12
“I have to say, Beckett, if every one of my parolees was as diligent as you about completing their service hours, my job would be so much more pleasant.”
The parole officer Beckett had been assigned to nearly two months ago moved her computer keyboard to the side and folded her hands atop her desk. Sylvia Jones—early fifties, snow white hair cut in a blunt bob. He’d found her intimidating when they first met but quickly discovered she had a soft spot for cooperative parolees.
What she didn’t know was he’d almost turned unintentionally uncooperative today, would’ve forgotten this meeting altogether if not for the ping of his phone’s calendar reminder.
Today, this week, his brain was anywhere but here.
One week since he’d broken all his own unwritten rules and kissed his best friend. Since everything he’d ever imagined about kissing Kit Danby proved pale in comparison to the real thing.
The rest of that night and even most of the drive home the next day had felt idyllic, almost spellbinding. When he’d let himself kiss her again, just before leaving Boston, it hadn’t been nearly as feverish as the night before. He’d been slow, deliberate, memorizing the feel of her, almost as if . . .
As if this couldn’t possibly last. As if he stood somewhere between everything he’d planned and hoped and worked for . . . and something else so very unplanned, yet staggering and remarkable. And he didn’t know which way to lean—toward the everything or the something. Knew only he couldn’t hold on to both.
The feeling had only intensified the closer they drove to Maple Valley—in separate cars after picking up Kit’s in Chicago.
“You don’t look nearly as happy as I thought you would.” Sylvia’s voice budged into his wayward thoughts, her forehead wrinkled above her thick-rimmed glasses. “You’re done, Beckett. Free. You’ve got all four hundred hours in and then some.”
He straightened. “Wait, what?” He’d still had forty hours to complete before his Boston trip. He’d only managed seventeen at the orchard since returning.
Partially because he was spending so much time helping Dad at the depot. Mostly because he was avoiding Kit. Not because he didn’t want to see her, but because he did. Because he yearned to throw restraint to the wind and forget the past, ignore the future, focus only on the present. A present in which he’d happily kiss Kit breathless every chance he got.
But wouldn’t that be reverting to the old Beckett? The one who acted on impulse and spoke without thinking and hurt the people he cared about most. Starting something he couldn’t finish would hurt her. Probably already had in some ways. Of all the career moves he could’ve made, he’d honed in on the one thing that, to Kit, only ever spelled out loss.
She was trying to be supportive, he knew. But he also knew her well enough to recognize the underlying dejection she tried to hide.
He forced himself to focus. “I should still have twenty-some hours left.”
Sylvia shook her head. “Your math is off. Trust me, I reviewed the numbers multiple times. I’ve never had someone work off that many hours so quickly. You’re free to go, Beckett. Your obligation to the court is complete.”
Free to go.
Her words trailed him as he left the office in the Department of Corrections, as he walked toward his car parked along the curb and then thought twice and continued on down the sidewalk. He’d told Kit he’d come out to the orchard today so they could plan for tonight’s town meeting, during which they’d pitch Beckett’s plan to host the tourism board members at the orchard.
But he needed space; he needed to think. Free to go. This was what he’d worked for all this time. This was why he’d come home, why he’d stayed home, why he’d gone to Kit pleading for a volunteer position despite the warning of his gut.
Back then he’d been so consumed with leftover angst from her wedding night, the night she’d pushed him away when he’d tried to kiss her. Now he actually had kissed her and he was just as churned up as before. Maybe more so.
Coffee. He needed coffee. Or maybe a burger at The Red Door. Something. But before he could decide what, his attention snagged on the sight of someone pushing a broken-down car up the middle of Main Avenue—and not having an easy time of it.
Instinct kicked in and he crossed the street to help. Not until he was close did he realize whose straining form pushed the car.
“Go away, Walker.” The words lurched from Sam the second he saw Beckett approaching.
“I would, but you’re holding up traffic and you’re not going to get anywhere pushing this heap of junk alone.” The caustic reply was out before he could stop it.
Sam grunted as he gave the car a shove. Rust had eaten its way up the side of the vehicle. “I don’t need or want your help.”
Maybe he should leave Sam to He-man his way to the car repair place on his own. Well, not entirely on his own. That was Hastings in the front seat steering, wasn’t it? The officer who’d arrested Beckett his first night home.
But a honk from the car behind them compelled him to move to Sam’s side and thrust his weight into the car.
“I said—”
“I know what you said.” Beckett gritted his teeth as he pushed.
A surly wind grappled through the trees in the town square on one side of the road and set to flapping the awnings of the businesses lining the other side. They passed Klassen’s Hardware, Baker’s Antiques.
Beckett’s arms strained against the trunk. “Maybe you should consider getting a new car.”
“Maybe you should consider shutting up.”
Two more blocks and they’d reach the car shop at the end of Maple Valley’s stretch of downtown. “Listen, as long as we’re both here, not glaring at each other across a set of cell bars or rough-housing in a restaurant, maybe the time is right to finally say—”
“There’s nothing you’ve got to say that I want to hear.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to say it anyway.”
Sam jerked to a stop and threw up his hands, before yelling to Hastings. “To the right, Hastings. To the curb.” His palms slapped back onto the trunk.
The officer leaned out his door. “But we’re almost to the garage.”
“To the curb!” He started pushing again.
But Beckett had stopped. “What are you going to do? Hire a tow truck to get the car the rest of the way?”
The car bumped into the curb. “Sure. It’s worth the seventy-five bucks not to have to listen to you any longer.” Mindless of Hastings, Sam started down the sidewalk.
Beckett glared at the man’s retreating back. “I’m not sorry, you know.”
Sam froze for only a second before spinning. He covered the distance to Beckett in three long strides, cheeks red, his entire body rigid and pulsing, as if ready for a fight. Maybe he should just let the man pummel him once and for all.
“What did you say?” Sam’s eyes were dark.
“I’m not sorry Kit didn’t marry you. She would’ve been miserable, and you would’ve been too eventually. I’m not sorry I helped her do the thing she couldn’t do on her own.” Why hadn’t Sam decked him yet? “But I am sorry about how I did it. I could’ve had better timing. I could’ve gone over to her house before the wedding. I could’ve talked to you.”
“I wouldn’t have listened.” Sam’s arms were crossed, his voice tight, but his jaw twitched. Possibly the first sign, however brittle, of understanding.
“It was a mistake—waiting until the last minute. For that, I’m truly sorry.”
He waited for Sam to say something, anything. But when he finally did, it wasn’t what Beckett had expected. “Are you staying, then?”
“What?”
“In Maple Valley. Just want to know if I’m going to have to get used to seeing you day in and day out.”
“I . . . I don’t . . .” The breeze carried away the words he didn’t know how to say.
Stay? It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t drifted in and out of his brain the past few days. Weeks, really. But every time it did, there was another right on its heels. And do what?
Chores at the orchard might help him fulfill his community service, but he couldn’t do that forever. He could pass the Iowa bar and hang up his lawyer’s shingle here in Maple Valley, but how would that lead to any more long-term fulfillment than his job in Boston?
Sure, Logan had given up his dynamic career for Amelia, at least for the time being. Dad, too, when Mom got sick. But the difference was, they’d both had a chance to chase their own dreams for a season first. Was it completely selfish to thirst for the same opportunity?
“Dad!”
A child’s voice came barreling in, along with the rattle of training wheels and then the child herself. She braked her bike in front of Sam and jumped into arms that were no longer crossed.
Beckett’s eyes met Sam’s over the mass of curly hair sticking out from the girl’s helmet. But Sam looked away before Beckett could read any kind of explanation for what he was seeing.
“Where’s your mom, kiddo?”
The little girl pointed over her shoulder. “In the square. She says we can take the training wheels off soon, but I said I don’t want to unless you’re there.”
A woman sat on a bench in the square. But whatever book she’d been reading was now in her lap facedown as she watched the sidewalk meeting.
Sam kissed the girl’s cheek and set her down. “Why don’t you ride on back to your mom? I’ll join you in a minute, all right?”
The girl nodded and hopped on her bike. But before turning around, she looked at Beckett. “My dad’s a cop. He drives a car with a siren, and he has a gun. And he got me this bike.”
Hold up, Sam was her father?
“Go on now, Mackenzie.” Sam leaned over to give her bike a push. When he rose, it was to meet Beckett square in the eye. “You might as well ask.”
“When . . . who . . . are you married?”
“No.” His chin jutted out with the word, and yet, something in him visibly softened. “You weren’t the only one who . . . made mistakes that night. The night of the wedding. I’m surprised you didn’t know, this being Maple Valley and all.”
Understanding landed in pieces as overhead clouds rolled, folding into one another in a gathering sheet of gray. Sam had been hurt and angry. He must have found temporary comfort—or at least distraction—with another woman.
Sam’s eyes were on his daughter now, biking down the sidewalk. “She’s not a mistake, though. Never was, not for a second.”
“Are you and her mom—?”
Sam shook his head before Beckett finished the question. And yet, there was a flicker in his eyes, a shadow of longing. “That’s why I went to the orchard that day in August. Figured I should tell Kit before she heard it from someone else. But then I saw her. You.”
Maybe for the first time, Beckett looked at Sam—really looked at him. And for once, it wasn’t Kit’s ex-fiancé he saw or even the cop who’d put him behind bars.
But someone who’d weathered a storm of his own and, for all his bitterness, had been able to do something Beckett hadn’t: He’d stayed. After the humiliation of being jilted; after, presumably, a one-night stand; after getting a woman pregnant . . .
He’d stayed.
Sam started to walk away but paused, his attention curving back to Beckett. “Look, I’ve been over Kit for a long time. But the two of you showing up in town again, seeing you together, it messed with all the closure I thought was already a done deal. And I’m not going to lie, arresting you—that felt good.” He glanced to the square, to his daughter and her mother, both watching him now. “But I’ve got two really good reasons to make myself get over this all over again.” He looked to Beckett once more. “So if you’re going to be sticking around, I’ll try to play nice.”
Beckett couldn’t have been more surprised by the change in Sam’s demeanor if he’d suddenly embraced him. “Fair enough.”
A single nod and he turned to walk away. But not before one final soft warning. “Just don’t hurt her, Walker.”
At least Kit could depend on someone to show up at the orchard when they said they would.
Eric Hampton appeared through the labyrinth of trees. He’d been out here all afternoon, working alongside Paul, Bill, Jose, and Bessemer from Hampton House, raking around the trees, creating circles of mulch and leaves about a foot and a half away from the trunk. Come winter, the mulch would break down and feed the earthworms below, who then did their part aerating and loosening the soil.
Later in the fall, they’d wrap the trunks with plastic protectors, even paint them to prevent winter sunscald. They’d do a round of pruning, as well.
Eric leaned on his rake and glanced at his watch. “About time to head back, fellas.”
Was it really almost five p.m.? And Beckett still hadn’t shown up? That town meeting was in just a couple hours, and supposedly she was presenting a plan for using the orchard to wow the tourism board. But this had all been Beckett’s idea. He’d promised her he’d use his arguing charm to make her case. Maybe he’d decided to wing it tonight.
“It’s killing me how much work you’ve done around here without pay, Eric.” Kit propped a bag of mulch against a tree and moved to Eric. “As for your guys, I wish I could pay them three times what I do.”
“We wouldn’t argue.” The joking call came from a row over—Bessemer. The man’s first name was Horace, but he’d told Kit straightaway his first day working at the orchard to use his last name.
She’d picked up pieces of each man’s backstory in the weeks they’d been under her employ. Paul’s astounded her the most—only twenty-two and already two prison sentences under his belt. Drug-selling and a slew of burglaries. He’d gone through an addiction rehab program before transitioning to Hampton House.
All because an uncle had introduced him to cocaine at the age of seventeen. Certainly, Paul had a choice. He’d always had a choice. But working with these men was a continual eye-opening, a practice in empathy. How could she judge Paul’s choices knowing where he’d come from, not knowing what it must feel like to be part of a family where recreational drug use was a given?
No wonder Grandpa had felt so strongly about employing individuals who might otherwise not be able to find work.
“Some of these men will lead productive, law-abiding lives from here on. Some of them will relapse, give in to their old ways. But all of them will have experienced, at least for this one season, what it feels like to be affirmed, to be needed and valued.”
Grandpa’s words filled her anew, the echoes of his voice so clear out here among the trees. Chicago, Boston, she’d had a blast, had needed to get away. And Beckett . . . Beckett. He’d quite literally swept her off her feet on the shore of Salt Island, and she wasn’t sure her feet had come even close to touching the ground again.
But this was home. This was what she was supposed to be doing. Not just nurturing trees, but investing in people—her employees, visitors, these men from Hampton House. Why, she was even helping Drew Renwycke get his own business off the ground. She’d been amazed when she got home after midnight on Thursday to see walls and a roof already enclosing the barn.
“Seeing these guys gainfully employed and, even more, happy—that’s payment enough for me.” Eric lifted the still half-full bag of mulch she’d set aside and started walking toward the truck.
“You’re good at your job, Eric.”
“As are you.”
“Actually what I’m good at is surrounding myself with people who can help me. Willa, Beckett, lots of former employees who graciously came back after Luke let them all go.”
Eric stopped, hoisted the bag into the truck bed. “How’s he doing these days?” Concern filled his taupe eyes, and the breeze lifted his hair. For the first time it occurred to her what a nice-looking man he was. No, he didn’t send heat bolting through her like Beckett. No pulse-racing and fluttery nerves, either.
How had she ever looked at Beckett the way she looked at Eric now? What had changed?
Everything. Nothing.
“Kit?”
Lucas, he’d asked about Lucas. “He’s okay, I guess. He’s still upset that I don’t want to sell, and I know he’s angry about the barn project.” And yet, he hadn’t told Dad. She had no idea why. “But he gets in these moods. Everything will be fine and then next thing I know, he’s stomping up to his room and slamming his door and I’ll hear him up there pacing. He gets nightmares, but of course, he won’t talk about any of it.”
The other men were ambling in their direction now, carrying rakes and empty mulch bags.
“Do you ever feel unsafe? Does he get violent at all?” Eric asked the questions slowly, carefully.
“No, definitely not, he wouldn’t . . .” She was interrupted by the memories of Lucas throwing his uneaten apple in the store, barging toward her on the Archway Bridge, so much anger in his eyes. And then there was the medicine cabinet in the second-floor bathroom. She’d noticed its cracked glass yesterday and asked Lucas what had happened. He’d shrugged and walked away, but not before she’d glimpsed the Band-Aid on his knuckles.
Could Eric read her uncertainty? “You’re living in that house alone with him, Kit.”
The guys were jumping onto the truck bed. “I’m his sister. He wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Even so, if things start to feel weird, if he seems erratic, just tell someone, okay? Beckett or Willa or me, whoever.” Eric rounded to the passenger side. “If he’s struggling with PTSD or some other mental illness, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it’s also not something to ignore.”
That was the thing, though. From the day Lucas had come home from Afghanistan, he’d been intent on ignoring whatever had happened that had caused him to go AWOL. Assuming something had happened, that is. There had to be a reason he’d deserted, disappeared. There had to be a reason he’d refused to stand up for himself during his court martial.
But he’d been as tight-lipped then as he was now.
Kit climbed into the driver’s seat and started the drive back to the parking lot. She thanked Eric again when she dropped him and the others off at the Hampton House van, tried not to worry when she saw only two other cars in the lot.
It’s late in the afternoon, and it’s a weekday. It’s okay there’s not a crowd.
But the low numbers, Eric’s words, worry over Lucas, all of it cluttered her thoughts as she drove to the house. And Beckett, where was he?
She sent him a text and then, with only ninety minutes until the meeting, hurried upstairs to shower and change. She took longer than usual, not even trying to deny the extra care she took with her clothes and hair had everything to do with seeing Beckett tonight.
But forty-five minutes later, still no Beckett. She made a sandwich and ate, sent another text. Read the notes Beckett had made for their presentation. Man, he was a bad speller. Finally, with only twenty minutes left until the meeting, she headed outside once more.
And ran smack into Lucas crossing the porch. He grabbed her arms, whether out of shock or to steady her, she wasn’t sure, but his grip pinched. He grunted an apology and released her.
“Luke, I haven’t seen you all day.”
His eyes, the color of soot, held only a hint of the blue in her own. Like Mom’s, Grandma had once remarked. Kit had made it a point to find an old scrapbook and compare. Grandma was right.
“Been out” was all he offered now.
“Well, listen, uh, you should know . . .” Would this make him even more upset than the barn had? “I’m heading to the town meeting. Gonna ask the council to host an evening event for the state tourism board here. Well, not just the board. We’ll invite the whole town. I’m going to try to get Dad here, too. It’s Beckett’s brainchild, really—”
“Of course.” He pushed past her toward the door.
“Of course what?” A coil of tightly packed clouds overhead threatened to break open any minute.
“Of course it’s Beckett’s brainchild.”
“He’s trying to help me, Luke. He knows how important the orchard is to me.”
Lucas leaned one arm on the doorframe, his heel kicking the swaying screened door behind him. “He knows he can barrel in and play hero and you’ll worship the ground he walks on like you always have.”
“I don’t—”
“But he’ll let you down eventually. He’ll get restless and leave. And you’ll be stuck with only a bunch of trees and a failing business. Have fun with that.”
“It’s not a failing business.”
“I have eyes, Kit. The past two weekends’ numbers weren’t nearly as good as opening weekend. You were gone four days this week—none of them saw more than a handful of visitors. Go ahead and build your barn and plan your event, but it’s not going to stop the inevitable. Dad and I are going to sell, and there’s nothing you or Beckett Walker can do about it.”
He disappeared inside, the door slapping closed.
She just stood there, dismay needling through her. Only when her phone buzzed, did a thread of hope curl in. But no, it wasn’t Beckett. Just Willa asking her why she hadn’t yet arrived at the meeting.
She pushed the speed limit on the way into town. Green tinted the landscape, the bullying wind forcing what crops remained in half-harvested fields into a full bow. Scattered drops of rain dotted her windshield.
Luke’s wrong. Beckett will be at the meeting. We’ll convince the council. Drew will finish the barn. Dad will come home. Everything will work out.
The city hall meeting room was packed. The townspeople never failed to make a good showing at these meetings—which probably had more to do with the free coffee and social time afterward than the agenda itself.
Yet the one person Kit needed was nowhere to be seen. She slipped into the empty chair Willa had saved her. Beckett had to show up. He knew how much she hated public speaking. He’d promised.
But forty minutes later, when they reached the line on the agenda that read “Valley Orchard Proposal,” there was still no sign of Beckett. Mayor Milt looked at her expectantly.
Willa patted her knee. “Go on, Kit. You’ve got this.”
“But Beckett—”
“Isn’t here. And it isn’t his orchard, anyhow.”
Except it wasn’t hers, either, as Lucas had been quick to remind her. But she had to fight for it, public speaking fear and all. She thought of Paul and Bessemer and the others. She thought of Grandpa and Grandma.
She rose on wobbly legs and made her way to the front. She’d deal with Beckett later.
Beckett knew who stood behind him without turning around to look. So he didn’t look. Only gave a half-hearted effort to cast a flat stone skipping across the creek’s shallow ripples.
“You’ve never been patient enough to master that.”
Kit was right. He heaved the next rock and stood.
The weathered boards of the makeshift bridge—more of a walkway, really—tremored under his feet. Untamed brush, tall grass and weeds, climbed the brushy inclines on either side of the ravine that separated Dad’s land from the orchard property. Stray raindrops pattered in the twisting creek.
“I’m sorry, Kit.” A gust of stalwart wind sent crinkled leaves spiraling down.
“That’s it? You don’t show up at the orchard all day and then you don’t show up at the meeting tonight. And all you have to say is you’re sorry?”
She’d dressed up for the meeting. No flannel and jeans tonight. Instead some kind of wraparound dress thing that accentuated her figure and tights and heels. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her in heels. How had she walked down the ravine in them? A flash of lightning glinted through tree branches.
She looked beautiful.
She looked angry.
She looked hurt. And that was the worst.
“Where have you been? Not just tonight. I’ve hardly seen you all week. And when I do see you, you’re skittish and awkward. If this is about Boston, if you’re worried I have some kind of overblown expectation . . . well, don’t.”
It was full-on raining now. The only thing keeping them from getting soaked was the canopy of leaves providing a flimsy cover. But with the lightning, the grumbling of clouds, the piercing wind, it didn’t make sense to stay out here stalling, fumbling for an explanation he didn’t know how to give.
He truly didn’t know why he’d missed the meeting. Didn’t know why he’d felt the near-frantic need to spend the afternoon finally completing his JAG Corps application, making phone call after phone call in an attempt to set up a new FSO interview. Didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to think of anything else after talking to Sylvia, running into Sam.
All he knew was, those words, “free to go” and “don’t hurt her,” had collided into each other on a loop until he’d lost track of time and missed being there for Kit.
Just like he’d missed that Stanley Oil meeting. Just like he’d missing his first FSO interview.
Just like he’d missed Mom.
“Is it Webster?” Kit wrapped her arms around her torso. “Has he still not heard from his friend?”
“I don’t know.” He’d told Webster about the encounter with the Illinois social worker last week the day after returning. He’d been grateful, but not as relieved as Beckett had hoped. He was beginning to wonder if what he’d told the social worker was true—that Webster simply wanted to know Amanda was okay. Was there more to that story?
“Is it your dad?”
“Kit—”
“How’s he feeling? I know he’s got Depot Days next weekend. Were you helping him and time got away from you?”
Her forced optimism was enough to tempt him to lie. But he’d never lied to Kit, not about something that mattered. Don’t hurt her. “You should have a coat, Kit. Let’s go—”
“No. You owe me an explanation, Beckett. You left me to make a presentation on my own and—”
“And did you?”
“Did I—?”
“Did you make the presentation?”
Her arms wound tighter as she shivered. “Yes.”
He pulled off his jacket and slipped it around her shoulders. “Did it go over well? Are they going to let you host the tourism board?” Another flash of lightning.
“Yes.”
“Then there’s nothing to be upset about.”
“Except that you said you’d come out to the orchard today and you never did. Except that you weren’t there tonight. I had to stand behind a podium with my knees knocking and my voice shaking and stammer out a speech I wasn’t prepared to give, one that was your idea in the first place.”
The rain was falling harder now, breaking through the cover of the trees and landing in splotches. He couldn’t hold back anymore. “What do you want from me, Kit? I’ve worked four-hundred-plus hours at the orchard. I have fixed fences and fought tree disease, repaired equipment and picked enough apples to feed a small country. I came up with a plan for you, and I’m sorry I missed presenting that plan, but you don’t need me fighting all your battles.”
She dropped her arms. “All my battles? Really, Beck?”
He closed the space between them. “I have goals, too. I have things I need to be working toward, too. And my dad needs a major brain surgery and might have cancer and I can’t figure out why in the world he’s insisting on waiting. Some guy broke Raegan’s heart and Webster’s still worried about Amanda and—”
A crash of thunder cut off the rant he’d never meant to give. Kit didn’t deserve this. The storm wreaking havoc inside him wasn’t her fault. Her face was only inches from his, hair matted to her forehead and cheeks, tears filling her eyes. Why was he doing this to her?
And how, rain-soaked and shivering, swallowed up in his jacket, could she still look so exquisite?
“Beckett.” She whispered, she trembled.
And he couldn’t help it. Breath heaving, his hands found her waist and his lips found her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. The rain grew louder. Her skin was cold, her lips waiting . . .
And then she jerked, stumbling backward, gaze dropping to the ground, lifting to the trees. That was when he heard what she heard, felt it hitting against him. Hail.
“I have to go.” She spun and started up the hill, heels digging into the grass.
“Kit, I’ll take you—”
She ignored him and kept running.