She didn't sound too excited to focus on the house, and in truth he wasn't ready yet either. "I have a better idea."
"What?"
"Show me around the farm. I don't think I've ever had the full tour."
She gave him a doubtful look. "I didn't think you ever wanted one."
"Well, I do now."
She hesitated. "All right. But I can pretty much guarantee you'll learn far more than you ever wanted to know about apples."
"I think I can handle it."
She smiled. "You say that now, but we'll see how you feel after one hundred and fifteen acres of apples."
"That many, huh?"
"Oh, yeah. Then there's the barn, the packing shed, the kitchen, the gift shop, the picnic area. Oh, and the pumpkin patch, which will be in full swing by next week."
"No pony rides?" he asked with a grin, pleased that his distraction had worked. Just thinking about her farm had brought pleasure to Rachel's eyes. And he was willing to look at every single tree on the property if that would keep the joy on her face for a while longer.
"Not yet. But I won't say never. The apple business isn't what it used to be. We've had to supplement our income any way we can."
He was surprised at the complexity of their operation. For some reason, he'd thought it was just trees and apples. Gary hadn't talked much about the farm. Or had he just tuned out everything that concerned Gary's life with Rachel?
"Still game?" she asked.
"Absolutely."
"You can follow me this time." She turned toward her minivan. "That fancy car of yours isn't going to stay too clean with all the dirt around here. Gary was forever washing and waxing his car."
"Gary loved that car."
"Yes, he did." She shook her head. "There it is again, that little ping in my heart. I wonder when that will stop happening. Sometimes I'm afraid it won't ever stop. And then again, sometimes I'm afraid it will stop. That I'll forget something I shouldn't forget."
"You won't." He held her gaze for a long second, then let it go. There were other things he wanted to say. But the words wouldn't come. It was probably better that way.
Chapter Seven
Rachel had been right. Dylan now knew more about apples than he'd ever wanted to know, including the six different varieties grown at AppleWood Farms. He'd seen pickers harvesting one section of the orchard, a group of workers in the packing shed sorting apples, still more employees working the pumpkin patch, the fruit stand by the road and the gift shop in the barn that sold everything from apples to apple butter, apple pie, apple napkins and apple jewelry.
Rachel had explained the various tourist operations and pointed out the U-Pick section of the orchard, where visitors could pick their own apples and picnic by a trickling stream. She'd also introduced him to a large number of people she called cousins, including one named Wally, who was hoping to win the Biggest Pumpkin Award at the Annual Harvest Festival in two weeks' time.
Throughout the tour, Rachel had given him every last detail about planting, pruning, harvesting and shipping. It was clear that she loved the farm, loved the sights and the smells. There was pride in her voice as she talked about the land that had belonged to her family for over a hundred years. Dylan wondered what it would feel like to be a part of something so old, so treasured, so loved. He couldn't begin to imagine.
"So what do you think?" she asked as she led him up the side of a small hill. She flung out her hands at the vista that unfolded before them.
It was a pretty sight, lines of trees broken up by fields of flowers and rolling hills in the distance. But it wasn't the view that stirred him; it was Rachel. Her face was pink from the sun, her hair blowing loose in the breeze, her eyes alight with a pleasure he hadn't seen since she'd shown up on his job site two days earlier.
Something inside him turned over as he looked into her eyes. He wanted to make this moment last, to keep the light in her eyes and the smile on her face. He wanted it for her, he told himself. He wanted her to be happy for a while, to be free of the sadness that she wore like a second skin. But, selfishly, he also wanted this moment for himself, when it was just the two of them, when they weren't haunted by guilt or betrayal or doubts. Unfortunately, just thinking about those emotions brought them all back.
"Well," Rachel prodded, "have I left you speechless?"
"You could say that."
"Come on. I've been working my fingers to the bone for years to keep this place going. Now I want compliments, praise. Let's hear it."
He couldn't help responding to the teasing note in her voice, "You have a very impressive farm. Is that better?"
"Yes." She let out a sigh as she gazed at the valley. "I love this place. I always have." She flopped down on the ground and picked at a piece of grass.
"I can tell," he said, sitting down next to her. "Pride of ownership in every note of your voice."
"I'm not the only owner. Everyone in the family has a share, even if it's a small one. My grandfather believes that you care more about the things that belong to you."
"He's probably right about that."
"There's no 'probably' about it, not when you're talking about my grandfather," she said with a smile. "His way or the highway, that's what my dad used to say. They argued all the time. They were as different as two men could be. My father was much more impulsive and fun loving. Whereas my grandfather is intense, driven, dedicated. I think it comes from his being in the military when he was younger. He likes to give orders and he expects people to take them."
"So who do you follow?" Dylan asked. "Your father or your grandfather?"
"I'd like to say I have the best of both of them in me, but sometimes I think I have all their faults."
"Like what?"
"Procrastination -- my father. Stubbornness -- my grandfather. I'm not sure I should admit to any more."
"What happened to your mother? You told me that your parents divorced, but I don't think I know what happened to her. Is she still alive?"
"I have no idea. I haven't seen or heard from her in years. We weren't very important to her. She had other things in her life that she cared more about."
He heard the bitterness and had a feeling it ran deep. "What other things?"
"My mother was an artist, a painter. A really good one, too, my dad used to say. When I think of her, I see her standing in front of an easel in a corner of her studio, wearing a bright pink smock. She'd stand and stare at that canvas for hours on end."
"And what would you do?"
"Watch her, mostly. Once I tried to paint. I wanted to be like her, but I used her expensive oils and made a huge mess. She was furious. That's the last time I picked up a brush."
"You were a kid. Only natural to mimic your mother."
"She didn't appreciate it at all." Rachel's expression was distant, as if she were back in that place, that memory. "Anyway, my parents broke up shortly after that. I tried to apologize for what I'd done, but my mother went on with her life, and we came back here. She wrote and called a few times the first couple of years, but then it ended. Out of sight, out of mind."
"You don't think you were responsible, do you?"
"Not exactly."
He saw a hint of guilt in her eyes. "Rachel, you weren't responsible."
"The grown-up in me knows that. The little kid inside still feels guilty."
"Tell her to get over it. Your mother did exactly what she wanted to do."
"I guess. I used to think that I'd annoyed her too much by getting into her paints, and that's why she needed space. Silly, I know." She picked up a pebble and tossed it down the hill. "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I've never told anyone about my mother."
Not even Gary? The question came to his mind, but he left it unspoken.
"I don't even like to think about her, much less talk about her," Rachel continued. "My dad was the same way. Once we moved back here, I never heard him say her first name. If he spoke of her at all, it was to call her your mother,
as if she had no other identity or meaning to him. I used to wonder how he could love her so much and then hate her with the same intensity."
"Love and hate are two sides of the same coin," Dylan murmured.
"Is that the way your parents ended up -- hating each other?"
He considered the question. "I don't think they had enough energy or passion left to hate each other after Jesse died. My brother's illness wore them down, like a constant stream of water pounding against a rock until it finally eroded and vanished completely."
"What happened to your dad after your mother remarried?"
Dylan shrugged. "I don't know. He kept in touch for a while. But he drank too much. Worked too little. Drifted. Looking back, I guess he was lost. I have more sympathy for him now than I did then. I thought he'd turned his back on me. But I think everything just slipped away from him, and he had no idea how to get it back. I haven't heard from him in years. I don't know where he is."
"Maybe he doesn't know where you are."
"I suspect he could find me if he wanted to."
"Or vice versa."
"True. It all happened a long time ago, Rachel."
"For me, too, but it still hurts."
"Not if you keep busy enough."
"Is that your strategy?"
"Always has been -- until now." He stretched out his legs, realizing that his strategy had changed with his trip north. He wasn't keeping busy at all. And look where he'd ended up -- in a personal conversation with Rachel. "I should be working on your house." Even as he said the words, he found himself reluctant to move. "I just need to get up."
She smiled at him with complete understanding. "This place does that to you. It calms you down. Makes you feel like just sitting a while. Or else it's my conversation. I must be boring you to death with all this family talk."
"Not at all. Now, the earlier discussion on pesticides -- that was boring." She laughed, and he was pleased when she flung him another smile. He was fast becoming addicted to them. "I can see why you like this place," he said. "It's peaceful here,"
"This is my favorite spot. When I look out over the hills and the trees, I believe anything is possible. Coming here healed me."
He nodded. "I understand completely. My favorite spot is the top floor of an unfinished building. I'm on top of the world, and it's an amazing feeling."
"I'll bet. Is that why you build skyscrapers?"
"Yes."
"You've left your mark on the world. Not everyone can say that."
"You can." He waved a hand toward the orchards before them. "You've got all these trees that you care for like children and which will probably still be here a hundred years from now."
"They're just trees," she said modestly. "Nothing special."
"Of course they're special. Their roots go deep into the ground. So do yours. You belong here."
She turned her head to look at him, curiosity in her eyes. "Did Gary tell you that I refused to leave?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did Gary tell you that he wanted to leave and I didn't?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"I just wondered."
She didn't say anything for a moment, the quiet surrounding them accentuated by the sound of her breathing, which seemed somewhat agitated now.
"What are you thinking, Rachel?"
She didn't answer right away, then said, "I think I may have held Gary back."
"In what way?"
"He needed to be in the city to work. I needed to be here. This is my safe haven. As you said, I belong here." There was a plea for understanding in her eyes. "I'm not sure Gary ever did. If he was unhappy here, if that had something to do with the accident, I don't think I could forgive myself."
"I'm sure Gary would have told you if he wanted to live somewhere else. He never asked you to leave, did he?"
"Once," she replied, surprising him. "Once he asked me."
She didn't elaborate, and he decided not to press. He didn't really want to talk about Gary right now. Nor did he want to talk about their life together. He glanced up at the sky as a small plane came into view, the wings dipping from side to side.
"That's a first-timer," Dylan said.
Rachel followed his gaze. "How do you know?"
"When you first start to fly, you feel like you want to flap your arms. You have to sit back and relax and let the plane be an extension of your hands."
"That sounds like a comment from someone who has actually flown an airplane."
"I have a pilot's license. And a small airplane."
She stared at him as if she'd never seen him before. "Gary never told me that."
"It's no big deal."
"Did you ever take him up in the plane?"
They couldn't seem to get away from Gary. "Only once. He preferred big jets with first-class seating, movies and cocktails. He said sitting in my plane was like flying in a sardine can."
"Hmm," she murmured, turning her face away from him to gaze over the valley again. "Gary never mentioned it. Funny, how many little things he never mentioned to me."
"I'm sure that's the way it is with all marriages. You get busy. You think to say something, then you don't."
"Maybe," she replied, but she didn't sound convinced. "What's it like to fly?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her knees.
"Surely you've been up in a plane?"
She shook her head. "No. Doesn't that sound ridiculous? But we never went anywhere as kids that we couldn't drive to. And Gary flew all the time for work, so the last thing he wanted to do when he was home was go on a trip. So what's it like?"
He thought about her question for a moment, wondering if he could put into words how he felt when he was flying. "It's amazing," he said finally. "The earth falls away like a sweater that's too tight and suddenly you're free. You can do anything. Talk about the possibilities, they're limitless."
"It sounds wonderful."
"You could do it."
"Me?" She uttered a short, disbelieving laugh. "No, I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
"Because of a million reasons. I'm a mom."
"And moms can't fly?"
"I drive a minivan -- I've never gone faster than seventy-five on the freeway."
He laughed at that. "I bet you have. As I recall, you have a lead foot."
"Well, I grew out of it. I grew out of a lot of things." Her smile faded as she got to her feet. "I have responsibilities here. I wouldn't fly away from them even if I could."
"Not even for a little while?" He stood up. "Let me take you up one day. Don't say no. Just think about it. You could take the controls in your own hands. You'd love it."
"I can't," she said with a definitive shake of her head.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a small-town girl who grows apples for a living. I couldn't be a pilot. I'm not that brave or that daring."
"You won't know until you try."
"Some things you just know. We should go. I still have a lot of work to do today." She turned away from the view and headed toward the path that would lead them home.
"We could take Wesley, too," Dylan said, following close behind her. "He would love it."
She stopped so quickly he almost tripped over her. She put a hand on his arm to steady them both, but when her fingers gripped the sleeve of his shirt, he knew that her touch was in no way about comfort. "No, Dylan," she said firmly. "We can't take Wesley up in an airplane,"
"Why not?"
"Because we can't," she snapped. "Just let it go."
"Not until you tell me why."
"Stop pressuring me."
He jerked his arm away from her hand, rubbing the spot where her nails had dug into his skin. "That hurt."
"I'm sorry."
She didn't look sorry, she looked mad. "What is with you, Rachel? You don't trust me. Is that it?"
"It's not about trust."
"Then what is
it about?"
She blew out an irritated breath. "Gary promised to take Wesley to Disneyland for his eighth birthday. It would have been his first plane trip. Mine, too. But Gary died two weeks before that, and we never took the trip. That's what it's about."
"Rachel, flying with me doesn't make you disloyal. But I'm sorry. I didn't know there was a sad connection between flying and Gary's death."
"Of course you didn't know. How could you know? You weren't a part of our lives. You stayed away, Dylan. Far away."
"So did you," he said, capturing her gaze and refusing to let go. "You stayed away, too, Rachel. And we both know why."
"I loved Gary. And I always will. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I came to you because you're Gary's friend. That's all you're ever going to be to me. Gary's best friend."
"I offered you a ride in an airplane, that's all," he said sharply, a little more shaken by her words than he cared to admit. "There aren't and won't ever be any other strings attached," he said firmly. "And just for the record, I loved Gary, too. He was my brother. And to me, you ... you will always be Gary's wife."
"Yes, I will."
He nodded. In a way, he was glad she'd redrawn the line between them, because it had started to blur without Gary's strong presence. They both needed the line. There was no longer a safe distance between them. "Okay, then."
"Okay, then," she echoed. "Let's go back to the house."
* * *
Rachel realized she was far from okay as she began walking back to the house, Dylan silent on her heels. They'd said enough, too much really, and yet there were words still left unspoken. It had been that way between them since the night before her wedding. No matter how many times they drew the line in the sand, they seemed to keep stepping over it.
For a few hours, she'd enjoyed his company. Getting caught up in the farm and the history of the family had made it easy to talk to him. He'd been a good listener, too. And it had been a while since she'd had an appreciative audience. But the tour was over. They had to refocus, regroup, and get on with what they both needed to do.
"I wrote the contractor's name on a note attached to the blueprints," she said as they approached the house. "He was a nice man, but he had other jobs to do, and I realized that finishing the house was a luxury I couldn't afford. I also wrote down Travis Barker's number. He's a friend of the family, a wonderful carpenter. He might be interested in working out a deal with you."
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