“I know, you’ve said that twenty times already.” Webster zipped up his sweatshirt and started toward the decrepit-looking building.
After cutting his interview short as graciously as he could, everything in Beckett had wanted to backtrack on his promise to the kid. Skip going to this Jake guy’s apartment and head straight to Iowa City, Webster in tow, whether he liked it or not.
But Logan was right—Iowa City was barely two hours away and it wasn’t even seven yet. There was plenty of time to make a quick stop, just long enough for Webster to make sure his friend was okay.
If she was even here.
What in the world would make a girl want to live here? Crumbling brick and cracked windows, overgrown weeds lining the walkway to the front door. Par for the course in this neighborhood, it seemed.
“I’m not feeling great about this, Web.” Wasn’t feeling great about anything at the moment. He’d walked away from an interview he was well on his way to bombing even before Logan had called. What if he’d finally, once and for all, blown his chances? And now he was about to enter a building that could’ve made an awfully convincing haunted house without any effort at all.
“Now you see why I’m worried about her?” Webster yanked open the front door.
“But you don’t know that she’s here. For all you know, she’s still back in Chicago doing just fine.”
“So why won’t she text me back?” His voice echoed as he moved toward the cement stairwell just inside the door. “And if you’re right and she’s not here, then good. At least I’ll know that much.”
The smell of burnt toast permeated the air, muffled voices rising from every direction. They climbed two sets of stairs before spilling into a corridor, painted walls chipped and peeling. Webster stopped in front of Apartment 327, the 7 at the end hanging crookedly.
He hesitated only for a moment before lifting his fist. Beckett hung back, waiting. This felt wrong. Was it just worry about Dad?
Webster knocked again, harder this time. “Jake! Open up.”
A door across the hall opened and a man stuck his head out. “Oh. Thought you were the police.”
“The police?”
The man stepped out, shirt unbuttoned, revealing a potbelly. “Called ’em fifteen minutes ago at least. Bad enough imagining what that kid’s dealing out of there, but the shouting tonight—I lost patience.”
Webster stiffened. “Shouting? Is there a girl in there?”
The man shrugged and Webster whirled back to the door, pounding now. “Amanda, are you in there?”
“Web, if the cops are on their way—”
Webster kicked the door, and it sprang open.
“Webster!” But he’d already barged inside, calling for Amanda. His panic became Beckett’s. He hurried in after Webster, the smell of something pungent and sickly sweet wafting over him. Pot. Probably something else, too. “We can’t be in here, especially not . . .” His focus snagged on a kid sprawled out on a couch, arms and legs draped over the sides. What had they walked into?
Webster had already disappeared into a bedroom. The sound of footsteps on the stairwell registered.
“Webster, we need to leave now.”
“Amanda!”
He followed Webster’s voice, passing a kitchen he didn’t have to look into twice to know it wasn’t meals they were cooking in there. He found Webster in a bedroom, kneeling over a bare mattress, shaking a girl’s body.
Webster flung a scared look over his shoulder. “She’s breathing, but she’s definitely high on something.”
“Hey, what’s going on here?”
The kid from the couch stood in the doorway behind them. He looked from Beckett to the bed to Webster.
It happened too fast: Webster’s guttural yell. “I’ll kill you!” His lunge across the room. The clash of bodies and fists.
Beckett sprung toward the brawl. “Webster, stop—”
They crashed into a vanity with a broken mirror, Beckett reaching desperately for Webster, trying to pull him free. Until a pair of arms yanked him away. He fell backward against a closet door while the police officer who’d come charging into the room wedged himself between Webster and the guy who must be Jake.
He cradled the arm that had hit the closet door, elbow throbbing, breathless. “You all right, Web—”
“Neighbor was right.” A second officer marched in. “It’s all right there in the kitchen. I’m going to call Buckley to get him down here for bagging and pics.”
Webster shot him a helpless look before glancing at the bed again. The girl—Amanda, he assumed—was sitting up now.
“Sir,” Beckett said, “the one in the hoodie and myself, we don’t have anything to do with this.”
“Save it for the station.”
This couldn’t be happening. If they were arrested, it could be hours before they were let out. Worse, they could be booked overnight until an arraignment and . . .
Dad.
“You don’t understand—” He tried again, but the sinking feeling in his gut was confirmed by the officer’s head shake and the clatter of handcuffs.
Autumn was finally here to stay. Kit could feel it claiming its territory, raking through tree branches that shivered against a moaning wind. It wasn’t quite the stunning fall day they’d all hoped for as they’d planned for the state tourism board’s visit. But at least those ashen cirrus clouds didn’t carry any rain.
The thumping of the machine shed’s door, its jangling hinges, carried across the span of dusty yard to where she stood on the store’s porch, watching the mayor lead their esteemed visitors around the orchard.
But where was Dad? Lucas should’ve returned from the airport an hour ago.
He’s not the only one you’re watching for.
She took a tattered breath, couldn’t deny it. There was a piece of her that still hoped Beckett might whisk in like he had so many times before—always there, right when she needed him most. Of course he had that interview in Des Moines, but it was only an hour’s drive back. He could still show up.
But after a week of silence, did she really expect it?
She’d wounded him. He’d walked away. They’d been here before.
She’d thought so many times of going over to the Walker house, forcing him to talk to her. But what would be the point? Nothing had changed. She couldn’t give up on the life she’d begun to build for herself here, not when she’d worked so hard, invested so much.
Plus, it wasn’t just about her—it was about Grandma and Grandpa’s legacy and all her employees, the guys from Hampton House. She’d heard that buyer of Lucas’s—he didn’t plan to keep the orchard open as a tourist spot, but solely as a fruit farm. He’d probably hire fewer workers, work them longer hours, and pay them lower wages.
Show me that I did the right thing, God, please.
“Milt’s gotta be happy. I think the state reps are duly impressed.” Willa’s voice emerged from the store.
Kit jumped. “I didn’t realize you were back there.”
“Eric and I traded places. He’s leading the next lantern walk, I’m manning the store for a while. Not that we’ve got much business at this point. Most people are having fun outside or dancing in the barn.”
Dusk cast shadows all around, but just enough light remained to showcase the colors of what leaves remained on the trees. The field behind the orchard buildings was a tapestry of fiery reds and oranges and yellows. Lanterns placed throughout the grounds glowed from all directions.
Music and laughter, pirouetting light, drifted from the barn. All the final work on the building had been completed in the last week. Floors stained and walls painted. She’d washed every window herself just yesterday and then spent the entire afternoon and evening decorating the interior—tulle wrapped around beams, refreshment tables set up along the walls and ornamented with fall-themed centerpieces.
And of course, the twinkle lights.
The pang hit her again.
“You can
’t just stand here all night waiting, Kit.”
“What is it with the men in my life not being here when I need them to be?” How many birthdays and holidays had she spent just like this—looking out a window or standing on the porch of her grandparents’ house, just sure that this time Dad would show up? All those months during the war of having no idea where Lucas was, and then his repeat disappearance, though much shorter, this year.
And Beckett . . .
But it wasn’t fair to include him. When she’d needed him this fall, he’d thrown himself into helping her. Early mornings, late nights, he’d worked so hard to make her dream possible. It was only lately he’d begun to drift.
But then, that was Beckett. He had a way of diving into things, all in, and then eventually pulling back when things didn’t turn out the way he’d planned or he got tired of them. Basketball, his corporate law career, even the car he used to work on with his mom . . .
She sucked in a breath. Was that why she’d really said no that night in the barn? Because underneath all her other sensible objections was an underlying fear—that eventually he’d grow restless with her, too? That what had seemed exciting and romantic and had tugged on his Beckett Walker impulse would one day seem as tedious as his former job?
An eerie haze hovered in the air—one that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t warm enough, nor the clouds thick enough, to warrant trapped moisture. Perhaps she didn’t know her Iowa weather as well as she’d thought.
“Maybe your dad’s plane was late landing.”
“Maybe.”
Willa nudged her head toward the barn. “Go have some fun, Kit. Help Mayor Milt charm those state people. You put a lot of work into tonight. You should enjoy it.”
But she’d put in the work so Dad could see it. And he wasn’t here. Why wasn’t he here?
She was halfway to the barn when she heard the spark. More like a boom, actually. What in the—
“Kit, what was that?” Willa’s voice carried over the yard.
But Kit was already running. It couldn’t be what it sounded like, but she raced to the side of the barn to make sure, dreading she’d find . . .
Exactly what she found. The electrical box sparking and smoking.
She jumped back as it blasted a second time, her shocked yelp covered up by the sound of a crackling. No . . .
She had to put it out before the wind fanned the baby flame, carried sparks to the roof or the trees. If it turns into a full-blown fire . . .
She had to get the people out first. She ran around to the front of the barn, but the crowd inside had already begun to realize something was wrong. Buzzing concern was rising throughout the room, and by the time she’d pushed in, people were scurrying for the door. “Stay calm!”
But then she saw it, what they must’ve seen—billowing smoke through the window. Just that fast, the fire had begun to climb. Mind spinning, she pushed through the frenzied crowd, frantic gaze landing on the tablecloth spread over a table.
She forced her way to the table, wrenched the linen free, and started weaving her way back to the exit. Someone screamed as shattering glass sounded over the chaos.
Please, no . . .
By the time she was back outside, hungry flames licked at the east wall, aided by barreling shafts of wind. Smoke clouded her vision as she stumbled to the fire. Desperate, determined, she thwacked the tablecloth at the fire. Tears stung her eyes, and her heart battered the inside of her chest, stilted prayers clogging her throat with no hope of making it past dry lips. Sparks leapt from the blaze as the fire clawed its way higher.
“Kit!”
Lucas came careening around the side of the barn.
“Help me, Luke.”
“It’s too windy. The blaze is already too much.”
Her lungs burned, and a moan wracked her body. Even so, she flung the tablecloth at the fire once more. She lifted it again, only to be stopped by Lucas’s arm around her waist. She struggled against him, but his hold was tight and his labored steps firm.
Within seconds he’d towed her away from the building, her half-charred tablecloth dragging along with her. Somewhere behind the crackle and hiss of the flames, Willa’s voice barked information to a 911 dispatcher.
“You okay?” Lucas yelled to be heard over the pandemonium.
“Where’s Dad?” It came out a near sob.
The glow of the fire highlighted the regret in his eyes. “He didn’t come, Kit.”
“The flight didn’t get in?”
He tugged the burned linen from her hands and let it drop to the ground. “It did. He just wasn’t on it.”
She sank into his arms and cried.
16
6:47 a.m.
Beckett burst through the doors of the hospital. This was wrong, it was all wrong. He should’ve been here last night with his family. He should’ve had the chance to talk with Dad, laugh with his siblings, pretend what was to come wasn’t scaring them all.
But it’d been nearly one in the morning by the time the police had finally let him go. He’d wanted to leave right then, but common sense had forced him to find a hotel, get at least a few hours of sleep. Besides, Dad wouldn’t be awake in the middle of the night.
At least he was here now. He could see Dad for a few minutes before the surgery.
6:48.
He’d tracked the turnover of every minute since leaving Des Moines. One hundred and seven minutes on Interstate 80. Six minutes snaking through Iowa City traffic to get to the university hospital. Two minutes parking.
He jabbed an elevator button, groaned at its slowness as it lugged him toward the surgery floor.
6:51.
At least Webster’s parents had been able to get to Des Moines. They were taking charge of Amanda, too.
The elevator dinged and he surged free, following signs with arrows and a maroon stripe on the wall in a half-jog until he arrived at the surgery wing’s family waiting room.
6:52.
Winded and harried, he spurted into the room. “I’m here.”
They were all there, scattered across the room. Logan and Amelia, Charlie still in her pajamas. Colton and Kate. Raegan. Seth and Ava.
“Where’s Dad? Is he already in a room? Do I need a visitor badge or something to see him?”
Logan stood. “Beck—”
“Well, where is he? Why aren’t any of you with him? He shouldn’t be waiting alone.”
His brother moved toward him. “He’s already been taken into the operating room.”
His breath left him in a whoosh. “But you said . . . you said eight or eight-thirty. It’s not even seven.”
Logan’s eyes brimmed with apology. “I know. I didn’t realize they’d take him back so early for the anesthesia.”
At some point during Logan’s explanation, Rae had wandered to his side. She leaned in for a partial hug. “He knew you were coming, Beck.”
Everything in him constricted and bellowed, his nerves balled so tightly he might just come undone—right here in front of his family.
“I know how much it meant to you to be here, to get to see him . . . before.” Logan. But a buzz in Beckett’s head made it hard to hear him.
He felt Raegan’s surprise when he pulled away. Felt the eyes of all his siblings, his cousin. Knew somewhere deep down he should take comfort in their presence and understanding.
But this was too much. Too familiar.
Before the crippling anguish could break free, he turned and fled the room.
17
Just a building. Just a collection of wood and metal. Maybe to see it reduced to blackened rubble shouldn’t wound Kit so. But the reality of what she was looking at speared through her with such force it buckled her legs.
She landed with her palms in wet ground on either side of her, gravel digging into her knees. The bitter scent of smoke and ash still clung to the air this Saturday morning, nearly thirty-six hours after the fire.
It wasn’t just the loss of the barn itself.
It was seeing Grandpa’s dream charred and destroyed. He’d poured that concrete foundation himself. He’d framed the building’s outline. He’d envisioned its final design.
“Don’t you love the idea of it, Kit? Valley Orchard will become a gathering spot year-round for this community. Weddings and family reunions and birthday parties. We’re in the business of nurturing life, my girl.”
Had there ever been anyone as buoyant and joy-loving as Grandpa?
Beckett.
Yes.
But that was another dream seemingly lost.
“Kit.” Willa’s gentle voice came up behind her. She’d stayed the night with Kit and Lucas on Thursday. Made them breakfast. Stayed again last night. And now she’d come with Kit to meet with the fire marshal.
“It’s ruined.”
Willa stood next to her. “But it’s the only building that was ruined—none of the other buildings, none of the trees. Which is amazing considering how windy it was Thursday night. And nobody was hurt. That’s the main thing.”
She’d nearly forgotten about the tourism board members in the panic of the fire, the commotion of the crowd. By the time the fire department had settled the blaze, the weather had calmed and almost everyone had dispersed. Only Willa and Lucas had lingered.
No Dad. Lucas had told her later that, when Dad didn’t show up at the airport, he’d called his cell number several times before finally trying his office number, only to find out from an assistant that a last-minute meeting had come up. Apparently Dad had emailed her the night before, but she’d been so busy with event prep she hadn’t bothered with her inbox.
But wasn’t this important enough that he could’ve called? Would it have been that hard to pick up the phone and talk to his daughter?
The boot-shaped footprints of the fire marshal and his assistant who’d come out this morning cluttered the ground around her. She’d been surprised they wanted to come on a weekend. If they hadn’t, she’d likely still be holed up at the house.
“It would’ve worked, Willa. The building, I mean. Thursday night I had two different couples ask me about hosting weddings here.” Not counting Kate and Colton. Although would they still want Kit involved in their wedding after the way things had ended with Beckett?