by Melissa Tagg
“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?”
10
No doubt this wasn’t exactly what Kit had in mind when she’d asked he needed. But she’d asked and he’d answered honestly and here they were, four days later, on a road trip that felt an awful lot like an escape.
“The bottom line is, I’m just a better driver than you, Beckett Walker.”
A line of reddish-brown brick townhomes rambled by as Kit steered her car down the Chicago suburb’s residential neighborhood. Late-afternoon sunlight sifted through aged trees, their tawny leaves waving in the breeze.
“Believe whatever you want.” He shrugged in the passenger seat. “We both know you never could’ve navigated your way here without me.”
“Bert and I would’ve been perfectly okay without you.”
“A girl who names her GPS is not perfectly okay. She’s perfectly peculiar.” He tapped the window. “One more block.”
He still couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to come along, but maybe Kit had her own reasons for wanting to get away from Maple Valley for a while. If he’d had his way, they would’ve ditched town right away last week. But he’d needed to get over to Ames first to see Webster’s old social worker. Too, he’d promised his help to Drew Renwycke over the weekend on Kit’s barn.
Besides, better for Kit that they were taking off on a weekday. The orchard wasn’t nearly as busy during the week and she’d feel better leaving things in Willa’s hands for a few days.
Originally, he’d only thought to travel to Boston—pack up his office, his apartment. But after visiting with that social worker, he’d decided to make a stop in Chicago, as well. They’d crash with Logan and Amelia tonight. Tomorrow he’d meet with Webster’s friend’s new DHS case manager.
They’d catch a flight to Boston tomorrow night, then drive his own car back to Chicago on the weekend to pick up Kit’s vehicle. A convoluted travel itinerary, sure, but it meant hours alone in a car with Kit. Somehow in recent weeks he’d gone from dodging her company to craving it.
; “Hey.” His tone beckoned a momentary glance from Kit.
“Yeah?”
“Have I told you yet how glad I am you came along for the ride?” He probably would’ve spent the whole trip today fretting about the future, about Dad, if not for Kit’s presence.
“Only ten or eleven times. Might as well make it an even dozen.” She tipped her sunglasses onto her forehead, strands of hair slipping from her ponytail as she did.
He fought the urge to reach across the console and brush them behind her ear.
“Better yet, explain to me how in the world you got that social worker to tell you where that friend of Webster’s is now. What’s her name again?”
“Amanda. And I guess I’m more persuasive in person.”
Kit looked away from the road just long enough to scold him with her eyes. “You flirted with her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t flirt—”
“You did. I know you. And now you’re going to do the same thing to the social worker in Chicago.”
“You don’t know that. What if this one’s a man?”
“You are something else, Beckett.”
“Hey, I did what I had to do to get the information I needed.” He’d found out Amanda’s birth mother had temporarily regained custody and then promptly broken parole by moving across state lines and getting high at a Chicago club. But by the time law enforcement and child protective services got involved, Amanda had already settled in a new school and reconnected with extended family in Illinois.
So a new social worker had taken over and a relative had temporary custody until Amanda’s eighteenth birthday, which apparently wasn’t that far off. Perhaps that information might have been enough for Webster. But Beckett had a feeling the boy wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d heard from his friend himself.
“I didn’t flirt,” he reiterated. “I just made an eloquent little speech, if I do say so myself, while being friendly and nice.”
“You flirted and you know it.”
“There’s a difference between throwing out a compliment or two, being a little bit charming, and actual, legit flirting.”
“Whatever.”
He was tempted to argue. Show her just what he meant. But instead, perhaps because he liked the idea a little too much, he straightened in his seat. “There, the brownstone on the corner.”
Kit slowed the car and turned into the driveway. “So this was Kate’s house?”
“Yep, she moved home in February, I think, and hadn’t really gotten around to deciding what to do with the place by the time Amelia and Logan took off for Chicago this summer.” He released his seatbelt as the engine cut off. “Apparently Amelia had a job offer here and Logan followed her like a lovesick puppy.”
Which was funny, considering. Kate had moved home in large part for Colton, leaving an empty house in Chicago. Logan had taken off for Chicago with Amelia and left an empty apartment in LA. And though not for the romantic reasons of his siblings, Beckett now had a deserted place in Boston.
“You say ‘lovesick’ with a smirk, Beck, but it’s the sweetest thing ever and you know it.”
“And anyway, they eloped and Kate offered them the place with the promise that they let her crash here once in a while when she needs to get some writing done.”
“Funny—the thought of her leaving quiet, small-town Iowa to come to Chicago to write. You’d think it’d be the other way around.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve seen Dad’s house. He’s basically running a bustling B&B at this point. Plus, there’s this not-so-little distraction back home in the form of Colton Greene.”
He started to open his door, but she stopped him with her next question. “Why the JAG Corps, Beck?”
His fingers slid from the car handle to the armrest. “What brought that up?”
“Talking about your siblings and their careers and big moves, it just made me wonder. Why military law? Why now?”
“It checks off the boxes. Travel, excitement, variety. More than that, I want to feel like I’m doing something meaningful. I want to feel like I was made for it—like you and your trees.” At her questioning look, he elaborated. “Corporate law was interesting at first. But it got boring fast. Then one evening this spring I was hanging out at Salt Island—this beach I like north of Boston—and, I don’t know, it’s like the idea of joining the Corps rode in on a wave or something. It’d been in the back of my head forever, but somewhere along the way, I’d completely forgotten about it. Got distracted, drifted. I do that sometimes, I guess.”
Kit nodded. “I understand. That’s how I felt in London. Like I never fully belonged. Like I was living someone else’s life.”
At some point, they’d slipped from the car, met at the trunk. A sharp wind scraped over his cheeks and wreaked even further havoc on Kit’s ponytail. She wore the same faded jeans he’d seen her in a hundred times and a plaid flannel shirt she’d told him once she would’ve been laughed out of London for wearing.
“I came home and turned right back into the farm girl I used to be,” she’d said.
Yeah, well, farm girl looked good on her. As did messy ponytails and cheeks brushed with cold, Chicago sky no match for her blue eyes. She reached for the overpacked suitcase he’d teased her about eight hours ago.
He nabbed her hand now, before she could pull out the suitcase. “Wait.”
“Oh, come on, it is not that heavy. No matter how much you exaggerated earlier, acting like you were carrying a bag of cement blocks and—”
He quieted her with a step forward. And then he did what he’d wanted to earlier. Reached with his free hand to tuck her loose hair behind her ears. He didn’t miss her sudden inhale, nor the way his own senses instantly stood at attention, awareness thick in the miniscule space between them. “Thank you. Even dozen.”
She blinked, glanced down at their entwined hands. And when she looked back at him, for the first time he could ever remember, he couldn’t read her eyes, couldn’t hear her thoughts.
But when her gaze trailed mere inches, down his face toward his lips, he felt it—the tug of her desire. Or maybe that was his own. Or something shared.
“Uncle Beck!”
Charlie’s voice hurdled into the moment so forcefully he practically thrust Kit’s hand away. Which must’ve amused her as much as it startled her, because her laughter joined the sound of Charlie’s pattering footsteps running toward them.
His niece was in his arms in seconds, her hands reaching around his neck for a hug.
He tried to catch Kit’s eyes once more over Charlie’s shoulders, but she’d hidden her flushed cheeks in the trunk, reaching in to pull out her suitcase. So instead he planted a kiss on Charlie’s head. “How’s my favorite niece?”
The four-year-old leaned back to place both her hands on his cheeks. “You need to shave.”
Kit laughed again, and this time when he glanced past Charlie, he met her gaze. And something freeing and flawless glided through him.
And then Logan and Amelia were emerging from the house and a round of hugs followed, all the while Charlie tugging him toward the brownstone. “You have to see my bedroom. It used to be Aunt Kate’s only it looks different now ’cause my mom painted it.”
There was no mistaking the delight that played over Amelia’s face as Logan’s daughter referred to her as Mom. Nor Logan’s look of pride. To think, just six months ago Charlie had barely spoken at all. Concern about his daughter’s speech delay had been just one of the reasons Logan made the decision to take a break from his busy speechwriting career in LA and spend some time in Maple Valley. Now look how his life had changed.
Logan pulled Kit’s suitcase behind him, and Beckett slid his duffel bag over his shoulder. Charlie pulled away and raced into the house, Amelia and Kit on her heels.
“Thanks for letting us crash here,” Beckett said as he followed Logan up the cement steps.
“Of course.” Logan stopped on the top step, resting one hand on the metal railing and the ot
her on the handle of Kit’s suitcase. “Listen, Beckett.”
Beckett paused two steps below, sensing what was coming before Logan went on. “It’s okay, Log—”
“No, I need to say it. I’m really sorry about not telling you.” Sincerity rimmed his eyes.
“Dad asked you not to.”
“And he had reasons that all stemmed from a good place. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hurtful to you. If I’d been in your shoes . . .” He matched Beckett’s shrug with one of his own. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” Perhaps surprisingly, he meant it. There was too much else crowding his mind these days to let useless anger at his brother take up space.
Eventually, you need to have this same conversation with Dad. Needed to let go of so much more. But for now, for these few days, he just wanted to forget.
Logan appeared relieved at Beckett’s easy acceptance, but he didn’t move to the doorway. Only peered at Beckett.
“You waiting for something? We can hug it out if you want, but we hugged back at the car and that seems like enough. Handshake?”
Logan shook his head. His wedding ring glinted in the sun as he pushed down the handle of Kit’s suitcase. “Nah, just deciding how long I’m supposed to wait before I taunt you about Kit.”
“Say again?”
“You brought her along.”
“So?”
“So, I looked out the window when we heard the car in the driveway.”
The implication settled in. “I’m trying to think of the name of that nosy neighbor lady on that old show with the chick who twitches her nose.”
“Mrs. Cratchett. Bewitched.”
“That’s the one.” He shifted his duffel bag to the other shoulder.
“I’m just saying, you were standing awfully close and I kinda think if Charlie hadn’t escaped from the house—”
