An ebony-skinned woman rose from behind a desk too big for the confined space. She reached one arm over the paper-covered surface to shake his hand. “Have a seat, Mr. Walker.”
He lowered into a chair with a ripped cushion and scratches in its wooden armrests. “Thanks so much for agreeing to meet me today. I know you said your schedule’s tight.” He’d called from the road yesterday, fingers crossed that she’d be willing to meet him on such short notice.
She had, but with obvious hesitation that clearly hadn’t waned in the hours since. “You want to talk about one of my current case files.”
“Uh, not the file, Ms. Polan—”
“Kelly.” She laced her fingers atop her desk.
“All right, Kelly. It’s not the file I’m concerned about, or even any specifics on where Amanda Britt is, but—”
“Mr. Walker—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “Beckett.”
“Beckett, I’m really not even comfortable talking about this girl by name. You explained the situation yesterday. And I am sympathetic to your . . .” She glanced at her screen. “To this Webster’s predicament. Assuming there’s nothing untoward in his desire to know where she is—”
Beckett’s grip on the armrests tightened. “Believe me, there’s not.”
“I want to believe you, of course, but I don’t even know you. And a person doesn’t work in child protective services for long before developing an unfortunate tendency toward skepticism. This is a teenage boy we’re talking about.”
The air in the room was fraught with restrained friction. The lawyer in him urged Beckett to argue, persuade this social worker to hear him out. But he couldn’t blame her for her position. He’d done his homework. The chances of trying to work the system or lawyer his way to any kind of information for Webster—slim to none.
No, his best bet was to draw on his years of experience settling disputes outside the courtroom. Except Kelly Polanski clearly wasn’t one for smooth talking or emotional swaying.
“Look, I’m not here to ask you to break any kind of confidentiality policy or rule. I’m not even here as a lawyer right now.” He absently traced the lone, long scratch in the wooden armrest with one finger, searching for the right words.
“That’s why I think you should consider being a lawyer, Beck.”
Mom’s voice. Somehow it stole into the room and settled over him.
“Because I’m always arguing with you?”
She’d laughed. “Because you’re great with words.”
“Kate’s the writer, Mom. And Logan.”
“They’re both great with the written word. You’re great with the spoken word. I’m not kidding, Beck, sometimes when you get all oratorical trying to talk your way out of a punishment, you almost convince me.”
The memory hovered in the tiny office, filling him with confidence—or maybe conviction—and he leaned forward. “I’m just here as the friend of a kid who wants to know someone he cares about is safe. That she’s all right.” He pulled a folder from the leather messenger bag he’d carried in. “This has copies of Webster’s class attendance, his grades—which could admittedly be better, but he’s working on them. It has a letter from his football coach, his adoptive parents, and a guy named Colton Greene—you might’ve heard of him, ex-NFL quarterback. He runs a nonprofit in Maple Valley and also mentors Webster. All attesting to his good behavior, work ethic, you name it.”
Kelly’s lips curved into an almost-grin. “I thought you said you weren’t here as a lawyer.”
Beckett leaned forward. “Amanda used to text Webster regularly and she hasn’t for a while. He’s worried. I’ve seen it firsthand.” And frankly, wondered about it. But Webster had assured him there wasn’t anything more going on than one friend concerned about another.
Kelly opened the folder, gaze skimming its contents. “Maybe she doesn’t want further contact.”
“If that’s the case, okay.” Beckett nodded. “Webster will have to learn to deal with that. I’m just asking you to check with her. And if she wants to let him know she’s all right, his email and phone number are in there.” He motioned to the folder in her hands.
She closed it. “Okay.”
“You’ll talk to her?”
“I’ll consider talking to her.”
It was as good as he was going to get, he could see it in her firm posture. But she hadn’t said no. And there’d been that half-smile. Reason enough to hope.
11
For the second day in a row, Kit woke up in an unfamiliar bed. The sound of dishes clinking, the smell of something tantalizing and sweet, lulled her eyes open, but she couldn’t make herself lift her head from the pillow.
Not from this perfectly bunched mound with its perfectly soft pillowcase in this perfectly dark room. And these sheets, the heavy duvet, so warm and comfortable.
Where in the world was she? What time was it?
She slid one arm free of the haven of her bed and reached for her phone on the nightstand. She tapped its screen—ten-thirty in the morning? She bolted up, the cogs of her memory finally churning.
The plane trip from Chicago to Boston late last night. The cab ride to Beckett’s apartment in the brownstone with the split foyer. His bedroom. His voice insisting she sleep in here and she too tired to argue.
Those must be some heavy curtains on the windows—not a slice of light filtered into the room. She switched on the nightstand lamp and gave the bedroom the once-over she’d been too exhausted to last night. Dark beige, almost-brown walls. Even darker furniture that matched the leather pinned headboard she leaned against now. Laundry hamper, closet door, a tie hanging over the doorknob.
Beckett wears ties. And inside the closet she’d probably find suit jackets and dress pants and nice shoes. Beckett wears ties and works in an office and argues cases in front of judges.
The same Beckett who climbed trees and drove hay wagons at home.
Except, it wasn’t his home. Not permanently, anyway.
She slid down against the pile of pillows in Beckett’s bed, wishing away the unwelcome thought that he had an entire life she knew nothing about.
A knock at the door made her blink, and before she could make her voice work, the door cracked open. Beckett’s head ducked in. He grinned. “Oh good, you’re awake.”
Yes, with her hair in tangles and the makeup she’d been too fatigued to wash off most likely smeared under her eyes now. “Barely.”
He trounced into the room and walked to the window. He pushed the curtains aside, and light thrust over her.
“Really, Beck?”
He was at the side of the bed in two long strides. “I figured it out.”
“Figured out what?” She forced herself to sit up.
“How you’re going to convince your dad to keep the orchard in the family.” He dropped onto the bed beside her, apparently oblivious to her bedhead and what she was wearing.
And, uh, not wearing. She pulled her sheet up over her shoulders. “Why are we talking about this now?”
“Because it’s a brilliant idea.” He leaned against the headboard with his legs stretched out, as if this was a completely normal locale for catching up on business. “Lucas won’t stand a chance.”
“I’m not at war with my brother, Beck.”
“I know that,” he drawled. “But you said he’s already got a buyer, right? You’re going to have to step up your game. For all you know, Lucas and his buyer are working up a deal right now.”
“Why are you trying to stress me out? I just woke up.”
“You won’t be stressed when you hear my plan. I’ll explain over breakfast.” He clasped her hand and pulled her up. “Don’t worry about what you look like. I’m still in my pajamas, too.” His pajamas apparently being a pair of track pants and a t-shirt. A far cry from her pink striped flannels and flimsy top. “Let’s go. I’m making pancakes.”
He still held her hand and tugged her toward the door. “Beck—”
> He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Brush your teeth, wash your face, do whatever you need to. But don’t dawdle.” He started for the door but stopped halfway there. “And pajamas are mandatory.”
“Why?”
He grinned. “Because you’re cute.” And with that, he disappeared.
She groaned. And then giggled. And then had a heart attack when she saw her face in the mirror in his master bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom—still in pajamas as ordered, but hair parted down the middle and pulled into two braids, teeth brushed, and yesterday’s makeup scrubbed away.
Beckett’s first-floor apartment was a maze of small spaces. Across from his bedroom, an alcove carved into the corridor wall housed a small desk with a window looking out onto the tree-lined street. A twin alcove just a few feet down held a crammed-full bookcase. The hallway led into a circular den with a mahogany-hued leather couch and matching recliner with a reading lamp standing beside it. More bookshelves and a TV along one wall.
The den led into what was probably supposed to be the dining room—sans table. An arched opening on the opposite end spied on the kitchen.
She moved through each space with a studying eye, seeing signs of Beckett in every room—the pillow and sheets on the couch where he’d slept, the sweatshirt draped over a lone chair in the dining room. In the kitchen, the man himself.
The smell of pancake batter sizzling on a griddle beckoned her into the room, where Beckett held a spatula in one hand. “Finally. You took forever.”
“I took a few minutes.”
He looked eager. Way too awake. Way too . . .
Handsome. She’d been trying to ignore it for weeks, since that night in the orchard. But what was the point in denying it any longer? They weren’t kids anymore.
She was a woman, and he was a man. One whose once skinny arms were now rounded and strong. Whose shoulders stretched wider than she remembered and whose chest, as she’d discovered on Logan’s couch, made an awfully firm but comfortable pillow.
His gaze angled to hers, and she felt the flush climb all the way from her toes. “Beckett Walker’s famous pancakes.” She grappled for a lighthearted tone, but her voice refused to cooperate.
But if he’d noticed her ogling or her embarrassment, he let it go. “I’ve perfected the recipe some.”
She willed her nerves to settle. “And added blueberries, I see.”
“Had to run to the market for those. And for milk. And eggs. And basically everything.”
“You’ve been to the store already? When did you get up?”
“Not long ago.” He handed her a plate already prepared with two pancakes slathered in syrup. “Sorry I don’t have a table. Never got around to buying one. You could eat on the couch if you want.” He pulled a fork from a nearby drawer.
“Nah, I can eat standing. I need to hear about this plan of yours.”
“Good.” He flipped a pancake. “Here’s what I’m thinking: Remember how the mayor keeps talking about state tourism board folks who are coming to town in October?”
Remember? The man hadn’t stopped talking about it in weeks. She took a bite of a pancake, closed her eyes. “Oh my word.”
“I know they’re good, but focus.”
“I don’t know if I can. These are amazing, Beck.” She crammed in another bite. “But yes, I remember. Clearly Mayor Milt is angling for state dollars. I think he honestly thinks Maple Valley is on its way to becoming a true tourist trap. Iowa’s very own Coney Island or Atlantic City.”
“Well, I say we talk him into making the orchard the centerpiece of his pitch. Put on a charming evening event. Lights, music, moonlight tours, that kind of thing.” Beckett’s spatula scraped against the griddle as he slid off a perfectly golden pancake. “We pack the place with people, go all out for one night. And we get your dad there. He’ll see firsthand how important it is to the economy of the community.”
She paused halfway to another bite. “Forget for a minute that this only gives us a month to plan an event, an event I don’t even have money for—”
“That’s the beauty of it, Kit. We get the city to pay for it. They invest a few dollars in hopes of attracting additional state funds. Spend money to make money and all that. You’re just playing host.”
“But what makes you think my dad would come?” He’d missed countless birthdays and holidays. He hadn’t even come to her graduation ceremony. “Why would he show up for this?”
Beckett flipped another pancake before turning to look at her. “Maybe I can talk to him. I’m great at talking people into things, remember? I’ve got a social worker in Iowa and another in Illinois as proof.”
He joked, but she didn’t miss the flash of compassion in his eyes. He knew more than anyone the stages of hurt and anger she’d gone through over the years because of her father’s continual absence.
“Surely I can convince him to leave his office for one night.”
Kit lowered her gaze, voice soft, as she set down her plate. “You know, I don’t begrudge him his career. It’s just that . . . he wasn’t serving overseas most of the time he was gone. He was in D.C. He could’ve had us with him. We were already short one parent. I barely have any memories of my mom. Why couldn’t he have at least given me good memories of him?” And was it pitiful to still carry with her the hurt?
“I’m sorry, Kit. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him up.”
She traced one finger through the syrup on her plate. “No, I’m sorry. Here your dad is . . .”
Beckett looked away. He’d avoided every mention of his dad the past couple days. She didn’t know what to say. Or what to do. Or why she couldn’t, for the life of her, get ahold of the emotions whirling around inside her. She felt like a snow globe—tipped upside down and shaken, a flurry of nerves and worry and . . .
And an attraction so strong it scared her.
Because eventually Beckett would leave, too. She’d known it all along, of course, but it felt so much more real here. Yes, he was here to pack up his belongings, essentially bring closure to his life in Boston.
But he wouldn’t be unpacking those things in Maple Valley. He’d bring a few boxes home, but he’d already told her he’d rented a storage unit for the bulk of his stuff. Maple Valley was only a pit stop.
He turned off the burner, and when he looked at her again, it was as if he’d heard every one of her thoughts. A glimmer of urgency filled his eyes. “Let’s have fun today, Kit. Let’s go for a drive. I can take you to Beacon Hill or a beach or something.”
“But your office, your apartment.”
“We can stop by the office real quick and save the packing for tonight. We’ll stay up all night if we have to. Or I’ll just hire a packing company. Whatever. Let’s forget everything else. Just for today.”
“Okay.” Just for today.
Because it was beginning to feel like today was all they had.
Beckett should’ve waited to do this until the weekend.
And he shouldn’t have brought Kit along.
The elevator dinged as they reached the seventh floor of the downtown office building. “I should’ve just let you take the car and get an early start on the tourist-ing.” He waited until Kit stepped out of the elevator to follow. “There’s not that much in the office to pack up. I could’ve done it myself.”
Behind her, a wall of paneled glass windows peered in on the capacious offices of the Louder, Boyce & Shillinger Law Firm. Gray walls and birch furnishings overtop marbled flooring in swirls of white and copper. He could still remember his first gaping tour of the prestigious firm, picturing himself in one of the corner suites with the Boston skyline views along two windowed walls.
And to think, he’d come so close.
“Ashamed to be seen with me, are you?” Kit studied the aerial photo of the office building on the wall opposite the elevator doors as she teased.
And he studied her. Navy blue sweater with sleeves that reached only t
o her elbows. Jean skirt over brown leggings and boots. She’d left her hair down for once and it reached past her shoulders in unruly waves. “Not even close.”
She turned to see him watching her, and for at least the hundredth time since he’d whisked her away from Maple Valley, she smiled and blushed and gave him that look that honestly made him think maybe she saw him differently now.
And it—she—took his breath away.
“I wish I’d let you kiss me that night, Beckett Walker.”
“I just . . .” Talk. Words. Focus. “You could be doing something fun while I do this. There are these gardens I know you’d love. I mean, to me, they’re just a bunch of plants and flowers, but with your botany background—”
She shifted the jacket dangling over one arm as she interrupted. “I did way too much lone sightseeing in London. This time I’ve got you with me and you’re telling me to strike out on my own? I don’t think so, Beck.” She nodded her head toward the offices. “Besides, I want to see where you work.”
“Worked.” He plodded to the gray wood door and opened it for Kit. “We’ll make it snappy, though, so we can get on with the exploring.”
And maybe, if he was lucky, no one would notice them.
“Beckett Walker, in the flesh!”
No such luck. Elliott Boyce, Jr.’s, boisterous call turned nearly every head in the oblong open space at the front of the floor. And then he was standing in front of Beckett, his handshake quickly turning into a light hug. “How are you, old man?”
Beckett eyed Kit over Elliott’s shoulder. “Our birthdays are two days apart. I’ve got a whole forty-eight hours on him.”
Elliott stepped back. “Making you the old man and me the jaunty, spry youngster.” His gaze latched on to Kit. “Please tell me this is the ‘personal reason’ you ditched the firm for. I might not look it, but I’ve got a romantic streak like you wouldn’t believe.”
Ditched the firm? That was the quite the spin. Especially from the guy who’d carried out the firing.
Kit’s laugh was pure amusement. “Kit Danby.” She held out her palm for a handshake, but Elliott instead took hold of her fingers and lifted them to his lips.