13
Kit awoke to the sound of Lucas’s terror.
His yells thrashed through the house, a sound even more eerie than last night’s storm. She slipped from her bed and crossed the hall to Lucas’s room. Cold hardwood chilled her feet as she lifted her hand to knock lightly on his door. “Luke?”
Nothing.
Not even the soft moans that sometimes followed his nighttime bellows, which meant he might be awake in there.
“I’m here, Luke. If you want to talk.”
No response. Just like every other time she’d tried. But today the silence pricked even sharper. Last night’s hailstorm had brought all her worries about the orchard to a jagged peak. After leaving Beckett, refusing to let him accompany her home, the only thing she’d been able to do was sit at the kitchen table fretting, until finally dragging herself to bed for a night of tossing and turning.
But the storm had done something worse to Lucas. When she’d arrived home, she’d found him sitting in the dark in the living room. She’d asked if he was okay, received only the barest nod in reply before he shambled upstairs. She’d listened to his pacing—louder, more rapid than ever before. And then the nightmares . . .
She didn’t know how to reach him. Hadn’t a clue where to start.
Kit returned to her own room and dressed quickly—the faded overalls that’d become everyday wear and a long-sleeved gray tee made of long-john material. She grabbed an oversized flannel shirt as a jacket and then padded down the hallway and through the house.
The sun was pale, as if it, too, had been worn down and burnt out by last night’s storm. It nearly blended in with flaxen clouds that brushed through the sky. Even here, the hail and wind damage was obvious. Broken tree branches strewn across the yard. Autumn mums limp and lifeless in their paint-stripped flower boxes.
She started for the fields, ground slippery and soft under her tennis shoes. The air was cool and still, like it held its breath, waiting and worried.
“Morning, Kit.” Willa emerged from the nearest field, the hems of her own coveralls muddy. “Didn’t think I’d see you so early.”
They reached each other at the field’s border. “Same here.” Although, she should’ve known. Willa’s care for this land nearly rivaled her own. She’d worked even longer hours than Beckett these past two months, giving far more than she was getting—at least as far as a paycheck was concerned.
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Willa draped one arm around Kit’s shoulder and turned her away from the field. “There’s no need to go looking and making yourself feel worse than I reckon you already do.”
“It’s that bad?”
Willa squeezed her shoulder. “I’d say seventy-five, eighty percent of the remaining crop is on the ground.”
No. The air whooshed from her lungs.
“And from what I can tell, a lot of what’s left is cut into.”
She’d known. Somehow she’d known as the wind hurled itself against the house last night, as hail struck the roof and windows and smattered to the ground, she’d known. She’d seen it happen before.
The crop could often survive a hailstorm if it happened early enough in the season because the fruit was still hard enough to withstand the hit. This far along, though, when the apples were soft and when the wind added its battering force, the loss was unavoidable.
But eighty percent?
“What are we going to do?”
Willa squeezed her shoulder again before dropping her arm. “We’ll get a crew out here today to clean up the mess and salvage what we can. We’ll likely need to find a vendor to help stock the store for the remainder of the season.”
Buy apples from another orchard. With what money? Everything they’d made so far had gone into paying employees and building the barn and making repairs to buildings and machinery. At least they hadn’t let their insurance lapse, but it’d take weeks, maybe months, to see a claim fulfilled.
Perhaps she could ask the bank for a loan. But even that would take time.
“This isn’t a death knell for the orchard. Your grandparents made it through seasons like this. There are probably farmers all over the county waking up to similar shock this morning.” Willa fidgeted with the clasp of her overalls before touching Kit’s elbow and steering her the way she’d come. “This is a part of agricultural life.”
“I know that. It’s just . . .” Her footsteps shuffled in wet grass. “I was so sure God was telling me to stay, to run the orchard, make it a success again. Something like this happens, and I have to wonder, what’s the deal? It’s not just the storm. It’s Lucas and Dad and Beckett . . .”
“What about Beckett?” Willa’s tone had gone gruff, protective around the question.
Yes, what about Beckett? He’d gone from distant and sullen to exploding and then to looking at her with enough desperate desire to summon her own. This wasn’t a man playing hot and cold with her affections. This was Beckett. This was a man hurting.
And she felt as helpless to reach him as she did Lucas.
“I don’t know what to say about Beck.” She stopped as they reached the house. “I only know I can’t help wondering if I got it all wrong. When I first came home, I honestly thought maybe God led me here. But if this is where he wants me, why is he making it so hard?” Chilled, gluey air gathered around her.
“Kit, when God calls us to something, it doesn’t mean we’re never going to have setbacks. And if we go doubting his direction every time we face a challenge, we’ll end up stagnant and frustrated, tied up in knots.”
“Maybe it’s not his direction I’m doubting so much as my ability to hear it, to recognize it.” She swiped her fingers along the porch railing, sending rivulets of lingering rainwater to the ground.
Willa’s pause stretched. “You know, I always loved how your granddad called you his little meteorologist. Not many a kid can earn a term of endearment like that.”
“Yes, well, not many a kid gets a kick out of reading books about air pressure and movement.”
Willa chuckled, but her gaze held steady and serious. “The thing is, for all we know about weather and its patterns, some of it is still a mystery. Fronts shift out of nowhere. Temperatures defy seasons and predictions. Patterns change.” Her gentle voice beckoned. “Sometimes God whispers. Sometimes he shouts. He doesn’t always communicate the same way twice, and frankly, sometimes we’re going to get it wrong. But part of faith is embracing the mystery—all the while knowing that even when we’re confused, God is faithful. He’s trustworthy.”
Willa’s words sunk into her bones, filling a hungry, empty space she hadn’t even fully realized was there. If it could just last, if she could truly grasp the assurance in Willa’s words . . .
If only she could believe hope wouldn’t let her down with the next catastrophe, that her own heart wouldn’t drift . . .
“He doesn’t ask for perfect hearing or a life free of missteps, Kit. Just your trust.”
“What if I don’t have that kind of trust? What if my faith isn’t as strong as yours?” What if I lose the orchard?
What if Dad never came home and Lucas never healed? What if Beckett left for good? What if Case had cancer?
Could she still call God trustworthy and faithful if life and people and circumstances let her down?
“Hold unswervingly to the hope . . .”
Willa tucked Kit’s hand through her arm and climbed the porch steps. “That’s the beauty of God, my girl. Even when we’re tempted to let go, he keeps holding on.”
Beckett knew exactly where to find his father.
Soggy leaves and storm-tossed branches littered the spacious grounds in front of the Maple Valley railroad museum, but other than an eave spout hanging askew, the depot didn’t seem any worse for wear. But with the annual Depot Days event set to kick off tonight—Friday night fireworks followed by a Saturday of train runs and other activities—Dad had probably risen with the sun.
Beckett crossed the yard, stepping over the train tracks ribboning from the depot station. They disappeared into rolling hills veiled in misty gray, wrapped in quiet.
He ached to know how Kit was doing this morning, how the orchard had fared. But she’d insisted on going home alone last night. He’d tried calling her once, after eleven p.m., while the storm still raged. She hadn’t answered.
“Dad?”
He found his father Windexing the glass display cases that lined two walls of the museum. Wan sunlight from a bank of windows did little to brighten the room, not on such a cloudy, pale morning.
“Beck.” Dad straightened. “I didn’t expect to see you here, not this early.”
“Whereas I fully expected to see you.” At least Dad had been better about not working such long hours lately. He’d begun to recognize signs of headaches and dizziness before they hit full force. Thankfully there’d been no more collapses in the weeks since the orchard opening.
Still, he had to squelch the urge to scold his father for working so hard, insisting on going forward with Depot Days. Couldn’t he have at least put someone else in charge?
“There’s coffee back in the office, if you want. Extra cups, too.”
It was all the invitation Beckett needed. He wandered back to Dad’s cubbyhole of an office, his attention hooking on a framed photo of Mom sitting on his father’s desk. Whoever had taken the photo had caught Mom mid-laugh, the blond hair and blue eyes she shared with Raegan glinting under a halo of light that also highlighted the slight bump on her nose. It was one of Beckett’s favorite family stories—how Logan had tried peewee baseball one year and during a practice game of catch with Mom had ended up breaking her nose.
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.