by Melissa Tagg
He was getting antsier and antsier to return to London. He was scheduled to fly out on Friday, but he kept saying he didn’t want to leave without knowing when she planned to follow.
Thus, her decision to finally take this morning off from the fields. Focus on finding her brother and figuring out what to do about the currently manager-less orchard.
At least she’d made headway in one small way: After a depressing number of unacknowledged calls and emails to Dad, last night she’d tried texting. And this morning, wonder of wonders, he’d actually replied.
Don’t know where Lucas is, but Willa is correct. Closing orchard store. Have vendor who will purchase this year’s crop.
She’d read the text once. Blinked. Read it again. Didn’t make sense. It was one thing to close the store, cease the tourist side of their business in favor of selling their whole crop to a vendor. But someone still had to manage the fields. Someone still had to pick the apples.
Dad, you don’t understand. There’s no one taking care of the orchard.
Lucas is gone. He fired Willa.
She’d waited two hours for a reply.
Then maybe I’m better off selling the whole place.
The sting had smarted even more than the sunburn on her cheeks and shoulders. It didn’t even occur to him to ask for her help? Her brain argued that she shouldn’t expect him to. That he, like Nigel, would assume she planned to return to England as soon as things were settled.
Still.
Beckett’s badgering words from Saturday night came barging back in. Fine, so maybe he had a point about standing up to Dad. She’d abandoned restraint then, tapping out her next text and hitting Reply before she could rethink it.
This is Grandpa and Grandma’s land. It’s too important to let go. What if I stayed? There’s still time to hire fall help. Willa would come back. We could open by Labor Day.
She’d sent the text at 10:07 a.m. The clock in Eric’s office read 12:43. Still no reply.
“I really wish I could help, Kit.” Eric stood now, covered the minimal space to the dorm-sized fridge wedged into the corner behind his desk. “Can of pop?”
“No, thanks. I left Nigel out in the living room. I suppose . . .” She rose, swallowing a sigh.
Eric popped the tab on his Mountain Dew. “Keep thinking I’ll grow out of my sugar-love one day, but so far, hasn’t happened.” He took a long drink, eyes on her, and swallowed. “You know, the past couple years, your brother . . . well, honestly, he’s kind of reminded me of some of my guys when they first get here. A little haunted.”
Which made sense, really. Except that, unlike Lucas, the men here had actively sought help. “You know what he’s been through.”
He nodded. “And I know assimilating back into the outside world after incarceration is challenging even under typical circumstances. But Lucas’s situation was anything but typical.”
True. Frankly, she didn’t even entirely understand his situation. He’d refused to talk about what had happened in Afghanistan to cause him to desert, to hole away for more than two years. When he’d been hauled back to the States and prosecuted, he’d declined to offer any kind of explanation. The court martial had made national headlines for several months.
“We should’ve made sure he got counseling or something.” Not that he would’ve been amenable to that. He’d barely acknowledged Kit when she’d attended the court martial. And as for Dad—his and Lucas’s relationship had gone from nonexistent to explosive.
Which was what made Dad’s decision to hand the orchard over to Lucas two years ago so surprising. Had it been some sort of attempt at a peace offering?
“I don’t say that to make you feel guilty or scared, Kit. But if you ask me, there’s more going on here than Lucas getting tired of running the orchard.” Eric was crossing his office to open the door now. “I just have a general social work degree, I’m not any kind of specialist. But PTSD, depression, I don’t think any of it’s out of the question.” He held the door open for her.
She paused under its frame. “You don’t think . . . would he hurt himself?”
Eric’s lack of answer was answer enough. Trapped worry battered her nerves as Eric led her through the house. Nigel wasn’t in the living room where they’d left him. Had he gone out to the porch? She did her best to smile at the couple men they passed—one with a salt-and-pepper beard, studying what looked like a textbook at a wide table. Another, this one much younger, dusting the bookshelves.
She followed Eric to the entryway.
“The older gentleman is Silas,” Eric said. “He’s sixty-three and determined to get his GED by the end of this year. The other is Paul—only twenty-two and he’s already done two stints in prison.” He opened the front door for her. “You know, if you decide to stay and take over the orchard, I’ve got guys eager for work. Just say the word.”
She was too swamped with anxiety to offer any more than a nod—Lucas, the orchard, Dad’s silence. And of course, as had been the case for the past two days, Beckett’s presence in town hobbling along in the back of her mind.
Now, Nigel’s absence.
But it didn’t take long after leaving Eric and descending Hampton House’s porch steps to spot Nigel halfway down the block, surrounded by townspeople. Was that Mayor Milt waving a clipboard in front of him?
Oh boy.
She hurried down the sidewalk, flip-flops slapping under her feet.
“. . . so you can see why we need your signature. We’re hoping to get some funding from the state tourism board for a new billboard on Highway 30 and maybe some brochures.” The mayor spoke in his usual animated voice, bushy white mustache lifting with every other word.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think you understand—” Nigel cut off at the sight of her. He looked relieved.
He looked annoyed.
The poor man. She’d made a mess of his whole visit to Iowa. She reached for his hand, squeezed. “Hi, Mayor Milt. Uh, everybody.”
“Ah, just the woman we wanted to see!”
Three others stood with the mayor, including a tall woman with faded red hair, wearing a sundress and a look of warning. “Milt, don’t you dare accost the girl.”
“This is not the time for patience, Belinda.” Mayor Milt’s eyebrows wiggled in time with his mustache. “Kit Danby, myself and the rest of the chamber representatives are here to ask you to keep the Valley Orchard open this year.”
“Here as in, on this sidewalk? You were searching for me?”
The mayor’s grin was wide. “Not searching, girl. We knew exactly where you were. Jim Crayton saw you park down the road. He called Ike, who called me, and—”
The woman named Belinda rolled her eyes. “In other words, dear, welcome back to Maple Valley. I’m the Chamber president, by the way.” She shot the mayor another scolding look. “And while I still think we could’ve waited ’til a better time, the truth is we are concerned about the orchard.”
Nigel fidgeted with his tie beside her, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, clearly overheating under the August sun. Why he’d worn a shirt and tie for a day out and about in small-town Iowa, she didn’t know. And why had he dropped her hand?
“Not just concerned,” the mayor said. “Autumn tourism is our niche in Maple Valley. We’ve got the heritage railroad, the antique stores. The Valley Orchard completes the trifecta.”
“Trifecta?” Belinda crossed her arms. “Really, Milt, must we get dramatic about this?”
“As I was just telling your British gentleman, we’re hoping to receive some additional state funding this year for a few promotional opportunities. We’ve even got some state tourism representatives coming to town in a couple months. The orchard is vital.” The mayor held up his clipboard. “Now, since we’ve heard you’re home, we’ve talked to every downtown business owner in the past two days and all signed a petition—”
“You started a petition?”
“Your family used to have a long-standing commitment to
this community, and we’re all hopeful you plan to continue that tradition.”
Murmurs of agreement fanned through the group.
Milt handed her an envelope. “Now, along with our hope and goodwill, here’s a five-dollar gift card to Coffee Coffee—new to Maple Valley since you lived here last. You see? We may not be London but we know a thing or two about progress.” He gave her an exuberant pat on her back, and within seconds, the group disbanded.
She turned to Nigel. “I just got ambushed by the mayor and the Chamber of Commerce.”
None of the amusement she expected lightened his eyes. “I heard.”
“They gave me a petition and gift card for five whole dollars.”
“I saw.” He started walking toward the car but didn’t get more than two steps before turning. “You can’t seriously be considering this, Kit.”
“I—”
“And what kind of business did you have at a halfway house?”
“I told you, I wanted to ask Eric about Lucas. We always hire several men from Hampton House and—”
“You hire drunks and criminals?”
“Nigel.” She snapped his name. “That’s the most insensitive . . . I don’t even . . . They’re people, Nigel. Just by coming to stay at Hampton House, they’ve proven they’re trying to make better choices. Most of them have left everyone and everything they know to come to Maple Valley and get away from the negative influences in their old environment. They’re trying to start over, and before this year, we got to be part of that by giving them work and good wages and eventually references so they could go on to find long-term employment and—”
She stopped her own rant, surprised at her passion.
She’d never seen such a hard glint in Nigel’s eyes. “You said ‘we.’”
“What?”
But before Nigel could answer, her phone dinged inside her purse. She took a steadying breath as she reached inside. This wasn’t fair to Nigel, any of it. He was getting the brunt of her worry and exhaustion and churning, conflicting longings, and it just plain wasn’t fair to him.
She glanced at her phone’s screen. Dad. His text short and to the point:
Call me.
At least this one thing had gone right. Perfectly, deliciously right. Kit assumed so, anyway, from the piquant scent of basil and garlic mingling over the stovetop.
Kit had found Grandma’s recipe for the Italian dish taped to the inside of a kitchen cupboard, but she’d hardly needed to look at the little card, so fresh was the memory of pulling homemade pasta through the cutter and swirling together a dash of spices and sauce.
“Nigel, dinner!” she beckoned, knowing her voice would carry through the house, just like Grandma’s used to.
She checked on the garlic bread in the oven before crossing the room to spread a lacy tablecloth over the Formica-topped table she was pretty sure was original to the farmhouse. The whole kitchen was a mix of new and old. Sometime in the past ten years, all the appliances had been upgraded to stainless steel. And yet, the faded curtains over the window by the sink, the country blue border of curling wallpaper, the squeaky hinges on the aged cupboard doors spoke of a space well-loved for decades.
Such was the shape of the whole house, really. Contemporary touches here and there, but no one room fully updated. Grandpa had always been more focused on keeping the orchard running.
A responsibility that was now—finally—hers for the taking. The stilted phone conversation with Dad had sealed it.
She still couldn’t believe it. She’d never made a decision this quickly.
Unless you count running away from the wedding.
Well, yes. There was that.
But this was different. This wasn’t a decision based on fear or even emotion . . . but on some kind of deep-down knowing. Instinct or intuition, perhaps. Grandma would’ve called it God’s whisper in her soul. But Kit had never had that lifeline to heaven her grandparents seemed to.
All the same, she couldn’t deny the tug of her desire, nor the strength it gained with each passing day she spent at home. The sense of belonging. And joy, like a blurry pearl under rippling water, just waiting for her to reach for it.
If this is you, God, telling me to stay, I’m listening.
She’d waited to make the call to Dad until she and Nigel had returned to the farmhouse and Nigel had closeted himself away with his laptop. Despite the heat of the day and the comfort of the A/C inside, she’d chosen to sit on the porch steps to make the call. Less chance of Nigel overhearing.
Not that there was much to overhear. Dad had been brief, formal. In other words, his usual self.
“You’re telling me you’d like to move home from England to run the orchard?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I know you appreciate the old place, but Valley Orchard isn’t just a home or a playground. It’s a business. I know you’ve studied plants, but do you really feel you’re qualified to manage a business?”
Perhaps she should point out that Lucas hadn’t had any business experience either, nor had he spent nearly as many hours as she had as a teenager helping Grandma run the retail side of the orchard. As for her education, she’d majored in botany and had a master’s in horticultural science. A far cry from “studying plants.”
But she’d hardly ever been able to express her thoughts to Dad, let alone argue with him—as Beckett had so antagonistically pointed out the other night. Aside from that one happy month when they’d first come to Maple Valley, when she’d been convinced he meant to stay this time, she’d hardly spent enough time with her father to know him, let alone know how to talk to him.
“Willa would help,” she’d finally managed.
Apparently it was enough. Dad had gone on to list his stipulations: Kit would need to manage not just the orchard fields, the store, the employees, but also the financials—the budget, payroll, vendor sales, and purchases. She would need to strive for a healthy profit by the end of the fall.
“Lucas barely turned a profit his first year, and last year was a wash. If such is the case at the end of this season, I’m going to move forward with alternate plans.”
By which he certainly meant closing the store, possibly bringing in an outside field manager to oversee the care of the trees, picking season, and sale of the crops. Or he might just sell outright.
Either way, she had her marching orders, complete with a deadline: Make a profit and make it by the end of the season.
But first . . . first she somehow had to tell Nigel.
She could hear his movement overhead now. He’d been sleeping in the guest room for the past few days—the one Dad had temporarily occupied when they’d first moved here and on sporadic two-day visits in the years after.
“You’re going to love this meal,” she called. “And you’ll finally believe me that I really can cook when I’m working with an appliance I actually understand.” Versus the narrow one in her flat back in England with the odd temperature settings.
Come to think of it, she’d need to figure out what to do about her place in London. Maybe she could hire a moving company to box up and ship her belongings.
Nigel’s footsteps clomped on the stairs, and he entered the room just as she bent to check the bread again. Another minute or two.
When she straightened it was to see Nigel rooted in the doorway.
Suitcase in hand.
She whirled to set the hot pads on the counter, using the seconds to grope for composure before turning back to him. Grandma’s frilled apron and the billow of warmth from the oven heated her. “I thought you weren’t flying out until Friday.”
His luggage thumped to the floor as she turned. “Found one tomorrow morning. Figured I’d spend the night in Des Moines.”
She reached both hands behind her, tampering with the apron knot behind her waist. “But I . . . you . . .” Her fingers strained against the knot to no avail and she gave a frustrated huff.
Nigel left his suitcase, rounded the table,
and moved behind her. She dropped her hands when he began working the ties. “I’m not trying to be an oaf, Kit.” His smooth accent flitted over her shoulder. “But what’s the point in staying any longer?”
“I wish you’d let me explain.”
“What’s to explain? I didn’t have to hear your conversation with your father to know you’re thinking of staying. Probably already decided, right?”
The knot released, the apron loosened. Nigel stepped around to face her, surely reading the answer on her face.
“That’s what I thought. Never mind that the whole property is run down, the trees are diseased, and one of the buildings isn’t even completed. Unless you’ve got a storehouse of money somewhere I don’t know about, I don’t see how you could possibly afford to make something of this place. And yet, you’re giving up a great job at a great university.”
The sound of bubbling wafted over her. The sauce.
But the logic in Nigel’s string of arguments had stolen her appetite. Everything he said was right. Grandpa might have had trouble keeping the orchard in shape near the end, but Lucas had plain let it fall apart. That skeleton of a barn had sat unfinished for almost eight years.
And there was no storehouse of money.
Which was another of Dad’s stipulations. She’d have to work within the orchard’s meager budget as-is. He wouldn’t be lending any additional resources.
She turned to the stove, moved the sauce pan off its burner, and slid a wooden spoon through the liquid that’d hardened around the edges. Ruined.
“The job isn’t the only thing you’re giving up.”
Her stirring stilled. “That’s not fair.”
Wasn’t there any way to make him understand? She hadn’t set foot on this land for years, but somehow it still feathered its way under her skin and claimed its space in her heart, breathing reminders of what it felt like to stand in the scenic embrace of a place that was just . . .
Home.
And then there were the murmured maybes, the offers of hope—that maybe if she stayed, maybe if she tried, maybe if she were here . . . Dad might come home. Lucas might come home. They could recapture what they’d lost. Be a family again.