Chapter 14
My father was under the tractor, swearing at a wrench, when Kate pushed open the passenger door of my truck.
The gravel driveway had left a film of dust across the fenders and over the toes of her boots.
During the two-hour drive from Seattle, we’d talked about Wednesday’s dinner—the first one both of us had called a date without debating the word—and a bakery she’d tracked down in Cle Elum.
It offended Kate on principle that their pies cost more than a decent dinner.
Now she was looking at the packing shed, the rows of apple trees stretching out behind it, and the sprinkler ticking along the fence line.
Water struck the leaves with a light, steady hiss.
The air smelled of hot dirt, stale gasoline, and windfall apples.
“Does your dad always argue with machinery?” she asked.
“Only the machines he doesn't like.”
“Who usually wins?”
“The machinery. It has better points.”
Kate let out a quiet laugh and hitched the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
She was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt under a light jacket, and her hair pulled up without the crisp precision of a Halcyon morning.
She’d been invited for a weekend, not an interview.
Repeating that to myself didn't help much.
“Dad,” I said.
A scuffed work boot slid out from under the tractor first. Then Gene appeared, a smudge of dark grease across his wrist and the expression of a man who’d just discovered the world was continuing to turn without consulting him.
He looked at me, looked at Kate, and wiped his hands on a shop rag that only spread the grime around.
“You made it,” he said.
“We did,” I said.
“Don't get cute.”
Kate extended her hand before I could find a way to step in.
“Kate Mercer. Thank you for having us.”
My father took her hand carefully. He didn't smile, but he straightened his shoulders a fraction.
“Gene Callahan. If Cole offered to carry your bags, ignore him. His physio has had him in a glass bubble ever since he cracked his ribs. I’ll get them.”
“Don't worry,” Kate said. “I’m fully briefed on his load-bearing report.”
The corner of my dad’s mouth did something quick, almost a smile. It vanished so fast I could have made it up.
The front screen door swung open before I could enjoy it.
My mother stepped onto the porch with a tea towel draped over one shoulder and a dusting of flour on her cheek.
She came down the three steps without rushing, but her eyes clocked everything: Kate, the bag, my hand hovering near Kate’s back without making contact.
“You must be Kate,” Joanne said. She offered a brief hug, leaving plenty of room for Kate to return it or not. “I’m Joanne. There’s lemonade in the kitchen, and nobody is going to ask you any awkward questions until you’ve had something cold to drink.”
“That sounds like a useful house rule,” Kate said.
“We don't always follow it, but we like knowing it’s written down somewhere.”
My mother steered Kate toward the house. Kate looked back once—not because she needed saving, but just to catch my eye. I lifted the truck keys in my hand as a ridiculous promise that I was still standing right there. She gave a small shake of her head and followed Joanne inside.
My father pointed the rag toward the tractor.
“The belt’s loose.”
“That’s what you texted.”
“Then quit standing around chatting and bring me the seventeen-millimeter wrench.”
I fished it out of the metal toolbox. The steel was warm from the sun.
When I knelt beside him, the dull ache beneath my ribs was quick to remind me that physical therapy hadn't bought me a second season.
My dad didn't say a word when he saw me shift my weight.
He just took the wrench when I handed it over and loosened two bolts.
“The girl from Halcyon?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“The one in the photos for the club program.”
“Also her.”
“I didn't ask if you’re seeing each other.”
“No.”
The silence that settled between us wasn't comfortable, but it didn't need to be. Behind us, the screen door slapped shut once. My mother was probably setting out plates in the kitchen.
“She looks ready to tell you no,” he said at last.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“No. It isn't.”
He torqued the last bolt tight and stood up with a low grunt. I was still crouched in the dirt. He held out his forearm and hauled me to my feet before I could wave him off.
“Don't go lifting boxes today,” he said.
“Wasn't planning on it.”
“’Course you were.”
There wasn't any warmth in the way he said it—at least not the kind he’d ever admit to. He walked me over to the packing shed and pointed at an empty wheelbarrow, as if he’d just proven an undisputed point.
* * *
In the morning, my mother set a loaf of sourdough on the table and my father snapped open the paper without reading a line.
Kate sat with a coffee mug cupped in both hands.
She’d slept in the guest room at the end of the hall, and I’d spent the night in my old bedroom, where the drywall still bore faded tape marks from high school match schedules.
Neither of us had turned the sleeping arrangement into a discussion.
“Cole told me you work in healthcare,” my mother said, slicing an apple into a bowl of oatmeal.
“Operations,” Kate said. “I spend most of my time trying to keep people from having to tell their story four different times just to get help.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s also more interesting than it looks in staff meetings.”
My father set the newspaper aside.
“Does it work?”
Kate looked down at the apple slices, arranged on the cutting board with an order that wasn't an accident.
“Sometimes. When someone doesn't decide a pretty metric matters more than a door that actually opens.”
“Pretty numbers don't always mean quality,” he said.
“Exactly.”
My mother smiled over the coffeemaker. I nearly did too. Kate caught my eye and arched one brow, as if we’d just cleared a ridiculously narrow hurdle.
After breakfast, Joanne asked me to carry a crate of Mason jars out to the canning shed. Kate offered to help. My father pointed toward the orchard rows before I could even calculate whether the crate was too heavy for my ribs.
“No,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
His voice didn't leave much room for negotiation.
We walked out between the rows as the morning sun climbed.
Young branches had small paper bags tied over individual apples to protect the skin.
Farther down the slope, two field hands were checking an irrigation line.
Our boots sank a fraction into the damp earth.
My dad stopped in front of a low apple tree braced by two wooden stakes. Beside it was an empty hollow layered with pale wood chips.
“What happened here?” I asked.
“Fire blight. Pulled it out back in the winter.”
The word hung between us for a second. My dad kicked a stray rock until it rolled clear of the drip line.
“Going to plant another one?” I asked.
“Not in that spot. The ground needs time. You put a new sapling where the last one went bad, and you’re just handing clean roots the exact same problem.”
He didn't look at me while he said it. He pulled a pocketknife from his jeans and used his thumb to scrape dried sap off a nearby limb. It was a purely practical motion. Which made it land that much harder.
“What about this one?” I asked, gesturing to the staked tree.
“Grafted it off an old McIntosh my grandfather planted. Won't yield good fruit anytime soon. It has to take hold first.”
“Sounds slow.”
“It is.”
He didn't add that there were things you couldn't fix with brute force or quick answers. That wasn't his style. He bent down to tighten one of the ties securing the slender trunk, then held out the open pocketknife.
“Cut that dead tip back.”
“Which one?”
“The one looking right at you.”
I would’ve laughed if I hadn't known he meant every word. I clipped the dead tip he’d indicated. A tacky bead of sap stuck to my thumb.
By the time we walked back to the house, Joanne and Kate were sitting on the porch.
They’d stacked the Mason jars beside a wooden rocker and gone quiet the exact second our boots hit the gravel.
Kate had her knees pulled together, both hands wrapped around a tall glass.
My mother was touching her elbow, light and easy.
Joanne stood up.
“Gene, I need you to help with those crates,” she told my dad.
“I don't need—”
“The crates, Gene.”
My father looked at Kate, then over at me, and did as he was told. I’d never seen my dad’s obedience sound so much like a door being pulled shut with deliberate care.
I sat on the bottom porch step. Kate didn't say anything. The sprinkler kept clicking on the far side of the orchard.
“You don't have to explain a thing to me,” my mother said.
Kate lifted her chin.
“I wasn't explaining.”
“I know. I was just trying not to make it worse.”
That pulled a breath from Kate that might have been half a laugh.
Joanne sat back down, keeping a comfortable distance on the bench.
“I’ve lived long enough to recognize when someone moves like they have to ask permission just to take up space,” she said. “I don't need to know why. And I’m not going to pry if you don't want to talk about it.”
I watched Kate’s fingers tighten around the condensation on her glass. I waited until she looked over at me before reaching out my hand. She found it on her own, lacing her fingers through mine.
“We’ve had a rough couple of weeks,” she said after a beat.
My mother nodded. Nothing more.
“Well,” Joanne said. “Then you two can sit right there as long as you like. Or we can peel apples. Both options are on the table.”
“Is peeling apples a trap?” Kate asked.
“Only if Cole offers to handle a knife.”
“That’s slander,” I said.
“That’s family history,” my mother shot back.