7. Dahlia
DAHLIA
Later that day, the sky above the Berkshire foothills turned the color of a bruised plum, the late-summer air thick with the sulfurous scent of an approaching storm.
From where she sat at the farmhouse kitchen table, Dahlia watched the first fat drops of rain splat against the windowpane.
Her operating schedules, cost projections, and list of supplier contacts lay spread across the scarred wood of the table, the papers curling in the damp draft that slid beneath the sash.
The wind gathered force with a low, hollow roar, shaking the farmhouse's shutters.
She had spent the last three hours buried in columns of numbers, trying to find some clean and logical path through the rising debts of the farm.
It was a familiar armor, hiding behind spreadsheets and legal terminology, but today, the numbers seemed to dance on the page, refusing to settle into the neat answers she wanted.
Dahlia kept getting pulled back to what they had found on the mysterious six acres of land adjoining their farm.
She shook her head, forcing her focus back to the papers in front of her.
But a vicious blast of wind against the window from the storm was not going to let her concentrate on what was in front of her.
Dahlia stood, her fingers gripping the edge of the wooden table, remembering how the roof of the cider barn was already compromised.
The old shingles near the eastern rafters were dry and crumbling from decades of neglect.
If the rising gale got beneath the main timber doors, the starting harvest inventory of empty crates, fresh pulp bags, and packaging stock would be ruined before the first apples were even hauled from the orchards.
Dahlia could not afford another financial setback, especially not one caused by her own failure to secure the property.
None of her sisters were currently home, which meant it was up to her to ensure the barn was locked down.
Without another thought, Dahlia ran to the back porch, pushing the screen door open and plunging into the cold wind.
The rain hit her in a sudden sheet, stinging her neck and soaking her knit sweater within seconds.
She crossed the gravel driveway, her balance wavering as a fierce gust tore across the open yard.
Her hair whipped wild across her face, blinding her for a second as she fought her way toward the timber structure.
The sky had gone almost entirely black, the trees along the boundary line bending at wild angles against the storm.
When Dahlia reached the cider barn, the massive sliding timber doors were already rattling against their iron tracks, vibrating with a high-pitched whine as the wind tried to pry them outward.
Dahlia lunged forward, her fingers catching the cold metal of the sliding latch.
She pressed her shoulder against the damp pine timber, trying to force the massive doors together, but the wind was too strong, pushing back with an unyielding pressure that made her joints ache.
Her palms scraped against the rough wood, her skin burning as she fought to slide the bolt into place.
The door refused to budge, caught in a cross-wind that threatened to lift it off the track entirely.
A shadow fell over her, blocking the biting spray.
Beckett was suddenly there beside her, his broad frame shielding her from the worst of the gale.
He carried two folded canvas tarps under his arm, his face pale and wet under the brim of his wax-canvas cap.
He didn’t waste breath on questions. He leaned his shoulder against the door beside hers, his muscles straining against his canvas jacket as he threw his full weight against the wood.
With their combined effort, the sliding latch finally slipped into the iron bracket with a metallic clang.
Dahlia leaned her forehead against the wet timber for a single second, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
The scent of wet canvas, pine resin, and cold rain wrapped around them in the small space between their bodies.
Beckett checked the latch, his gloved hands ensuring the pin was secure before he turned to her. The wind screamed through the rafters overhead, and the first dark stream of water began to trickle down the interior siding from a leak near the roofline.
"We need to get the tarps over the dry crates," he said, his voice straining to carry over the roar of the wind against the metal roof.
Dahlia nodded, wiping the rain from her eyes with the back of her wet hand.
She grabbed the edge of the first canvas tarp, her fingers gripping the rough, waterproof fabric as they hauled it toward the stacked rows of empty crates in the dim center of the barn.
Every gust of wind shook the timber frame, but here inside the shelter, the quiet space between them was already beginning to tighten.
Dahlia pulled the stiff edge of the canvas over the highest tier of pine crates, her fingers cold against the rough and waterproof fabric.
Beside her, Beckett pulled his corner taut, tucking the sheet over the corners of the wood to shield the clean packaging stock from the leaks starting to drip from the rafters.
They worked in a silent rush, moving between the stacks until the final pile of crates was completely covered.
With the immediate threat to the inventory secured, the frantic energy of the storm receded, leaving them in a forced quiet.
Outside, the violent assault of the storm continued, rain hammering the corrugated metal roof with a deafening rattle that vibrated through the high wooden timbers.
Cold air whistled through the narrow gaps in the vertical siding, carrying the scent of ozone and wet grass, but the interior of the barn remained dry, smelling of cedar dust, pine wood, and the sweet undercurrent of fermenting apples.
Dahlia pulled her damp knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shivering as the drafty air touched the wet fabric of her sleeves.
She moved away from the crates, finding a spot near the center of the workspace where the light from a single small window fell across the floor.
The space felt immense in the dimness, the shadows swallowing the towering stacks of empty wooden barrels that lined the walls.
Beckett stood near the workbench, shaking the water from his hands before running a palm over his wet hair.
He did not say anything immediately. Instead, he reached for a clean flannel rag on a nearby shelf and began to dry his skin, his movements slow and steady.
The golden glow from his lantern sat on the corner of the wood, casting long shadows that stretched across the floorboards.
"It is louder in here than I remembered," Dahlia said, her voice sounding small against the roar of the rain overhead.
She leaned against the high stack of covered apple crates, her fingers tracing the rough-sawn edge of the pine wood.
A small splinter caught against her palm, and she pressed her thumb over it, welcoming the pricking sensation to anchor her thoughts.
"The metal roof is newer than the ones on the farmhouse," Beckett replied, setting the rag down on the bench.
He did not sit. Instead, he leaned his hip against the wood of the bench, his eyes watching her in the soft light.
"It was put up the summer before your father passed.
He wanted to make sure the harvest stayed dry, no matter what the autumn brought. "
The mention of the past brought a sudden warmth to the drafty room. Dahlia looked up at the high ceiling, her gaze tracing the thick timber beams that supported the roof. "I remember the noise of the hammers that summer. I complained that I could not hear myself think inside the house."
"He was proud of this barn," Beckett said softly, his chest rising with a quiet sigh. "He used to sit on that very stack of crates after a long day of pressing, just watching the orchard. He always said the valley had a way of settling itself if you gave it enough time."
"He had a way of making everything seem simple," Dahlia murmured.
She looked down at her fingers, still resting on the rough wood of the crate.
The tight knot of anxiety that had kept her shoulders rigid for days finally began to loosen.
Surrounded by the scent of pine and old harvest history, the spreadsheets and debt projections she had left on the kitchen table felt incredibly distant.
"When he was here, the farm didn’t feel like a list of obligations and liabilities. It felt like a home."
"It was a home," Beckett said. He moved a fraction closer, his tall frame blocking the cold draft that slipped through the door. "It wasn’t built to be a business empire. It was built because he loved the trees."
"But love doesn’t pay the interest on a mortgage," she countered, though there was no anger in her voice.
It was a soft admission of the reality she had been fighting since her return.
"I spent twelve years in Chicago analyzing assets, restructuring companies, and finding the logical solution to every financial puzzle.
I thought I could come back here and apply the same rules.
I thought if I just organized the records and cut the waste, the pieces would fit together. "
She paused, her fingers sliding over the weathered wood. "But the pieces don’t fit the way they do in an office. Out here, there are too many things you can’t control. The rain, the frost, the soil. It is all so unpredictable."
"You can’t force the land to follow a schedule," Beckett said, his low voice carrying a gentle and steady resolve. "But that doesn’t mean you are failing. It just means you’re trying to carry the entire weight alone."