She didn’t. Turned onto Old Farm Road with no problems.

But his breathing was getting shallow and fast, and he recognized the signs.

He couldn’t go home. Not that his cat was bad company, but he needed humans. O’Rourke’s it was.

“Hey, Jack!” said Colleen and Connor in unison as he came through the door. He nodded, figured he’d sit at the bar, maybe hang out with Lucas, who was there, as well. If things were slow, Connor might come out and have a beer with him.

Prudence, dressed much like he was in a flannel shirt and jeans, approached. “Hey, Useless!” she said, smacking his shoulder. “How’s it hanging? Guess what? I’m officially in menopause. The results came back today.”

“I’m thrilled for you.”

“Oh, bite me. It’s horrible, Jack. I want to climb Carl one minute, then slowly choke the life out of him the next. Speaking of Carl, do you happen to have any spurs?”

“No, Pru. Believe it or not, no.”

“Damn. I back-ordered some, but they’re still not here.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a table of women. One of them was studiously holding a beer to the side of her face.

She didn’t even want to be spotted, in other words.

“Catch you in a little while, Pru,” he said, walking over to the ladies—Shelayne Schanta, Allison Whitaker, Grace Knapton and Jeanette O’Rourke.

And Emmaline.

“Hello, ladies. Mind if I sit down?”

“Jack!” four of the five of them cried, moving their chairs to make room for him. “How are you, you look so handsome, want a drink, sit next to me, how was the wedding, have you eaten?”

One of them didn’t say anything.

“Hi, Em,” he said.

“Jack.”

“You want to go out sometime? Grab dinner? Catch a movie?”

She gave him a dark look.

The rest of the women fell silent. “I’m game if she’s not, Jack,” Shelayne said.

“So am I,” Allison said. “Just in case you’re looking for an older woman with two not-terrible children.”

“I’ll go out with you, Jack,” said Hannah O’Rourke, coming up with a tray full of peachy-pink drinks.

“Me, too,” said Colleen’s mother. “Though I am dating Ronnie Petrosinsky on and off.”

“The Chicken King?” Grace asked, naming Ronnie’s franchise. “I just love their Mm-Mm Maple Glazed.”

“How about it, Emmaline?” Jack asked.

“I’m very busy,” she said. “But thanks just the same.”

“That’s too bad.” He looked steadily at his prey, who was staring determinedly at the jukebox over Allison’s shoulder. “Because I had a great time in California. Especially that last night.”

Her eyes jerked back to his. “Good! I’m glad. Good for you. That’s great. I have to run. Sarge needs walking. Nice seeing you, Jack. Bye, girls.”

“You seriously don’t want to go out with him?” Mrs. O’Rourke said.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, following her.

“Together again!” Colleen called. “So cute. Coulda called it. Did call it, in fact.”

“Stop harassing the customers, Colleen,” Connor called from the kitchen.

Emmaline was already outside.

“Em. Hang on,” he called, catching up to her. “Why won’t you go out with me?”

“Is your ego bruised?” she asked.

“A little.”

She smothered a smile. “You’re really nice, Jack, and you’re not exactly the Elephant Man, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I just want to have dinner.”

She took a breath and held it, clearly on the fence. “Just dinner, Emmaline,” he said. “Please.”

Her eyes went a little soft and wide.

Score.

But then she looked over his shoulder, and her cop face reappeared.

“Have dinner with your wife. Here she is. Take care.” With that, she turned and walked away, her feet crunching on the snow.

“Well, hey, stranger!” Hadley said. “How are you, Jack?”

And so, not wanting to be a jerk, he held the door for Hadley, took off her coat when she turned her back and gave her his hand as she struggled to sit on a stool.

Then, rather than getting webbed into a conversation with his too-beautiful ex-wife, he opted for the company of his cat and walked across the street to where his truck was parked.

There was a note on the windshield, on bright pink paper.

“You better watch yourself,” it read. Laser-printed, not handwritten.

He glanced back at O’Rourke’s. Was this a warning from Hadley, something to do with his interest in Emmaline? She seemed to be talking to someone.

Might be from Mr. or Mrs. Deiner. But they’d been camped out at the hospital around the clock.

You better watch yourself.

The pink paper watered down the threat of the words.

Might not be a threat after all. Or it might have been meant for someone else; half the people in this town drove gray pickup trucks. It was just a note, anyway. Not a big deal.

He could feel the water slicing into his scalp as he went under. His chest burned from the lack of air.

By the time the flashback was over, Jack’s flannel shirt was damp with cold sweat. He started up his truck and headed for home, his throat raw from the cold, cold air.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, Jack, his father and Pops were at work. It should’ve been easy, but for some reason, everything Jack did seemed wrong today. He bumped against a barrel, spilling his coffee. Missed what Dad had just said. Stepped on Pops’s foot.

“You okay, son?” Dad asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Not enough coffee, that’s all.” Except he’d had three cups.

The three Holland men had always been close. First of all, it was them against what seemed like dozens of women.... Mom, back in the day, the three girls coming and going with their girlfriends, then Mrs. Johnson. When talk turned to periods or squabbles over who used whose hair goop, the three men would slip off to talk about baseball or vines.

When Jack was in the navy, Dad called twice a week, checking in, the gentle constant in Jack’s life. Both Pops and Dad assured him he had no obligation to return to Blue Heron, and Dad only wanted him there if it was what Jack wanted. It was. The family, the farm, the wine... It was everything Jack had ever wanted. He was the eighth generation of Hollands on this land.

But since the accident, he couldn’t seem to get back in the groove.

Today, they were racking a small vat of cabernet out in one of the big barns. Racking was the process of siphoning the wine off the sediment into a clean vat in preparation for bottling. As soon as Jack pulled the bung, though, Pops looked up. “Something’s off,” he said. The old guy had a nose like a bloodhound. “It’s over-oxidized.”

Jack grabbed a glass and filled it halfway with the wine.

It was too brown, and Pops was right. It didn’t smell right.

“Did you add the Campden tablets last time?” Dad asked.

“I thought I did,” Jack said. The tablets kept microbes from forming in the wine. They’d just racked this barrel for the first time three weeks ago.