though he couldn’t make out the words. Angelo still held his stopwatch at eye level, but he was not cheering or shouting like Rafe thought he would be. He’d expected his father to be bursting with enthusiasm; instead, he appeared to be watching with a very steady gaze.
Rafe glowed with pride as he leaned forward and pushed Rowan to cross the finish line and not stop. Rowan poured on the power and left the finish line far behind him. They were around the first turn before the horse’s stride slowed.
Rafe’s suspicions were confirmed. They hadn’t begun to tap Rowan’s power and abilities. As Rafe slowed the horse, his mind filled with visions of great races, superb wins...and making history. Rafe was nearly euphoric as they galloped back toward the gate.
Instantly, his smile melted off his face. Angelo was lying on the ground, and Curt was still yelling at him. Rafe couldn’t make out the words over the pounding of his heart. He urged Rowan to the gate and jumped off.
“What’s wrong?” Rafe shouted as he opened the gate and stooped over his father.
“I called 911 from my cell,” Curt said. “He clutched his chest and sank to the ground just as you passed the finish line. There was no way you could hear or even see me then.”
Angelo’s eyes were closed, his face a ghastly, frightening gray.
“He’s not breathing,” Rafe said, placing his cheek next to his father’s nostrils. He started CPR, pushing on Angelo’s chest with all his strength. His mother had made sure all four of her sons kept up-to-date on first-aid courses. On a farm, they needed to be prepared for all eventualities. Rafe knew his father had heart issues, but Angelo refused to talk about his ill health—ever.
Rafe should have seen this coming.
Thinking back, he’d had a warning of sorts. At his brother Nate’s couples’ shower at Mrs. Beabots’s house, Rafe learned his father had been prescribed Coumadin. Nate actually hadn’t known anything about Angelo’s heart condition. Nate had told Rafe and Gabe that it was time for Angelo to slow down, perhaps even retire. But it hadn’t happened.
Then Gabe had married Liz, and that caused Angelo an extreme amount of stress, which Rafe didn’t truly understand. Apparently, something had happened between Liz’s grandfather and Angelo decades ago, but Rafe, Nate and Mica had no clue what that “thing” was. But Rafe had noticed their mother hovering over Angelo this past winter, acting as if he was dying. It was ridiculous. As far as Rafe could tell, his father was as fit as him or his brother. He was just older, that was all. Angelo needed to knock off at four instead of six or seven like he and Mica did, but their father went on, day after day, as if he was still fighting to make his farm a success. Now Rafe realized with torturous hindsight that Angelo’s refusal to take it easy was precisely why his mother had been making such a fuss.
Rafe continued to press on his father’s chest so hard he was afraid he’d break Angelo’s sternum.
“Come on, Dad! You can make it. Come on! I’ll save you. Promise.”
Curt placed a hand on his back. A comforting hand. An empathetic hand. He barely registered the sirens in the distance. He would do anything to save the most important person in his life. Rafe loved his father with all his being, and he would trade his own life to save Angelo’s.
“Rafe,” Curt said softly. “Rafe. He’s gone.”
Rafe didn’t hear Curt. He wouldn’t. What he was saying was an absolute impossibility. His father was not dead. The paramedics would come. They’d stick some paddles on his chest and wake him up.
An ambulance and a fire truck drove down the long brick drive that Angelo had laid himself. The sirens echoed across the spring fields. Gina came running from the house still dressed in her robe and pajamas. Mica rushed down the back stairs.
Curt raced toward the ambulance, waving his arms. “Over here!”
Rafe was right. The paramedics placed paddles on Angelo’s chest and shocked him with enough electricity to bring a dead man back to life.
Angelo’s body remained quiet and still.
BENEATH A FLUTTER of pink crab-apple blossoms floating on the spring breeze, Olivia opened a café umbrella to welcome her patrons to the street-side tables at Indian Lake Deli for breakfast. A pair of robins flew to their nest in the white flowering pear tree. Spring was Olivia’s favorite season. Winter storm windows were taken down and opened, tulips and daffodils filled the city planters and the tops rolled back on convertibles. Everything she saw and smelled was electric with promise. She always felt anticipation in the spring, but this season was different somehow. She could almost feel a burst of creative energy taking place inside her cells, igniting them into tiny, raging flares of ideas and dreams. She just hoped that this year they didn’t all suffocate by summer’s end like they usually did.
Before she thought herself into a downward spiral, Olivia took out the digital camera she always carried in her apron pocket and snapped a close-up shot of the robins in the tree. She caught the radiant and colorful male tilting his head toward the dowdy, demure-looking female. Their flirtatious behavior was nearly human, and the photo offered the kind of peek into the animal dimension that Olivia prided herself on.
Over the years, Olivia had been amazed at the glimpses of the natural world she’d captured on film. Butterflies in whirling masses around butterfly bushes. Spiders spinning opalescent webs. Dewdrops slipping off rose petals and onto the back of a crawling grasshopper. Iridescent dragonfly wings as the insects darted in and out of sunbeams.
Sometimes Olivia left her apartment long before dawn to go down to the lake. Or she came home late at night after taking sunset photos on Lake Michigan’s beach.
Olivia had logged many hours perfecting her photographic skills, but she had yet to do anything significant with them. For years she’d told herself she wasn’t good enough yet, or that her lack of formal training was a non-starter. Then she became critical of others’ work and realized that her photos were as good as those that were published. Sometimes they were even better. More insightful.
But Olivia was practical. She knew art and talent didn’t always pay the bills. To put food on the table and pay her rent, insurance premiums and car note, she had to keep her day job, working with her mother at the Indian Lake Deli.
Just as Olivia locked the green canvas umbrella in place, Sarah, Maddie, Liz and Katia walked up and hugged her. They plopped down in the matching green canvas folding chairs. Liz looked exhausted but radiant and was starting to show her pregnancy in her spring-green tunic.
“Olivia, we need a round of your raspberry iced tea,” Sarah said, pushing her blond hair away from her flushed face. “We’re pooped.”
“You can say that again,” Maddie groaned. “My cappuccino is good, but your teas are absolutely vital for people in our ragged condition.” She swiped her palm across her neck. “I’m so out of shape,” she said under her breath.
“What have you been doing?” Olivia asked, taking out her pad and pen from her apron.
“Walking. Fast walking, to be exact. Liz has to exercise every day—so says her ob-gyn,” Maddie explained.
“Yeah,” Liz grumbled, smoothing her long hair into a ponytail. “As if working the vineyard isn’t enough.”
“It’s not the right kind of exercise,” Katia interjected. “Half a dozen of my Chicago girlfriends have been where you are. Walking is mandatory. I should loan you my treadmill,” she said with a flick of her wrist as if the decision didn’t require any more discussion.
“Spare me!” Liz raised her hands in mock horror. “I walk my hills every day!” Liz looked at Olivia. “Who knew I would have so many mother hens?”
“You need us, Liz,” Olivia insisted.
Sarah