13. Dahlia
DAHLIA
Later that day, Dahlia crossed the northern pastures under a darkening sky, making her way toward the gray farmhouse that stood near the orchard edge.
The lights from the kitchen windows cast long gold squares across the damp grass, offering a quiet guide through the twilight.
She paused near the porch, her chest tensing as she looked at the simple wooden door.
A week had passed since they stood at the fence line, and her palms still felt the cold sting of his confession.
But the cider press was running, the afternoon’s crisis had been resolved, and she couldn't let another night pass without speaking to him.
She ascended the wooden porch boards and knocked on the screen door frame.
A moment later, Beckett appeared on the other side of the wire mesh. He didn't look surprised to see her, nor did his expression hold any of the anger that had sharpened his features during their last encounter. He simply pushed the door open, gesturing for her to enter the warm kitchen.
"Come on in," he said, his voice quiet. "I just put a pot of coffee on."
"Thank you," Dahlia murmured, entering the kitchen and letting the door click shut behind her.
The room was clean and simple, smelling of roasted coffee beans and clean pine.
A yellow Formica table sat in the center, its surface worn white at the corners where decades of elbows had rested.
There were no lists on the counter, no neat files of papers, just a ceramic mug and a glass jar of sugar.
Beckett moved to the stove, pouring the dark liquid into two mugs. He didn't offer any blame, and he didn't ask what she was doing on his property after she’d told him to stay on his side of the fence. He set one mug on the table before her, then pulled out a wooden chair for himself.
"Kent said the press was running true," Beckett noted, sitting down and wrapping his palms around his own mug. "He said the alignment held."
"It did," Dahlia said, taking a seat opposite him and holding the warm ceramic between her hands. The heat was a relief against her chilled fingers. "The motor thrummed perfectly, and we cleared the backlogged orders before dusk. I... I wanted to thank you for arranging the parts."
"No problem," Beckett replied, his expression calm. "The press needed fixing. It wasn't something you could've managed with a standard socket wrench."
"I know," Dahlia admitted, looking down at the dark surface of her coffee. "I tried. I nearly stripped the casing bolt before you, Kent, and Evan arrived. I was being stubborn."
Beckett watched her, his eyes holding a quiet patience. He didn't gloat, and he didn't remind her of the harsh words she’d thrown at him a week ago. He simply waited, letting the silence rest between them like a comfortable blanket.
Dahlia traced the worn edge of the yellow Formica table, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her mug. The warmth of the ceramic seeped into her fingers, relaxing the tension that had lingered in her chest since she’d crossed the pastures.
"I was wrong," she said, her voice quiet in the still kitchen. "About the secrets. About the silence. I accused you of locking me out, but the truth is, I locked myself out. It was easier to blame you than to admit I hadn't been here."
Beckett set his mug down with a soft click, his eyes holding hers with a calm focus. He didn't interrupt, nor did his expression hold any of the defensive anger she’d expected.
"You had a career," Beckett replied, his tone gentle. "You had things you wanted to achieve."
"I was running," Dahlia confessed, her throat tightening as she spoke the words aloud.
"I spent so many years focusing on the next milestone, believing that if I kept achieving, I wouldn't have to ask myself if I was actually happy.
It cost me the person I was with. It cost me the home we tried to make.
I was so busy looking at the next target that I didn't see what was crumbling right in front of me.
And when I came back here, seeing how things had slipped on the farm...
it just felt like another failure I couldn't fix. "
Beckett listened, his large hands resting flat on the table. He didn't offer any hollow platitudes, nor did he try to minimize the pain she’d carried. He simply sat with her, his presence offering a quiet anchor that she hadn't realized she’d been searching for.
"I didn't keep my distance to make you feel like an outsider," Beckett said after a long moment, his voice low. "I did it because every time you came back, you looked like you were already planning your departure. I didn't think there was any room for this valley in the life you were building."
Dahlia looked up, her eyes meeting his. The honesty in his expression was disarming, stripping away the last of the pride that had kept them apart for so long.
She’d spent years protecting herself behind a wall of independent strength, but sitting in his kitchen, she realized that true strength didn't mean facing everything alone.
Dahlia sat near the edge of the wooden chair.
The kitchen was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of the old refrigerator in the corner and the occasional sigh of the wind against the windowpanes.
The warmth from the stove radiated outward, providing a quiet sanctuary from the chill that had settled over the pastures.
Beckett remained quiet for several minutes.
He didn't rush to fill the silence, nor did he offer any easy comfort.
He sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid in his mug, his expression unreadable.
The kitchen light cast a soft glow over his features, highlighting the small lines of fatigue around his eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw.
"I spent years watching you come and go," Beckett said.
He didn't look up, keeping his focus on the table.
"Every summer, you would arrive with your folders and your schedule, and you would stay for a week or two.
You would be polite to everyone. You would ask about the crops, and you would help with the chores.
But you were already gone. You were looking at your phone, checking your emails, or planning your next meeting.
You treated this valley like a museum. A place to visit, to look at, and then to leave behind. "
Dahlia felt a quiet sting in her chest, the truth of his words cutting through the defenses she had maintained for so long. She swallowed, her throat tight. "I didn't realize I was doing that."
"I know you didn't," Beckett replied, finally raising his eyes to meet hers.
His gaze was calm, holding hers with a steady focus.
"That was the hardest part. You didn't do it to be unkind.
You didn't do it because your real life was somewhere else.
You had a world that made sense to you, where everything was clean and organized and ran on a schedule.
This place was just a reminder of what you had left behind.
And I was just the boy who had stayed behind the fence. "
Dahlia looked down at her hands. "You were never just that."
"But that's how it felt," Beckett continued, his tone quiet but firm.
"I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want to be the anchor that dragged you back.
I knew how much you wanted to fly. But I have some pride left.
I spent thirty-two years keeping this property alive, clearing the orchards in the freezing cold, and holding things together while you were building your career.
I have a life here, one I built with my own hands.
And I won't let it be turned into a temporary shelter where you can recover from your city exhaustion before you pack up and fly back to your skyscrapers. "
"I'm not asking for a shelter," Dahlia whispered, her voice sincere.
"Then what are you asking for?" Beckett asked, his eyes searching her face. "I told you that I won't be a temporary distraction before you go back to Chicago and leave me behind in the dust again."
The honesty in his voice was disarming, stripping away the last of the pride that had kept them apart.
Dahlia took a slow breath, her chest tensing as she faced the raw reality of her own choices.
Sitting in his quiet kitchen, the memory of her failed marriage rose to the surface, no longer a hidden failure she had to cover up, but a truth she needed to share.
"My marriage didn't fail because we stopped caring," Dahlia said, her voice quiet but steady.
"It failed because we stopped looking at each other.
We were both so busy chasing the next milestone, believing that if we kept achieving, we wouldn't have to ask ourselves if we were actually happy.
We lived parallel lives under the same roof.
We had our schedules, our meetings, and our targets.
We were successful by every standard that mattered to our careers.
But we were completely alone. And by the time we realized how far apart we had drifted, there was nothing left to save. "
Beckett just listened, his presence offering a quiet comfort.
"I spent years believing that if I kept moving, I could outrun the emptiness," Dahlia confessed, her throat tightening as she spoke the words aloud.
"I treated my career like a shield, believing that if I was successful enough, I would finally feel like I belonged somewhere.
But when I came back here, seeing how things had slipped on the farm, seeing the bills and the broken machinery...
it just felt like another failure I couldn't organize away.
I was so terrified of failing my sisters, and failing her memory, that I tried to control everything.
I tried to force my schedules on a place that doesn't care about schedules. "
"This valley has its own rhythm," Beckett murmured, his expression softening slightly. "It doesn't yield to a hurry. You have to coax it."