Woodrose Mountain

He followed the direction she was pointing and saw a six-foot-long poster driven with stakes into a grassy parking strip near Miners’ Park. “Welcome Home, Taryn,” he read. A little farther, splashed in washable paint in the window of a fast-food restaurant, was the same message.

On the marquee at the grocery store that usually broadcast the latest sale on chicken legs or a good buy on broccoli was another one. “We love you, Taryn.”

And as they headed through town, he saw another message in big letters on the street, “Taryn Rocks!”

The kids at the high school had probably done it, since it was similar to the kind of messages displayed during the Paint the Town event of Homecoming Week.

He was grateful for the sentiment, even as a petty little part of him thought with some bitterness that the message might have been a little more effective if a few of them could have been bothered to visit her on a regular basis in the hospital.

That wasn’t completely fair, he knew. The first few weeks after she’d come out of a coma, Taryn had been inundated with visitors. Too many, really. The cheerleading squad, of which she was still technically a part, the captains of the football team, the student body officers.

Eventually those visits had dwindled to basically nothing, until the last time anybody from Hope’s Crossing High School stopped in to see her had been about a month ago.

He supposed he couldn’t really blame the kids. It was obvious Taryn wasn’t the same social bug she had been. She couldn’t carry on a conversation yet, not really, and while many teenagers he knew didn’t particularly need anybody else to participate when they jabbered on about basically nothing, it would have been a little awkward.

This gesture, small though it might have been, was something. He could focus on that, he thought as his mother pointed out all the signs to Taryn, who smiled slightly at each one.

Though he could have easily circumvented driving through the main business district of downtown to reach their home in the foothills, he could tell the outpouring of support had touched Katherine. This was a small thing he could give his mother to thank her for all her help these last weeks. A few more moments of driving wouldn’t hurt.

More Welcome Home signs hung on several of the storefronts downtown, including the bead store, the café and even Maura Parker’s bookstore.

“We should have put something up at the sporting- goods store and the restaurants,” he said. “I didn’t think about it. I’m glad someone else in town did.”

“We’ve had a few other things on our minds.”

“True enough.” He smiled, grateful all over again for her steady strength these last few months. He would have foundered on the rocks and sunk without her.

He had always loved his mother but that natural emotion had sometimes been tempered over the years by a low, vague simmer of anger he hadn’t really acknowledged. Why would someone as kind and giving as his mother ever stay with a man like his father, a hard, uncompromising man with no sense of humor about life and little patience for a son with learning deficits and a gnat-short attention span?

That frustration seemed far away and unimportant now when he considered all Katherine had done for Taryn since the accident. He supposed an adult child never really understood or appreciated the best qualities of a parent until they had walked a difficult road together.

She was growing older. It was a sobering reality made more clear in the harsh afternoon sunlight when he saw new lines around her mouth, a few gray streaks she usually ruthlessly subdued with artful hair color.

“You ought to think about taking a trip somewhere in the next few months,” he said suddenly. “A cruise or a trip back to Provence or something. Lord knows you deserve it and we can certainly hobble along without you for a month or so.”

“Maybe next spring, when things settle down a little.”

Spring seemed a long way off to him right now. The aspens were already turning a pale gold around the edges and in only a few months Hope’s Crossing would be covered in snow and the skiers would return like the swallows at Capistrano.

“Ice.” Taryn suddenly spoke up.

Considering what he’d just been thinking about, he wondered if she had somehow read his mind.

“It’s August, sweetheart,” he answered. “No ice around, at least for a few more months.” The idea of coping with the wheelchair ramp around town in the snow was daunting but maybe by then they wouldn’t need this van.

“Ice!” she said more urgently, looking out the van window with more animation than he’d seen since they had left the care center. He sent a quick, helpless look to his mother, who shrugged, obviously as baffled as he was.

An instant later, they passed a little stand shaped like a Swiss chalet, planted in a small graveled parking lot on the outskirts of downtown. A few people sat under umbrella-topped tables holding foam cups and, as he caught them out of the corner of his gaze, a light switched on.

“Oh! Ice! Shave ice!” he exclaimed.

Taryn gave her tiny, lopsided smile and nodded and he felt as if he’d just skied a black-diamond run on pure, fresh powder.

Though he was impatient to get her home and begin the next phase of this crazy journey they’d traveled since April, Taryn had asked him for something. She had actually communicated a need and, more importantly, he’d understood it. It seemed like a red-letter moment that ought to be celebrated—despite the fact that she wouldn’t be able to hold the cup by herself or feed herself the treat.

“You want a shave ice, you’ve got it, sweetheart.”

He turned the van around and by some miracle, he found a fortuitous parking space a moment later, sandwiched between a flashy red convertible with rental plates and a minivan with a luggage bag bungeed to the roof. The summer tourists were still out in force, apparently. He’d missed most of the onslaught while relocated in Denver.

“What flavor?”

Her brow furrowed as she considered her options and then she gave that smile that was a lopsided shadow of her former mischievous grin. “Blue.”

He had to guess that meant raspberry. That had been a favorite flavor of hers before the accident and he was heartened at this evidence that, while so many things had changed about his daughter, he could still find traces inside of all the things that made her Taryn.

He opened his car door. “Mom? Do you want one?”

Katherine looked elegantly amused. “I think I’ll pass today. But thank you.”

The afternoon was warm but mountain-pleasant compared to the heat wave they’d left down in Denver. Hope’s Crossing consistently enjoyed temperatures about ten degrees cooler than the metro area, one reason tourists even from the city enjoyed coming to town, to visit the unique shops and eat in the town’s many restaurants.

He recognized the teenager working at the shave-ice stand as one of Taryn’s friends from elementary school, Hannah Kirk. Before he had moved up to the Aspen Ridge area, the girl and her family had been neighbors.

“Hi, Hannah.”

She set down the washcloth she had been using to wipe down the counter, probably sticky from an afternoon of serving up syrupy treats. “Hi, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “How’s Taryn? I heard she might be coming home today.”

“She is. Right now, in fact. She’s in the van over there. We were just driving past on our way home and she asked for a shave ice.”

Hannah beamed. “She asked for a shave ice? That’s great. I heard she couldn’t talk,” she faltered, the excitement on her slightly round features fading to embarrassment, as if she was afraid she’d just said something rude. “Sorry. I mean…”

“She can talk. It’s still a little tough to understand her sometimes so she just doesn’t say much. Only the important things. I guess she really wanted a shave ice.”

“I can sure help you with that. What size?”

“Let’s go with a medium. She wanted blue raspberry. I’ll take a peach coconut, medium.”

He knew it was straight sugar but he figured every once in a while a guy was entitled to enjoy something lousy for him. Why that made him suddenly think of Evie Blanchard, he didn’t want to guess.

While he waited for Hannah to run the ice in the grinder—a process that seemed to take roughly the equivalent time to carve a masterpiece out of marble—he stood beside the faux chalet, looking at Main Street. The town looked warm and comfortable in the afternoon sunlight, full of parents pushing strollers, an elderly couple walking arm in arm, a couple of joggers with their white iPod earbud tethers dangling.

He loved Hope’s Crossing. When he was a kid, he couldn’t leave fast enough and thought it was a town full of provincial people with small minds and smaller dreams. But this was the place he’d come to after his marriage had fallen apart, when he had been a lost and immature twenty-four-year-old kid suddenly saddled with a three-year-old girl he didn’t know what the hell to do with.

If his father hadn’t just died, he wasn’t sure he would have come home, even as desperate as he’d been for his mother’s help with Taryn. Raymond Thorne’s massive heart attack at that particular juncture of Brodie’s life was probably the bastard’s single act of kindness toward him.

He was mulling that cheerful thought when a teenage boy with streaked blond hair rode up on a high-dollar mountain bike wearing board shorts and a black T-shirt with a vulgar picture on the front.

“Hey, Hannah-banana. Give me a medium watermelon.”