his father did?”

      Shameful. The word spiraled up Slade’s windpipe, closing it off to vital functions, like breathing and calls for help.

      “Shameful?” Takata scoffed, sloshing his lemonade cup in Mae’s direction. “You and that bridge club of yours know all about shame, don’t you? Going down to Santa Rosa for those male dance reviews.”

      Air returned to Slade’s lungs in a chuckle-suppressed gasp.

      Mae’s face turned pinker than the pink sapphires flanking the diamond Will had chosen for Emma’s engagement ring. Mae