by Melissa Tagg
Lucas appeared in the room. “Come on. You need to get over to the orchard with me.”
“No, what I’ve got to do is find an insurance plan that isn’t so expensive. And I think I found a new vendor. They don’t pay as much per pound, but they’ll take more and they don’t require as high of quality, so we can unload a lot of what we salvaged after the storm.”
“That’s great, but take a break. Believe me, you’ll want to see this.”
Lucas wore a hoodie and jeans, and he’d pulled his shaggy hair into a ponytail. His cheeks were ruddy—most likely from the chilly wind that’d been racing past the windows for the better part of the day.
She’d loved listening to the wind as a kid. Lying in bed at night as it shook the old farmhouse.
It’d turned unfriendly there for a while. Ushered in the hailstorm, aided the fire. She was only just beginning to enjoy it again.
“Not joking. I will throw you over my shoulder if I have to.”
An urgency underpinned with enthusiasm laced his tone. It was, perhaps, the most like his old self she’d seen him since he’d returned home. And it was the only reason she forced herself to her feet.
Well, that and the fact that her work wasn’t nearly distraction enough. Thoughts of Beckett were never far off. It made no sense—how she could feel such peace at the decision to keep fighting for the orchard, an undeniable belonging, and yet at the same time, experience such an indescribable ache at Beckett’s absence.
But surely part of loving Beckett was wanting him to find a sense of his own belonging. Discover his purpose, his place. Even if it wasn’t at her side.
Still, it hurt. Which made distraction a welcome companion. She followed Lucas from the house. “If something else has gone wrong, I’d rather not know. If the second floor of the store caved in or one of the maintenance guys ran a tractor into the shed wall—”
“Shut up and get in the truck.”
The wind whipped through her hair as she rounded the vehicle, her steps crunching over fallen leaves and hickory nuts. Seconds later, they were on the span of gravel lane that led to the orchard grounds. The early-evening sky was as golden as a cornfield still waiting for harvest. It would’ve been the perfect fall night for a bonfire. Or a mug of cider on the porch swing.
The tires bumped over a pothole and Kit grasped the door handle. “I can’t believe I haven’t heard anything from Dad.” She’d emailed him the day after Beckett left town. Told him about the storm and the fire and then, with bated breath, bared her heart:
I’m not giving up, Dad. I love it here and I want to stay. I know you only gave me until the end of the season to make a profit. I know the outlook isn’t good, and I know you’ve got a buyout offer. But I’m not giving up. I just thought you should know.
She’d gone on from there—paragraph after paragraph about what the land meant to her, how she planned to nurture the trees and what little crop remained. She’d told him about the state tourism funds Maple Valley had been awarded, despite the fire, and the role the orchard had played in making that possible. She’d made her case in a written argument that would’ve made Beckett proud.
She tapped her fingernails on the armrest. “Maybe he’s just going to go ahead with a sale and one day someone will show up here and send us packing. Even with all that’s gone wrong, I wouldn’t blame a buyer for being interested. It’s been a tough season, sure, but Grandpa always used to say the good thing about tough seasons is it means better ones are just around the corner. Good from bad. The trees will be stronger next year.”
She was babbling, but Lucas didn’t interrupt. Didn’t respond either. What exactly was going on here?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Within a minute they were passing under the orchard’s welcome sign and the parking lot packed with cars was in plain sight. “What in the world?”
As soon as Lucas shifted into park, she hopped out. Her hair scrambled every direction around her face and the unbuttoned flannel shirt she wore over a tee flapped in the breeze. Her gaze raked over the scene unfolding in front of her. Townspeople wearing grungy clothes and boots moved in a herd toward the barn.
“What’s going on?”
Lucas’s door clanked shut. “Looks like a good, old-fashioned barn-raising to me.”
“B-but . . . I don’t understand. Who’s in charge? Did you do this?”
He shook his head as he rounded the truck. “Uh, no.”
“Then who—?”
“Kit, you finally made it.” Eric Hampton broke free of a group of people standing by a long table set up several yards in front of the barn. Was that Megan the barista serving coffee?
“Eric, hey. What’s happening?” People were moving all around her, so many people, offering smiles and waves as they went about their work.
“What’s it look like? We’re putting up your barn.” He motioned behind him. “Drew’s heading up the actual construction, so no need to worry that you’re going to end up with a rattrap. Seth’s bringing over a catered meal from The Red Door later. I’d guess we’ll have walls up by sunset.”
Was that actually Sam bent over a blueprint with Drew? Beckett had told her about his daughter. She still could hardly believe it—Sam, a father. He seemed to sense her stare and looked up. His amicable nod said more than she could fathom. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand. Who’s paying for all this, Luke? Who got everyone together? Who—”
“Kit, it was Dad.”
She turned to Lucas, slowly, mouth gaping. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. He called me a little while ago. Apparently your email made an impact on him.”
Her argument, that ridiculously long email—it’d worked? Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it over the sound of saws and voices and the cold and wonderful Iowa wind. “I think I’m in shock.”
Lucas draped his arm around her shoulder. “There’s one more thing. He’s signing the orchard over to you.”
Her focus jerked from the crowd around the barn’s foundation to her brother’s face. “What?”
“He said to tell you to talk to Jenson Barrow. He’ll help with the paperwork.”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” She should smile. She should laugh. She should cry. She should . . . something. But all she could do was lean into her brother’s hug and let her gaze try to take it all in. The people, the activity, the aroma of Megan’s coffee drifting in the air.
And the trees, weathered and strong and watching under a brilliant autumn sun.
“I don’t know why he didn’t just call you himself. But I’m past trying to understand anything Dad does.”
Flynnie pranced to her, mewed, and butted her head into Kit’s leg. No way was she letting her pet near the construction site again. “It’s a start, though, isn’t it?”
Arm still around her shoulders, Lucas shrugged. “You never know.”
Maybe things with Dad would change. Maybe they wouldn’t. But her hope was grounded like never before. In a God whose love was enduring as this land.
Her land.
For once, aimless felt just right.
The wind raked through Beckett’s hair as his classic convertible curved around the Bixby Bridge in California’s Monterey County, one of the most picturesque bridges along the Pacific Coast and one of the tallest single-span concrete bridges in the world. To the west, the ocean unfolded into the horizon—foamy white to turquoise to breathtaking blue as far as he could see. Green hills rose and fell in waves to the east.
Mom would have loved this.
This was the trip they’d always talked about taking together.
He tipped his sunglasses over his eyes, his hair brushing against the back of his neck and his shirtsleeves flapping against his upper arms. A low-slung sun bathed the scenic roadway in an orange glow, splashing color against the craggy slope that dipped into the Pacific shore.
As his car neared the north end of the bridge’s stretch, he slowed a
nd looked for the scenic pullout indicated on the map he’d picked up at a rest stop outside Carmel. According to a tourist he’d chatted with, it was better to park on the graded gravel road directly across from the pullout. “You’ll get a better picture that way,” the tourist had assured. “The whole bridge and the ocean.”
He found the spot the man had mentioned. Pulled over and parked. Grateful for the view, the freedom, the silence.
That tourist he’d run into at the rest stop had talked his ear off for a good ten minutes about this bridge. Told him about the guy who’d built it.
“Name was Charles Henry Bixby, served in the Civil War and then raised cattle, later established a major lumber industry. ’Course then there was no road to get his logs to market and the government wouldn’t approve one. So he went and started building his own. And get this, when he was older, long after he’d sold off his land and moved to Monterey in the early 1900s, when most people would’ve retired, he went to work for the postal service.”
Apparently the man hadn’t lived long enough to see the completion of the bridge Beckett stared at now. He’d certainly drifted from dream to dream, though. Had he planned his steps ahead of time or simply stayed flexible, following wherever life led? Had he prayed, hoping to hear God’s voice, as Beckett did now?
I’m here, God. I’m listening.
Beckett reached for the brown bag in the passenger seat, the one with the postcards he’d picked up at the rest stop. Needed a pen, though. He opened the glove compartment and fumbled around, its contents spilling to the floor.
And then he saw it. An envelope, crinkled, yellowed. His own name in familiar handwriting.
Mom?
Hands shaking, postcards forgotten, he straightened in his seat.
“I wish I could hear her voice, just once more. . .”
He’d murmured the wish to Dad weeks ago. Was it coming true now? He skimmed his thumb under the seal, pulled out a single page. His focus hooked on the first words.
To my Beckett.
The breeze carried away his gasp. All this time, right in his own car. Years of sitting in his Boston garage. Movements slow, heart thudding, he rose from the car. He rounded to the front, slid onto the hood, its sun-warmed metal sleek and glinting. He laid back, knees bent, eyes squinting.
To my Beckett,
I’ve prayed for days to find the words to write to you, my youngest son, my spitfire, my charmer. I’m not sure why, but I feel deep down that you’re my child who will need these words most. I’ve prayed, I’ve drafted, I’ve started and stopped and started again . . .
I’ve cried until my tears splotched and wrinkled the page.
But now I think I finally know what I’m meant to write. And so I start again and pray God gives me the grace and wisdom to say what your heart needs to hear.
Can I tell you a story, Beck? I’ll never forget the day in second grade you brought a note home from your teacher. You’d gotten in trouble at recess . . . again. Apparently you were playing sailors and you’d decided the jungle gym was your ship and you climbed to the top and yelled something about mutiny. You had a whole crowd of students swarming around you, cheering. And when a teacher told you to come down, instead of climbing down the jungle gym’s side, you jumped and called it “walking the plank.”
In her note, the teacher called you reckless and wild.
I remember scanning that note and trying so hard not to laugh as I scolded you for disobeying the teacher. I remember reading it a second time when you’d left the room. I remember smiling.
“That’s my Beckett,” I thought.
What your teacher called reckless, I called fearless. What your teacher called wild, I called passionate.
You are my passionate son, Beckett. My spirited son.
You are my son who jumps.
I love this about you—oh, I love it. And I am praying right now as I write this that you will realize what a gift it is—what a gift you are. What your teacher might’ve seen as a weakness, I see as your greatest strength. Don’t hide it, Beckett, and don’t fear it. Allow God to mold your passion, yes.
But don’t deny it.
And when you feel lost, remember God’s extraordinary love . . . his reckless love. That’s your starting point and your finish line. That’s your home. Hold onto it.
I love you, my wild son.
Mom
By the time he reached her signature, tears streaked down his cheeks. Tears of sadness and joy all at once. Who knew why Mom had put the letter in his car instead of just sending it to him whenever she’d written it, probably when he was away at college and she knew her days were coming to a close?
Who knew why he’d never found it until now?
Who knew why she’d even written it in the first place? Had she somehow known she might not have a chance to say goodbye?
Maybe she didn’t. But Someone did.
Extraordinary love.
It seemed to envelope him now, like the colors of the sun swallowing the landscape and rippling over the water.
Expansive.
Embracing.
Enduring.
As strong as the steel and concrete of the bridge in the limelight of dusk. Love that spanned myriad mistakes and mishaps, falters and failings. Impulsive decisions, career flounderings, relationships he just couldn’t seem to get right.
A love that persisted, held on even when he’d lost his grasp.
And maybe a love that pointed toward the purpose he’d been seeking all this time. Just like Mom said—his starting point and his finish line. Something to receive, but then give . . . no matter where he was, no matter what he was doing. He’d wanted to know what he was made for. Well, this was it.
Extraordinary love.
His purpose wasn’t about a career. It wasn’t about earning respect or finding his identity in a title and uniform. It was about love. It was about home. It was about a weightless, wonder-filled jump.
Finally, he knew . . .
He held the letter to his chest, closed his eyes, breathed in the ocean air. “Thank you.” A whispered prayer. And it was enough.
20
“Beckett Walker, I could kill you.”
Kate came storming down Dad’s staircase before Beckett barely made it into the living room. A flurry of white and lace and tulle swished around her and she nearly tripped over the recliner.
“Whoa, careful, sis.” He reached out with hands still numb from the December chill. He’d driven most of the way home with the convertible top in place. But about ten miles from Maple Valley, impulse had taken over. Despite the cold, despite the flurries floating from the sky, he’d raised the top and driven the rest of the way with red cheeks and winter nipping the air around him.
Kate swatted him away now. “I could kill you.”
“Yes, but it’s your wedding day and it’d be a shame to stain your pretty dress with my blood.”
Buzzing activity filled the house—the sound of laughter drifting from the second floor and a cluster of people gathered around the kitchen island for a brunch that tantalized his senses.
“The wedding’s in an hour, Beck. An hour.”
“Right. And I’m here and look, I’m already dressed.” He pulled open his coat. He’d stopped over at Seth’s to pick up his waiting tux before coming here. He’d caught a glimpse of Colton trying to pin on his own boutonnière with shaky fingers and Logan stepping in to help.
“Do you know how worried I was you might not make it?”
“It’s December, sis. There was a blizzard in Colorado. Wouldn’t you rather I have stopped and holed up until it passed than risk my life to get here for the rehearsal dinner?” He’d hated missing it. Would’ve been fun to give Colt that “Kate’s my sister, and if you hurt her, I’ll kill you” speech they’d talked about.
For once, though, guilt hadn’t eaten away at him as he waited out the storm. He hadn’t sat in that Denver hotel room beating himself up for not heading home sooner. Sure, if he’d le
ft earlier in the week, he might’ve outraced the blizzard.
But he was here now and Kate’s glare was more mock scolding than it was truly angry. “You look very pretty.”
“Resorting to flattery? You think that’s going to earn my forgiveness?” Her eyes narrowed.
“And your hair is really nice all, like, twisted up and stuff.”
“Keep going.”
“And Colton is probably going to faint at the altar when he sees you.”
She gathered the excess of her dress behind her and draped it over one arm. “He better not. I’d prefer he be conscious when I pledge my undying love.” With her free hand, she reached forward to straighten his bow tie. “Now, if you’d managed to make it home a couple days ago like planned, we would’ve had time to catch up and you could’ve filled me in on all your travels. But since you’re late, we’ll have to wait until the reception. For now, I’ve got to do the whole ‘goin’ to the chapel’ thing. Or, orchard, as it were.”
During her spiel, his gaze had wandered the room. Dad was around here somewhere, right? They’d exchanged phone calls at least once a week—often more—in his five weeks away. Voices, the opening and closing of the fridge and dishwasher ambled in from the kitchen. Pounding footsteps sounded overhead—probably Kate’s gaggle of bridesmaids in heels.
“She’s not here, little brother.”
His focus whipped back to Kate. “Who—”
“She’s at the orchard now, probably running around doing last-minute stuff.”
“Actually, I was looking for Rae.”
“Right.” Kate’s voice didn’t hold an ounce of belief.
Understandable, especially considering just the mention of Kit was enough to set his heart pounding. Truthfully, it’d been sheer willpower that’d kept him from racing out to the orchard first thing upon his arrival in Maple Valley. He’d felt every one of the miles between them these last five weeks, an ache of longing that only grew in strength with each day that passed.