9
“This town is so bizarre.”
Eric Hampton’s muttered assessment earned a laugh as Kit walked alongside him, along with half of Maple Valley.
The soft whirr of voices and footsteps pattering over the paved cement of Main Avenue was matched by the sound of raindrops tapping on a rainbow of umbrellas. They moved like a herd across the Archway Bridge and toward Maple Valley High School. Wan clouds draped across the sky, early-evening sun glowing around their underbellies. Shade and light tussled over the landscape and turned the Blaine River a luminous, stormy blue.
Eric held a black-and-white-striped umbrella over the both of them. “Seriously, though, who commemorates a natural disaster with a group walk?”
“Two natural disasters.” Kit sidestepped a puddle. A tornado and then a flood had wreaked havoc on the community around this time last year. She might not have been here to experience it, but she’d heard the stories. “We’re celebrating the fact that the town got through them.” First the walk, then a town meeting in the gym, and later, an outdoor movie in the square.
“With something that looks like a funeral procession?” Eric shifted the umbrella against the wind. “In the rain?”
Fine, the commemorative walk was hilarious—up there with some of Mayor Milt’s more outlandish ideas. Like the annual rubber duck race in the river. Or the year he’d insisted the town host a Regency reenactment fair. His own wife had ended up passing out due to a too-tight corset.
But this was what made Maple Valley a place like no other. Besides, she’d needed to get away from the orchard for a while. Away from Lucas. He’d been home less than a week. It hadn’t been an easy five days, not with his constant talk of selling and his dark moods, not to mention his nightmares. His first night home, she’d about barreled through his door in panic when she’d heard his yells.
“I still say it’s bizarre.” Eric ambled beside her.
“I think the locals prefer charmingly eccentric.”
“Hate to tell you, but I think we’re both considered locals.”
It’d been lucky, running into Eric, considering she hadn’t brought her own umbrella. They’d developed an easy rapport in all his weeks of transporting Hampton House residents to the orchard.
“So how’s Luke?”
And apparently he’d taken to reading her mind. “Honestly, Eric, he’s . . .” She halted, catching sight of the figure striding toward her from the opposite end of the bridge. “He’s here.”
Mindless of the rain, Lucas moved against the flow of the crowd until he stopped in front of her, his expression drawn with irritation. People jostled around them, rivulets of water tipping down umbrellas. “Hey, Luke, I didn’t think—”
“You’re building the barn?”
Oh. Drew Renwycke had said materials would be delivered today or tomorrow. Guess today was the day. She didn’t know when she’d officially made the decision—to accept Willa’s loan, spend down her own meager savings, move forward with the project. Maybe it was Saturday night when Beckett had walked her back home after their game of basketball. Or the next morning in church when the pastor had preached on stepping out in faith.
Or maybe it was earlier, back in the orchard store on opening day when she’d remembered Beckett’s story. Burn your ships.
She’d already quit her job. Moved home. Maybe this was her final act of ship-burning.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you, Luke. I hired Drew Renwycke and—”
“Where’d you get the money? Did you even talk to Dad?”
Eric coughed uncomfortably. “How about I let you two talk?” He handed Kit his umbrella, then lifted the hood of his jacket and moved on with the rest of the crowd.
She felt badly, but clearly Lucas was intent on having this discussion here and now, rain or no rain. “I get it if you think it’s a bad idea. But Dad gave me management of the place for one season. I’m going to make it count. I really do think it’s a smart business move. Look at this town and its crazy love for events. We could probably rent the barn out every other weekend, easy.”
They stood at the edge of the bridge now, watching the herd of people move to the school, where the rest of the town meeting would take place.
For one fleeting moment, it seemed like Lucas might actually lighten up. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to readjust to the quirks of Maple Valley, but this? A commemorative walk to celebrate last year’s bad weather? So if we get a hailstorm this year, or maybe a fluke September blizzard,” Lucas said, “we can throw a carnival or something?”
“Don’t even joke about hail. Don’t you remember that year almost an entire crop was wiped out?” It hadn’t just been the hail. It’d been the wind, the timing. The fact that the storm had come in mid-September when the fruit was soft enough to slice open under the force of thrusting ice.
Grandpa had had to take out a second mortgage on the house to get through that winter due to the loss of income.
“That’s just it, Kit.” Lucas’s overly long hair waved around his face. “The tornado last year took out half the crop.” The crowd glided toward the school entrance, Mayor Milt at the helm. “At any time, a hailstorm or early fall frost or late spring frost or drought or disease or you name it—any of it can wipe away an entire season’s hard work, not to mention a year’s income.” He tugged her back under the umbrella’s shade and handed it to her. “Is that really how you want to live and, if so, why?”
Because she loved the thrill of waking up early in anticipation of a day’s work. The feel of sun-kissed tree bark. The joy of picking a perfectly round and ripe apple.
“Because I love knowing something I’m doing today—whether it’s spraying pesticides or building a fence or pruning—it’s going to matter tomorrow. This land is going to be here long after we’re gone, Luke. Don’t you sometimes feel like we belong to it as much as it belongs to us?”
And that feeling of belonging, that sense of home—there was no trading it in for something better. She should know. She’d looked for purpose elsewhere. She’d walked away only to be coaxed back home by a longing she hadn’t even recognized for what it was until . . .
Until that second night home, working in the orchard until after twilight with Beckett.
So much had changed since that night, when Beckett had away from her, refused to talk about what had happened after her wedding. They never had talked about it. Just like she’d never told him about finding his JAG Corps paperwork last Saturday. She kept hoping he might bring it up himself, tell her he wasn’t really planning to leave. But she’d hardly seen him this week. He’d spent all day Tuesday in Iowa City with his dad and had been volunteering at the depot more than the orchard.
But it made a hundred kinds of sense—Beckett’s plans. He’d love the excitement of traveling to some Army base in a foreign country. He’d love the adventure of it, knowing he’d never get bored.
That was where they were different. The thrill for Kit was knowing where she’d be and what she’d be doing each day. The sense that maybe—just maybe—there’d been some kind of divine plan all along. Like God had guided her back home.
But what if she was wrong about the orchard? They hadn’t had nearly as many visitors in the days since their opening. She tried to tell herself lower numbers were to be expected on weekdays, but still. Her crop insurance bill was due in two weeks and here she was spending her and Willa’s money on a building project Dad hadn’t even approved.
And Lucas—there was a desperation behind his desire to sell and a pain he refused to let her in on. There was a whole history of hurt and hardship she couldn’t begin to comprehend. How could she when he’d never once told her what had happened in Afghanistan? In prison?
Or what filled the dreams that woke him up at night?
“I can’t just let it go, Luke.” Her whispered words were nearly drowned out by the wind. Up ahead, the mayor held the school door open as community members disappeared inside. The rain had slackened to a drizzle. “Why don’t you stay? We can run the orchard together.”
“I don’t want this life.” The tumult in his eyes stretched into his voice. “I want to start over. Selling could give me the money to do it.” He turned away from her, raked his fingers through his hair, his sigh visible in the way his shoulders sagged.
They were at an impasse, neither willing to give in. At the end of the day, it would come down to Dad, wouldn’t it? Not a comforting thought. Why had he given her a chance at running the place if he’d already given Lucas the go-ahead to find a buyer? Did he even read the weekly reports she sent?
She watched Lucas walk away for a few miserable moments before finally turning toward the school to trail the convoy of people heading inside.
She hadn’t been in the high school gym in years, but she knew what it’d look like—bleachers that slanted up both walls, flags and championship banners, basketball lines on the floor she’d watched Beckett run during countless games. There’d probably be a set of risers in the middle of the floor where the mayor would give one of his usual homilies.
Maybe she should just head back to the orchard. She wasn’t in the mood anymore to be entertained by Maple Valley’s quirkiness. But she needed to return Eric’s umbrella.
She curved around the corner with the last of the crowd only to see the gym dim and hushed and . . . filled with candles? What? Hundreds of them, had to be—they covered every surface, the only glow in the room save for the strands of twinkle lights strung over the metal ceiling beams.
Whoa.
“I was worried you were going to miss it.”
The voice behind her brushed over her ears, and she nearly jumped as she spun. “Beck? What’s going on?”
He placed his finger over her lips. In the candlelight, his dark eyes danced. “Just watch.” He lowered his hand and then used both arms to gently turn her around.
And there, walking across the stage—Colton Greene. And he was saying Kate’s name. And the whole room awwed.
“He’s proposing? During a town meeting?”
“He’s had it planned forever,” Beckett whispered over her shoulder. “He was just waiting for the perfect time. I think it’s the former NFL star in him that had to do it all public and showy.”
But then, just as Colton was going down on one knee, a shrill beeping blared from above. And on its heels, a whoosh—water sprayed from the ceiling as the gym filled with squeals of surprise.
The candles. The fire alarm. The sprinkler system.
Kit’s shriek was half scream, half laugh as she took in Beckett’s lack of surprise. Water streamed over his hair and down his cheeks, caught in his eyelashes. “I tried to warn him. Told him I went to school here, I know how ultra-sensitive the fire alarms are. At least once a week we all had to file out to the lawn when the alarm went off ’cause someone made toast in the teachers’ lounge.”
“Or messed up a chemistry experiment.” She had to shout over the noise of the gym.
“On accident.”
“On purpose and you know it.”
“Think Kate will still say yes?”
She looked to the stage, to where Kate had jumped into Colton’s arms and was laughing as he spun her around. “I think it’s safe to say she will.”
But when she turned back to Beckett, he wasn’t watching his sister—but her. His gaze was a swirl of uncertainty and desire, and it released a fiery arrow straight into her heart.
Until he snatched the arrow back in a blink and a cough. “Kit, I have to tell you—”
Finally. “I know.”
“Know what?” He shook wet, matted hair out of his face.
“I know you’re applying to the JAG Corps. I know you’re going to leave to go off and be an Army lawyer. What I don’t know is why you didn’t tell me.”
His mouth gaped. “Are you mad?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.” All of the above.
Eric walked up then, drenched and laughing. “There you are. My umbrella would’ve come in handy about thirty seconds ago.”
Beckett looked from Eric to the umbrella in Kit’s hands. “You guys came together?”
She couldn’t read the look on his face, but Eric was saying something else, and in the noise of the gym, she had to angle to hear him. By the time she handed Eric his umbrella and turned back around, Beckett had disappeared.
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”
Webster’s non-emotive shell made it impossible to tell if the kid was serious or joking—nearly as impossible as it was to focus tonight, despite the calm atmosphere of Coffee Coffee. Too much swirled in his brain—Dad and the test results they were still waiting on. His unfinished JAG Corps application. The fact that he still hadn’t heard back from the FSO office about rescheduling his interview.
And Kit. She knew. Had known for days, apparently. And he had no clue what to do with that information.
“Maybe the reason you’re not helping me is you actually don’t know a thing about—” Webster glanced down at the open textbook on the counter in front of him. “The complex ramifications of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand.”
“Um, not that complex. Pretty sure I can sum up the ramifications in three words: World War I.” Megan set a mug down in front of Beckett with a thud. “Chai tea. Which, if you ask me, is way too girly of a drink for you.”
He eyed the cup with his own dose of skepticism. “Yeah, but Kit’s been telling me for weeks if I’d give tea a chance, I might actually like it.”
And every time she did, he’d tell her she’d spent too many years living in England. Then she’d tell him to stop being so close-minded about his beverage choices.
Why he’d gone and ordered tea tonight—especially one doctored up with a bunch of cream and who knew what else—he didn’t know. Just when he’d stood at the counter and Megan said, “You’re usual French roast?” all he could think of was Kit standing in that high school gym, drenched and laughing and . . .
Too many synonyms crammed through his mind all at once—adorable, alluring, perfect.
And he was an idiot. An idiot who’d sworn he’d never let himself look at Kit like that again. An idiot who’d had the irrational urge to ask Eric Hampton why he felt the need to hang around all the time.
An idiot who was supposed to be helping Webster and, oh yeah, somehow breaking it to the teen that he still hadn’t made any progress on finding his friend. At least he’d called the social worker. But Webster wasn’t going to like what he’d found out.
“Well?” Megan tapped dark purple nails on the counter. “Aren’t you going to try it?”
He sipped, winced. Way too sweet.
“Told you.” Megan straightened. “I’ll get you a coffee. On the house.”
“You can’t keep giving me free coffee, Meg. That’s no way to run a business.”
She grinned. Shocker, that. Maybe Raegan hadn’t entirely been seeing things. In which case, maybe he would’ve been smart to pick a different tutoring locale tonight. But he liked the coffee here and the girl who served it. She was her own person—snarky and stubborn. He had a feeling underneath the tough-girl act, she had a sensitive heart. But he’d hate to unintentionally encourage anything he shouldn’t.
Webster’s heels kicked against the barstool base underneath him. “Look, if we’re not going to study—”
“Sorry, Web. My focus is off tonight.”
The boy twisted his napkin into a ball. “Don’t know why I should care about any of this anyway. It happened decades ago. Doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
Beckett mustered a smirk. “I think history teachers everywhere might go into a collective faint if they heard you say that.”
“I’ve got enough going on in my own life. Why do I care about a war that started because some dude in Europe was assassinated?”
Beckett took another drink of the tea before remembering he didn’t like it. He pushed the cup away. “There’s a little more to it than that.”
“Whatever.” Webster clapped his textbook closed. “Look, the only real reason I came tonight was to find out if . . .” Hesitant expectancy idled in his unfinished thought.
Beckett wasn’t going to get a better opening than that. “I tried, Web. I really did.”
The teenager’s face, usually such a mask of disinterest, turned transparent. He dropped his balled-up napkin, shoulders slumping.
“I called your social worker, and the most I could get out of her is that Amber—”
“Amanda!” Webster slid off his stool. “You can’t even remember her name?”
“Amanda, sorry. But the social worker said Amanda is no longer part of her caseload. That’s the most she’d tell me.”
But Webster was already stuffing books into his backpack and then yanking on its zipper.
“Webster, are you sure it’s something to be this upset about? Friends drift apart sometimes.”
Webster slung his backpack over his shoulders. “It’s not like that with us.”
“Is there more you’re not telling me?”
“I need to get home for supper.”
“Web—”
“I get it. You tried.”
He turned and was out the door before Beckett could carve out an argument or at least something encouraging, something to revive Webster’s hope. But how fair would that be, anyway, considering the likelihood of his making any further progress on the search?
“Did you really try that hard?” Megan had paused halfway down the counter, rag in hand.
“Of course I did. I argued with the social worker for a good fifteen minutes. Then I talked to a law school friend who’s handled a bunch of custody cases, but he said confidentiality—especially with minors—isn’t something you can usually get around.”
Megan’s eyebrows dipped into a disbelieving V.
“I tried,” he said again, but it came out slight, unconvincing.
“As hard as you tried to drink that chai?” She cast a glance at his neglected tea.
And just because he was ornery, just because something about this evening—from Kit to Webster to Megan’s skepticism now—had him disconcerted and off-balance, he lifted the mug and in a sequence of determined gulps, downed the whole thing.
Megan went back to wiping down the counter. “I’m just saying, you could go talk to the social worker in person. Do that Walker charm thing. I never wanted to be Kate’s friend, but she won me over by showing up on my doorstep when I was sick as a dog and making me soup. A few minutes on the phone so would not have had the same effect.”
Show up on her doorstep. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Maybe because he’d been more concerned with Dad and the orchard and his own stalled plans than keeping a hastily made promise to a kid he barely knew.
But watching Megan now, understanding the impact his older sister had made on her life, it awakened something in him—a desire to be that for someone else. Obviously Webster already had Colton in his life. His adoptive parents, too. But for some reason he’d reached out to Beckett for help on this one thing.
What would it hurt to drive over to Ames, see if he could wrangle some information from the social worker in person?
Megan cleaned the length of the counter, then shook her rag over a garbage can before tossing it in a stainless steel sink. He waited until she faced him again to speak. “You know you’re actually kind of a genius?”
She rolled her eyes, removed his empty cup. “Just for that, I’ll get you that coffee I promised.”
There was that smile again. More of a smirk, but still. Raegan’s admonition rebounded, reminding him to be careful. “Hey, Meg, just so you know . . .” Man, this was going to be awkward. But he had to say something, didn’t he? Wasn’t that the right thing to do? “I don’t come here expecting free coffee or . . . like, expecting or looking for anything else. I mean, you’re great, but—”
She froze, coffee pot in midair. “You are not actually serious.”
“I just don’t want you to think—”
She plunked the coffee pot back under the machine. “You think I . . . you . . .” She pointed back and forth between them, eyes going wider with each word. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re old.”
Um, not what he’d expected. “I’m what, seven or eight years older than you?”
“You’re starting to get those crow’s feet things by the corners of your eyes.”
“Some girls might call that charming.”
“And even if I was into older guys, which I’m not, you don’t have a job.” She took off her apron and slapped it on the counter. “You’re living with your dad. Technically, you’re a convict.”
“You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, you know that?”
“I don’t give you free coffee because I think you’re my knight on a white horse or something. I give you free coffee because apparently motherhood has made me soft, and I hate making a guy pay when I know he doesn’t currently have an income.” She reached for the pot once more, poured a cup, and set it in front of him with a clunk. “Then there’s the fact that you’re holding a grudge against your dad, who, far as I can tell, is just about the greatest guy to walk the earth.”
At the pitch of his eyebrows, she nodded. “Yeah, Kate and I talk. She says you’re mad at all of them, too.”
“I’m not mad.” His fingers closed around the coffee mug.
“Well, she says it’s been weird in the house ever since you found out about the tumor. It’s probably why Colt proposed today, so Kate can hurry up and marry him and get out from under the same roof as her brooding brother.”
He took a long drink of the bitter brew. It scorched his throat.
Megan pushed a chunk of black hair behind her ear. “Sorry. I was a little harsh on that last part.”
“Just the last part?” He never should have started this conversation. It’d gone from awkward to amusing to biting. No, Megan hadn’t meant to claw at him. But he felt scraped and raw and exposed all the same. He’d been less than composed Saturday at the hospital, sure, but he thought he’d done an okay job appearing fine in the days since. He’d gone with Dad to Iowa City earlier in the week. Conversation might have been a little stilted, but he’d tried.
But clearly trying wasn’t good enough lately. Not with Webster. Not with his family.
“Beckett, I—”
“It’s okay, Meg.” His phone buzzed.
“You’re really lucky to have the family you do.” Dark eyeliner couldn’t hide the softness in her eyes. “If I have a crush on anything, it’s the entire Walker clan. I like you guys.” She reached for her bunched-up apron atop the counter. “In a completely innocent, platonic way. Okay?”
He slid his phone from his pocket, scrounging up the closest thing he had to a good-humored expression. “Okay.” He glanced at his phone screen. The text was from Raegan.
Dad got test results. Wants to talk to all of us together. Come home.
It was time to stop avoiding Sam Ross.
Kit’s searching gaze ambled over the activity of the almost entirely tarp-covered town square. The lawn was a kaleidoscope of colored plastic laid by a troop of community members—a solution to the rain-soaked ground in preparation for tonight’s “Movie on the Green.” Folding chairs were being set up over the tarp, facing the massive screen hanging in the band shell. On the fringe of nightfall, only street lamps and twinkle lights wrapped around the spindly trunks of trees—newly planted since last year’s tornado—lit the grounds.
Surely Sam was around here somewhere, wasn’t he? She’d asked a couple people, but so far, no one had seen him.
“I suppose it didn’t occur to anybody to just move the whole shindig indoors, did it?”
Kit turned to see Drew Renwycke walking toward her with a woman beside him in a maroon knit cap and jean jacket. It was the woman who’d spoken, and Drew was chuckling. “Clearly you aren’t a Maple Valley native, Maren. We don’t like to let weather or circumstances interfere with our fun.” The couple reached Kit. “Hey, Kit, meet my girlfriend, Maren Grant.”
Kit pushed her fluttering hair out of her face and shook Maren’s hand. “Ah, I heard about you—the writer from Minnesota, yeah? Have you met Kate Walker?”
Maren laughed. “Everyone asks me that.”
“Because having two novelists in one little town is big news around here.” Drew circled one arm around her waist. “Kit’s the one whose barn I’m building.”
Maren’s eyes sparkled. “Right, the barn that’s going to be an event center. Adorable idea. Maybe I can do a book-signing there someday.”
“I’d love that. When’s your next book coming out? Drew here says he can have the building up by mid-October.”
Maren patted Drew’s chest. “If anyone can do it, this guy can.”
Was it Kit’s imagination or did Drew flush at his girlfriend’s praise? This couple might be able to give Kate and Colton a run for their money in the lovestruck category. Or Logan and Amelia. Or Seth and Ava.
Was something in the air around here?
“Back in the day, farmers threw barn-raising parties and put up whole structures in a day. So, a month isn’t all that big of an accomplishment.” Drew pulled Maren closer. “But anyhow, I’ve got a good crew of guys coming out to help on Saturday. And to answer your question, Maren’s next book is out in November, so you should definitely be able to host that signing.”
The cinnamon scent of apple cider drifted in the air, and the crackle of plastic tarp underfoot sounded all around them.
“I hope you know how grateful I am, Drew—not just for taking on the project, but for whatever fancy budget work you did to get the numbers looking so reasonable.” She hadn’t had to borrow as much from Willa as she’d thought. And if others were as quick to book the barn for small events as Maren seemed to be, maybe she’d be able to pay Willa back sooner than planned.
If only her optimism wasn’t so clouded by worry over Dad’s reaction. Had Lucas alerted him already? Would he be angry?
But he shouldn’t have any right to be. She hadn’t used orchard revenue on the project.
Because there isn’t any revenue. Any money they’d made so far this fall had all gone toward payroll and their semi-annual insurance installment. Ending the season with a decent-sized profit was a far-off dream at the moment.
“Hey, I’m just happy to have the work.” Drew interrupted her tense worries. “Owning your own business comes with a whole set of risks and challenges, which of course, you know.”
She did. All except for the actual “owning your own business” part. She was simply managing the orchard on borrowed time.
They chatted a few more minutes before Drew and Maren moved off. People were beginning to claim seats as Kit wandered to a table at the back and bought a cup of hot chocolate. Early autumn tinged the night air, and she burrowed her chin into the collar of the burgundy puff vest she wore over a long-sleeved navy blue shirt. The warmth of her cup seeped through the frayed yarn of her homemade cream-colored mittens—a gift from Grandma a half-dozen Christmases ago.
“I heard you were looking for me.”
The voice came from behind. Sam.
“You heard right.” She turned, slowly, a prayer trailing as she did. Please, God. Let this go well. She’d put it off far too long. “Hi, Sam.”
He must be on duty—or just recently off—because he wore his uniform. Midnight blue with a black belt around his waist. Straight Roman nose and gray at his temples. Polished as ever—a little like Nigel, really—but with a rigid edge to his clear-eyed regard. “Kit.”
Had he read the letter she sent him weeks after their would-be wedding? Had her heartfelt apologies done any good at all? Would saying the words in person now, so many years later, make a difference?
“I was looking for you. I, uh . . . I . . .” A sincere speech she’d practiced a hundred times stalled in the shadow of this man she’d once promised to marry. He seemed a stranger now. She tried to conjure up the familiarity she should be feeling—scoured her memory for flashbacks. They’d started dating the year Beckett went off to college. She’d been missing her best friend and Sam just sorta drifted in. He’d been kind and funny and dependable and, well, there.
Their relationship had intensified her junior year at the University of Iowa. Because after everything with Lucas, she’d needed something—anything—to hold on to. And by then, Beckett had been so focused on classes and getting into law school.
The truth slammed into her all over again—the reality of how unfair she’d been to Sam. She’d fallen into their romance from a place of hurt and longing. She’d truly cared for him, but not the way a future wife should’ve. It’d become so clear in the weeks leading up to the wedding and then magnified on the eve of the event, when Beckett had found her out in the orchard.
She’d used Sam, hadn’t she? And then she’d run out on him before it was too late to change her mind—but not too late to hurt him.
If he saw any of the remorse palpitating inside her now, he didn’t show it. Only stood with arms crossed, wary and waiting. Clearly, six years had done little to diffuse his resentment.
“I’m so sorry, Sam. And I know those words don’t come anywhere close to making up for what I did—”
“You’ve got that right.”
She felt the flinch travel through her. “If I could take it all back—”
He didn’t drop his arms so much as fling them. “Which part? The part where I proposed and, like a sucker, thought you meant it when you said yes? The part where you waited until you were halfway down the aisle to throw me over for another guy?”
“It wasn’t for another guy.”
“Or how about the part where you and Beckett Walker”—his voice dipped into a growl when he said Beckett’s name—“stole my dad’s car?”
The twinkle lights dotting the square blinked off and then on again, a signal that the movie was about to begin. Regret and guilt tumbled together, leaving her defenseless against Sam’s condemning words. Had she really thought this conversation would go any other way? She couldn’t even lift her gaze to meet his eyes.
“Everything all right here?”
Beckett.
The tension radiating from Sam amplified. As quickly as relief slid in, it dissolved. Bad timing. Really bad. “Everything’s fine.” Lie. She dumped the remainder of her hot chocolate in the grass peeking out from the edge of the tarp. “Sam—”
Sam angled past her. “You can’t even let us have a conversation without butting in, Walker?”
She spun. “Beck—”
The Warner Bros. logo splashed onto the screen over the band shell, its roar cutting her off.
Sam stopped in front of Beckett, his whole body stiff and accusing. Beckett didn’t make a move, his dark eyes swimming with a calm Kit barely recognized.
“Sam, please.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, fists clenched at his sides. “Please, what?”
“Please, listen for one second. You don’t have to accept my apology. You don’t have to forgive me. But you need to hear me when I say Beckett wasn’t the reason I walked out on our wedding.”
Sam stilled, and it was enough to prompt her on. “Yes, he interrupted the wedding. Yes, he got me out of there.” She stepped to his side. “But I’m the one who made the decision. I’m the one who hurt you.”
Sam’s posture deflated, his shoulders losing their puffed readiness. “You’re not worth it, anyway.”
He said it while looking at Beckett, but Kit felt the sting of his words even as Sam turned and walked away.
The jarring triumph of the opening music from Casablanca crashed in. She could only watch Sam’s retreating form, wordless. The tarp underneath her feet shifted as Beckett moved closer.
“You tried, Kit.”
She let herself look at him. Hair in desperate need of a trim, the light of the movie screen highlighting the tiny scar along his jaw that a couple day’s worth of scruff didn’t hide. Granite eyes so . . . disheartened.
“Your dad?”
He nodded, looking around the square. “Do you think Maple Valley has finally gone overboard? So many twinkle lights.”
“There can never be too many twinkle lights.” The impulse to reach for his hand nearly took over. But Sam was still in her line of sight and he would think the worst, of course. Still, she hadn’t seen Beckett this beaten down since his mom . . . “Talk to me, Beck.”
“They don’t know if it’s cancer yet. The spinal fluid testing was inconclusive, but the tumor markers are a little high. Instead of a needle biopsy, they want to go in and do a full surgery. Because of where the tumor’s sitting and the symptoms . . .” His voice was ragged. “They want to do it right away, but Dad wants to wait. He wants to get through Depot Days first, which is ridiculous. A silly town festival isn’t anywhere near as important.”
The opening lines of Casablanca filled the night around them, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She reached for Beckett’s hand. Sam could think whatever he wanted. “What do you need?”