Seriously, he was the only one in this family who had any business playing sports.
He found a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee, not needing to taste it to know it’d be strong and dark. Dad liked his coffee muddy.
“Baseboards need polished,” Dad said simply once Beckett returned.
Beckett found the lemon polish and went to work. Silent minutes passed. Dad was more comfortable in silence than anyone Beckett had ever met, even quiet, slightly introverted Logan.
But the silence of the past few weeks, the silence of right now—it was different. Strained with too many unsaid words. Ever since walking out of Dad’s hospital room, all the things he wanted to say, to ask, the emotions tumbling into each other, they’d jammed and refused to budge.
The only one that seemed to break free was the one he most loathed to feel: an irrational, indisputable anger.
It was part of why he’d fled to Boston. He didn’t want Dad to see. The realization had been soaking in for days now. This wasn’t new anger. This was quiet and prowling.
And it filled him with shame.
He swiped his rag along the floorboard, the tart scent of the polish assailing him. He crouched his way around all four walls, only rising once the full circumference of the floorboards gleamed. When he straightened and turned, it was to see Dad watching him while leaning over a case filled with mementos from the depot’s history—old railroad photos and tools, stamps and coins and handwritten letters. “So should we get on with it already? You’ve been crawling out of your skin lately, son. Is it me? The Army application? Kit?”
“Dad—”
“If it’s Kit, then we definitely need to talk. I promised Flora I’d always make sure to pry into our children’s love lives.”
“Even when your children are no longer children?” Beckett draped his rag over the polish bottle and stuffed it behind a counter.
“Especially then. Generally I try to be at least somewhat subtle about it—”
“If this is subtle, I’d like to see what your version of blatant looks like.”
Dad eyed him with something like amusement. “Suit yourself. We can go back to taut silence and cleaning if you want.”
“No, Dad, I want to talk.” He did. That was why he’d come out here, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he been wishing for weeks for the kind of easy relationship the rest of his siblings shared with Dad? To be able to talk to Dad like he’d once talked to Mom. It was a soul-deep craving—for guidance, wisdom, something.
“Do you love her?”
“Of course I love her!” Beckett dropped onto a stool behind the counter, flinging his frustrated reply harder than he’d meant to. “I’ve loved her since I was eleven.” Perhaps not in the same way. Okay, definitely not in the same way.
Dad gave a hearty laugh. “Yeah, well, you haven’t been kissing her since you were eleven.”
“How do you—”
“Got a brain tumor, Beck, but I’m not blind.”
“How can you joke about it?” The question slipped from him before he’d realized it. It stole any lightness, any mirth from the space between them.
Dad’s fingers clutched the edge of the glass case. “Son, if you don’t think I’ve had some trouble sleeping lately because of this thing, you’re wrong. I’ve pondered what surgery might mean, wrestled with the thought of not being around to spend at least a couple more decades watching my children grow into the amazing people I’ve always known they are, seeing Charlie grow up and any other grandkids I might end up with . . .”
Beckett shifted on his stool, dread and discomfort dragging through him.
“I’ve met with my estate lawyer and updated my will and made sure all my affairs are in order—”
He didn’t want to hear this. “Dad—”
“I’m not immune to what’s happening here.”
He ached to say something, refute or reassure or just something. But all he could do was sit here looking at the father he’d too often taken for granted and hear the same flood of pleading prayers he used to say for Mom rush through him once more.
Please don’t take him away.
“So why are you putting off the surgery? This whole thing could be over by now.”
Dad’s pause stretched so long Beckett thought perhaps he wasn’t going to answer. And maybe he wasn’t. Because instead of acknowledging the question, Dad reached into the display case beside him and pulled out a book—the depot’s old guest register. Creases wrinkled its water-splotched cover.
“Colton found this about a half mile from the depot after the tornado last year. Can’t believe it survived.” Dad fingered through a couple pages before stopping and setting the book in Beckett’s lap. “Check it out. Colton found this, too.”
He looked to where Dad pointed, gasping as he recognized the handwriting. Flora Lawrence. And right underneath, Case Walker. 1979.
“That’s the year the depot and museum officially opened after the Union Pacific donated a final mile of track.”
He knew the story. Dad had been between assignments with the Foreign Service Office, and Mom, though living in New York at the time, working at the foundation she’d helped open, had come home for the weekend. After several years apart, a series of stops and starts, they’d reunited during the first-ever Depot Days festival.
He traced his finger over Mom’s name. “I wish I could hear her voice, just once more.”
“I never feel closer to Flora than during Depot Days.” Dad spoke slowly, his tone willing Beckett to look up and meet his eyes. “If I’m going to have a tumor scraped off my brain, face months of recovery and possibly radiation or chemo, then I needed this one thing. It may sound silly, it may sound illogical, but I needed it. I asked the neurosurgeon if a few more weeks would make a difference, and he said, unless the symptoms got worse, probably not.”
Dad sounded so . . . human. Uncertain and miles from invincible.
“I just needed to feel close to her. I miss her, and I needed to feel close to her.”
The welcome sign underneath the depot’s open front door tipped against the wind, its creaking filling the silence. Unbidden tears—so long denied—pooled now, blurring Mom’s name in the book on his lap. And emotion, tangled and inescapable, knotted his whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me to come home?”
It was the wrong time, the wrong place. His father had just confessed his fear and hurt. But maybe that was why Beckett couldn’t stop his own now.
It came in a deluge—the hurt, the anguish, soul-wrenching regret.
“I would’ve skipped that basketball game, Dad. I called you, I asked how she was doing. Why didn’t you tell me to come home?” He blinked, but it was useless. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Oh, Beckett, I didn’t realize . . .”
“I would’ve come home.”
He felt his shoulders, his whole body shake as a sob overtook him. He felt the book slipping from his lap and falling to the floor. He felt weeks—no, years—of bottled up grief breaking free.
He felt his father’s arms.
“I got a call from Eric Hampton today.”
Kit whirled at the voice sounding from the cellar stairs. A lone bulb from a dangling string provided the only light in the dank space. They wouldn’t be able to keep the overflowing bags and barrels of fallen apples in here long. The air was too damp. But there simply wasn’t enough refrigeration elsewhere.
Lucas descended into the cellar. Hard to discern his mood in the dim lighting. Would this be the brooding Lucas who spent his nights pacing until he collapsed into another round of nightmares? Or the Lucas who then and again threw out a joke, played with Flynnie, even spent hours today helping collect apples in the field?
It’d been vital that they clean up as much fallen fruit as they could as quickly as possible. Apples that had been on the ground more than twelve hours could end up with bacteria, making them a health hazard to consume raw. With so much of the crop damaged, they had to save what they could.
/>
“Willa says maybe her original estimation was wrong,” Lucas said as he sidestepped a barrel. “The entire east field is unscathed. We maybe lost only sixty, sixty-five percent of the crop.”
Only? It was still far too much. She didn’t know what they were going to do from here. Some of the damaged crop was still salvageable, could be bagged and sold as “seconds” in the store. But ending the season with a profit seemed more unlikely than ever.
It wasn’t just the crop loss. They’d need to re-mulch, which meant buying who-knew-how-many bags. She still hadn’t purchased hay for the bales they’d place throughout the orchard in winter. The hay bales attracted mice, the scent of mice attracted bumblebees, and the bumblebees helped pollinate come spring. The storm had knocked over several of the younger trees, ripped out the limb spreaders in others.
There was just . . . too much.
But Lucas had said “we.” Had he finally begun to feel some ownership of the orchard?
At least the barn was just fine. Drew had been hard at work all day today, alongside several of the volunteers he’d rounded up. Finishing that project, hosting the tourism board, it might be her only chance now. Drew had worked right up until half an hour ago when he’d left to pick up his girlfriend who was in town for the annual Depot Days festival.
Would Beckett be out on the field in front of the depot with everyone else, watching the fireworks that always kicked off the weekend event?
She propped a lid atop the barrel. “Eric Hampton called?”
Lucas folded his arms and leaned against a shelf crowded with empty mason jars and apple cider jugs. “Yeah, and I don’t think I need more than one guess to figure out who gave him my number.”
At least he didn’t sound irate. “What did he want?”
“Something about joining some softball league. But I’m not quite naïve enough to believe my pitching arm is the only reason he called. The guy has a counseling degree, if I’m not mistaken. I’m his next project.”
“Or he’s simply noticed that, since you’ve been home, you haven’t had much in the way of a social life.”
The jars on the shelf rattled as he pushed away. “Look, if you asked him to talk to me, Kit—”
“I didn’t.” Not exactly.
“I’m not mad. But a little pop psychology isn’t going to do anything for me.”
“But talking to someone might. And if you won’t talk to me—”
“Then I’m certainly not going to talk to a dude who apparently doesn’t have enough to do helping a bunch of former inmates.” He plucked an apple from a plastic bag.
“Luke—”
“And no, I don’t need a reminder that I fall into that category.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, I was going to say, don’t eat that apple. That bag isn’t from today. Those are ones waiting for compost. They fell before they were ripe, which means they probably have codling moth larvae.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds gross.” He dropped the apple. “Listen, Kit, I need to tell you something.”
She hated the instant dread his words ushered in, was so tired of feeling like she was fighting a losing battle.
“That buyer I told you about. He wants to come see the place in person. He owns an orchard up in Minnesota, and he’s making a visit next week. He’s going to stop here on the way.” Lucas hurried through the explanation, obviously worried at how she’d handle the news.
But honestly, tonight, she just didn’t have it in her to argue. “Fine.”
“Even if we sell, Kit, he’ll probably want to hire an onsite manager. I’m sure he’d give you the job.”
“You wouldn’t want it?”
“I told you, I want out. I want to start over somewhere else.”
“And do what?”
He looked around the dimly lit space. “I don’t know, but not this. I don’t want a life where some tree disease or one measly storm can endanger your livelihood and wipe out months of work.”
Her phone dinged, and she was instantly desperate for it to be Beckett. He’d missed that town council meeting and bit her head off at the bridge. He’d confused her by kissing her one minute and avoiding her the next. And yes, last night she’d needed to get away from the intensity of him, them.
But tonight . . . tonight she needed her best friend.
And maybe he needed her. Because it was true, all those things he’d said at the bridge. He’d spent weeks and weeks helping her, while his own goals teetered. He had his own set of frustrations. What had she done to help him?
She pulled her phone from her pocket and, despite everything, grinned when she saw the screen.
Fireworks. Watching from the roof. You coming?
“Gotta run, Lucas.”
“Beckett?”
He had to ask?
She didn’t bother stopping at the house to change, just hopped in the truck and drove the short distance to the Walker house. Clouds muted the last hint of sunset, the blue-gray sky void of glinting stars. No matter. Soon enough, booms of color would light up the night.
She knocked only once on the Walkers’ front door. Surely everyone else was out at the depot. She made her way through the house, so familiar even after all this time. The expansive kitchen where she’d so often joined the family for breakfast. The comfortable living room where she’d frequently seen Case and Flora Walker watching old movies late at night as she left after an evening of hanging out with Beckett. The stairway, even now, cluttered with abandoned shoes and folded clothing waiting to be taken up to bedrooms.
Beckett’s bedroom door was open, as was his screenless window. She climbed through.
“That was fast.” He was lying on his back, arms folded underneath his head. He looked tired but comfortable, almost . . . tranquil.
Without a word, she crawled to his side and, after only a moment’s hesitation, stretched out beside him. The warmth of him seeped through her jacket, his presence the balm she’d longed for all day. How had she let herself go six years without seeing him, talking to him?
How would she say goodbye when it came time for him to leave again?
“How are you, Kit? How’s the orchard?”
A hazy moon slouched behind lacy clouds. She didn’t answer. Only scooted closer.
“Objection. Non-responsive.”
“The fireworks are going to start soon. I don’t want to ruin the ambiance by talking.” But she shifted onto her side, up on one elbow, so she could look at his face. He hadn’t shaved today, but he must have showered recently because the tips of his hair were wet and he smelled clean. And good.
“What?” His eyebrows lifted at her studying gaze.
“How are you? Last night you seemed . . .”
He fingered a strand of her hair. “I’m fine.”
“Objection. Vague answer.”
“You don’t know your court objections, Kit.”
No, but she knew him. Something had changed since last night. But instead of pressing him, she settled once more beside him, this time with his arm outstretched beneath her shoulders.
The hushed sky waited. Elsewhere, the rest of the town gathered on blankets and lawn chairs in an open field. She could picture the clusters of people, the line of cars along the gravel road leading to the depot. Just like on the Fourth of July, kids would run around with sparklers while they waited, and parents would call out words of caution.
She’d always loved the wait almost as much as the fireworks themselves. Tonight was no exception.
“I went to my mom’s grave today.” Beckett’s voice was soft. “With Dad.”
“You did?” She felt his nod against her cheek. A distant squeal cut into the night. A trail of light, then a burst of color and a boom. “And?”
“And the fireworks are starting. I don’t want to ruin the ambiance.”
Perhaps that was best. Enjoy the lit-up night sky, the sound and the brilliance, while it lasted. It’d be over soon enough.
14 r />
Kit stared at her computer monitor, had to read the lines twice to be sure she wasn’t projecting her own wishful thinking onto the screen.
But no, she’d read Dad’s email correctly the first time. He was coming home. He was coming home!
“Flynnie, this is so exciting I’m not even going to get after you for eating your own pillow.” The little goat pattered over the office floor, nosing a fluff of cotton from the pillow she’d destroyed.
The shrill pulse of a power tool sounded from outside, no doubt Drew hard at work on the barn. He’d promised her a tour of the inside today, and an update on its progress. Now more than ever it was vital the project finish on time. Eight days until the representatives from the state tourism board would be here.
And Dad.
Hopefully a crowd of community members, too. The mayor and city leaders, Belinda and the Chamber of Commerce—everyone was going all out with plans to impress the state reps. This was what Maple Valley did best—pull together as one.
And ever since she’d stood up at that town meeting, Valley Orchard had become the centerpiece of their plans. They’d dubbed it “An Evening at the Orchard.” There’d be guided walks and even a scavenger hunt by lantern light through the grove, wagon rides and cider. Apple-bobbing and other games for kids. And inside the barn, a dance with music provided by the antique victrola she’d found in the store’s attic after the stairs were repaired.
She petted Flynnie on her way out of the office, leaving the door open so the animal could traipse along behind her if she wished.
The urge to text Beckett or, better yet, show up on his doorstep, nearly caught hold of her. But she’d been trying so hard since last week to give him space from everything orchard-related. Now that he’d completed his community service hours, he wasn’t obligated to be here. She’d sensed his relief when he’d told her Friday night after the fireworks about being done. She’d had to squelch the rise of her own panic.