Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
One year later…
On the horizon, Seattle shrank to the size of toy buildings. Ethan hooked his thumb into the belt loop of Meg’s white jeans. Taking in the green glint of Puget Sound, Meg melted into him, grateful for the calm waters today in the channel between Seattle and Bainbridge. When she traveled via the solid weight of a ferryboat, she never felt so much as a ripple, but with a smaller boat like this one, any wave sent up by a passing speedboat could send their vessel rocking. The catamaran—a yacht posing as a sailboat—skimmed past the rocky outcroppings and feathery evergreens that marked the passageway into the Olympic Peninsula.
“This sure beats the ferry.” Ethan smiled. “No waiting in the car line, no ticket fees…”
“But no clam chowder,” Meg put in.
“Ah. That’s true. But the champagne is free and flowing.” Lifting the bottle from the sidebar, he tipped more bubbly into her flute.
“Michael? Annie?” He proffered the bottle.
“None for me,” Annie said, reminding him by patting the small bump of her belly. “But I’ll take some more apple seltzer.” She swigged a mouthful. “This stuff is so good. Sweetheart? Let’s get rid of all the water and replace it with apple seltzer.”
“Anything for you, my love,” the real Michael Edmonds agreed. He planted a peck on her lips before spinning back to yank on the jib line.
Meg gave Ethan a sly grin and snuggled closer, their backs turned away from the breeze. This was the life: sailing across the Sound, the sun shining on her tan shoulders. The champagne didn’t hurt, either.
“Check it out!” Ethan pointed at the silent ferry skimming the Sound. “There goes one of Meg Bloomberg’s floating masterpieces.”
She gazed out at the majestic queen of the waters, flushing with the rush of accomplishment. “When you’re on the ferry,” he said, his lips vibrating against her neck, “it’s hard to see the whole thing. From here, you get such a sense of the scale and perspective. It’s marvelous, Meg.” The compliment was for her ears only, and her skin warmed with his attentions.
What an unexpected pleasure it was to work with someone she loved on something she loved. Ethan’s environmental company consulted with Washington State Ferries on their Go Green project to convert Seattle’s iconic vessels to hybrid electric boats. During the continuing project, Meg contributed a series of designs and headed the teams that painted the murals onto the ferries: vibrant, active images that highlighted the region’s natural resources.
The wake from the ferry crossed beneath their boat, thrusting Ethan closer. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she tilted her face to his lips.
“Get a room!” Annie shook her head in mock disgust. She tipped back the last of her seltzer. “Hey! I just realized. Guess what today is.”
Meg resisted rolling her eyes. “Let me guess. Isaac Newton’s birthday? No? The anniversary of the day molecules were invented.”
“Nice try, but Isaac Newton was born in January. And I’m not even going to acknowledge that other comment. No, I’m talking about one year ago today: that’s when we left on our big trip to Bainbridge.”
A wistful nostalgia built in Meg’s throat. Annie slung her arm around her and squinted into the distance. “Doesn’t Seattle look tiny from here? Just look at all those miniature trees. It’s so beautiful, our Emerald City,” she mused.
Michael called, “Coming about,” and they all ducked out of the way as the boom swung across. Ahead, Meg spotted Annie and Michael’s property in the secluded bay.
Although the four friends met up regularly at Ethan’s place in Winslow, she loved visiting Annie and Michael’s magnificent Bainbridge home on the rustic side of the island. At Thanksgiving when the rain pounded the Sound, or in May when the pink dogwoods reflected in the waves, Meg marveled at the changing view. First came the caw of the seagulls that swooped and whirled above the boat. The sound mingled with the scent of seaweed and cool air. On land, the salt water washed up onto a dark sand and gray stone beach, but beyond that was the real showstopper. The Edmondses’ home, an upscale cottage, was built to blend in with the natural setting. The architect had balanced a perfect mix of luxury and quaintness. It sat upon a wide, green lawn bordered with old-growth pines that blended with the rocky hillside behind them. Beside the house, the couple had installed a state-of-the-art pickleball court.
Meg still couldn’t get over Annie’s new, opulent lifestyle. The Edmonds twins, it happened, were not just mansion rich or fancy-cars rich. They were let’s-buy-a-private-island-resort rich. They had built their athletic supplies startup into the mega-successful 2Win Industries. Tournament-quality pickleball equipment turned out to be big business. It wasn’t long before Meg figured out that the anonymous sponsors of Picklesmash—who allotted the funds for the tournament prize and donated generously to youth sports charities—were those same 2Win-twins. Annie, who was used to spending waking moments snagging bites of power bars in between treating patients, now had time to run her pediatric clinic free of charge and even enjoyed the luxury of regular sit-down meals.
Michael steered expertly into the cove and parked the catamaran in its slip without jostling the dock even once. Knowing that his wife bristled at bridges and gangplanks, Michael had built a slip that made disembarking a cinch. As Annie stepped off, he nodded his chin to the side of the catamaran, where the boat boasted a new name: Anniething 4U .
“Perfect,” Meg agreed.
From the dock, Ethan pointed to the new addition to the landscape. “Tell me that’s not your helicopter.”
“It’s not our helicopter.” Michael looped the ropes through the grommets on the dock and cinched them tightly. “Okay. Yes. It is. Annie’s idea. I love to fly, and she loves to help people.”
“It’s not what you think.” Annie waved her hands to wipe away any misconception. “We bought it for emergency pediatric flights. We can get kids in the remote areas to the mainland hospitals faster than the ferries. Michael pilots, and I take care of the patients on the way. We have the money, and I figured…” Annie shrugged, embarrassed. Having oodles of spare cash was new to her; she worked tirelessly to find ways to donate her time and funds.
Meg tried to imagine herself in Annie’s place—spectacularly wealthy and starting a family. Despite the glamourous lifestyle, Meg did not feel a pinch of envy. She and Ethan split their time between her downtown Seattle condo and the island; she could walk right onto the ferry and sail to the waterfront house Ethan rented outside of Winslow. The owner of Ethan’s place was looking to sell, and with their contracts with the Washington Ferries nearing completion, they talked about putting in an offer. Just the vision of sharing that cozy home with him, windows open to let in the salt air, gave her a thrill. Her life was just right; one day at a time, waiting for the next one to unfold. Although, she had to admit, it didn’t hurt to have wealthy friends who owned a waterfront pickleball resort.
A chorus of barking dogs bounded down the lawn. They jumped and raced in circles to celebrate the group’s arrival.
“Down, Relish,” Annie cried to the golden retriever who was making a meal out of Ethan’s belt buckle. The other two dogs, Pickles the poodle and Gherkin the Chihuahua, barked and bounced. The dogs meandered between the visitors’ legs in crafty attempts to knock the guests off their feet.
The light in the sky pulled off a convincing impression of three o’clock in the afternoon, although it was nearing seven by the time they sat down to dinner. In between the salad and the grilled salmon, there was laughter as phones were pulled from pockets to compare videos of baby Zoe waving hello while Rooster cheered. During the crème br?lée, the conversation hopscotched to the city council’s decision to fund the remodel of a defunct shopping center and turn it into a PickleMall. Once Ethan had given the good news to the Lakeview crew, Jeannie had run with it. Now a birder as well as a baller, Jeannie convinced the league to donate their prize money to build a boardwalk over the wetlands.
“Speaking of pickleball,” Annie mentioned as she piled the glasses onto a tray, “who’s up for an evening pickleball match? Or are you afraid to get your asses whupped by a pregnant lady?”
“You’re on.” Meg was always up for pickleball. “Let me help you guys clean up.”
“Nope. We got it.” Michael headed to the sliding door with the stacked plates. “You two go take a walk. Unless you’d rather warm up on the courts.” He gazed at his wife appreciatively. “You do not want to underestimate the athletic prowess of a woman with pregnancy hormones surging through her,” Michael commented, and disappeared to clean the barbecue. Annie opened her laptop to consult with one of her patients, leaving Meg and Ethan to stroll the beachfront.
Fingers interlaced with his, she breathed in the fresh sea air and relaxed. Threads of clouds streaked the sky. They glowed with pastel pink and purple shading at their bases, like they were dabbed in watercolor paints. Puget Sound looked flat and still, making a mirror of its surface.
A ferry appeared in the channel. Wordlessly, they witnessed its slow, smooth passing. When at length the ripples that marked its existence vanished, Ethan turned to her and slid his fingers along her waist. Her skin tingled with the deliciousness of the sensation as he enfolded her in his arms. Even after a year of his companionship, each time they touched she felt both a fresh sense of excitement and the comforting sensation of being home.
“We make a great team.” He spoke into her wind-tangled curls. “Don’t we.” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Mm-hmm.” She wanted to stay like this till morning. Her head on his chest. His breath in her hair.
“You’re always imagining, dreaming, creating things. I could never begin to do anything like that, but you…”
“That’s ’cause you’re more logical. And spatial. Like how you have such a good sense of direction. You know me. I can’t find anything. Without my phone I am lost. I can’t drive anywhere; I can’t—”
“Meg,” he interrupted her. “Meg Bloomberg…” He said her name with reverence, like she was the only human in the world.
Meg yelped. Something touched her leg. Relish, the golden retriever, was poking his snout at Meg’s calf. The retriever toyed with a pickleball in his mouth. He flung his paws up on Meg’s thighs. “Get offa me, Relish. Down, boy.”
“Hey. Whatcha got there?” Ethan asked, tapping at the slobber-covered, neon green pickleball. The frisky pup refused to relinquish his prize. “Come on,” Ethan said, tugging at the slimy pickleball.
“Drop it,” Meg commanded, and Relish plopped the ball at her feet. Without hesitation, she scooped it off the ground and tossed it. “Fetch, Relish!”
Relish scampered away but skidded to a halt when the ball bounced on the grass, busted in two, and flew apart like a mermaid’s coconut bra gone renegade.
“Shit.” Ethan ran toward the broken shreds of plastic. “Shit.”
“They own the company, hon. I’m sure they’re not gonna freak out about one cracked— Hey. What’s this?”
Meg squatted on the grass and sorted through the blades. She picked up a delicate ring. Tiny diamonds surrounded a light blue aquamarine gemstone. To match her eyes.
In a sensation that could only be described as the Golden Pickledrop, her heart skimmed along the top of the tape, spun full circle, and dipped toward her toes.
“Is this?” she asked. “Is this…?”
“Hold on.” Flustered, Ethan loped to where Meg knelt on the lawn holding the ring. “Here. This is not— Hold on. Switch with me.” He reached out a hand and lifted her to her feet. Bending onto the grass, Ethan took her spot and steadied himself on one knee.
The dog, taking a cue, lay down expecting a belly rub.
“Can I…?” Ethan gestured for the ring. “I had this whole thing set up. I was going to make a speech and…but now—”
“I would like to hear a speech.”
“Oh.” Ethan shifted his weight. “Okay.”
He took a steadying breath. “Meg Bloomberg.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing sexily. His eyes were damp with sincerity, and, seeing it, Meg felt hers prick with tears, too. The pause hung expectantly between them and they both laughed, overfull with emotion.
“Meg Bloomberg,” he tried again. “I want to wake up every morning and see the light reflected in your eyes. And in the evenings, I want to sit on the couch with you and watch mindless TV and argue over the volume. And just…be. You know. Together. For good. Because I never thought I would meet a person who would make me feel…so much…” His eyes misted, and he lifted a finger in the air. “One sec.”
Meg waited, feeling a tightness in her own throat that mirrored his emotions.
“Okay. I got this.” He started again. “Do you remember that kiss? That kiss in the hammock?”
Nodding, she pictured it. The yearning. The feeling of completion.
“We had been talking about my dad, and I remember thinking: I am going to be the opposite of that guy. A one-person person. And then…that kiss. That kiss sealed you into my soul and my mind. And I knew then like I know now that I want to be with only you.”
Beaming, she felt the warmth spread through her chest.
“I want to make love to you in our own home with the sound of the waves out our window. Or in a mountain hammock where we can try out the Cheeky Chipmunk. Without my mom coming by, preferably.”
She laughed.
His features shifted. Concentration marked his brow like he was solving a difficult math problem while reading nostalgic poetry. He said, “I make a mean clam chowder, Meg, and if you don’t like it, we can go to Pike Place and get the one they serve in the sourdough bowl, because actually, that one is a little better than mine.
“But mostly,” he exhaled, “I just want to spend my life with you. For good. Because you bring out my best self. And I promise to make you smile when I can, and I promise to try to be patient and supportive when things get hard, too, and…I don’t know what else I was gonna say.” He clasped both of her hands. “I love you, Meg. Will you marry me?”
A droplet spilled over her lower lid. “That was a pretty good speech,” she whispered, smiling through the tears.
“So…?”
“Yes,” she mouthed, and delight flooded her system as he slid the ring onto her finger. “Yes,” she said, repeating the word between the gentle kisses Ethan pressed on her lips until no more words were capable of escaping.
“Yes?” Annie asked.
They startled apart. Ethan and Meg turned to find their hostess eavesdropping from several feet away. “Michael,” she called toward the house. “It’s a yes!”
“For god’s sake, Annie.” Ethan regarded her incredulously. “Can we have a minute?”
“Right. Sorry,” she said. “But can I just”—Annie mock tiptoed toward them—“I figure since I already interrupted. Can I see the ring?”
Laughing, Meg held out her hand, and Annie grasped it greedily. She gasped. “So, so beautiful.”
“So…that whole consulting-with-a-patient thing was a ruse?” Meg teased.
“It’s nine at night. What did you think?”
“And Michael cleaning the barbecue?”
“Clean that thing? Never. He thinks the buildup adds flavor.”
Ethan said, “Annie…”
“Oh!” she remembered herself. “I’ll just”—she pointed a thumb toward the house—“check to see if Michael needs any help…not cleaning the grill.”
Relish slobbered on the busted pickleball and snorted with exertion, pausing for only a moment to see who might be impressed with the hole he was digging in the dirt.
“Relish!” Annie scolded. “Come.” She patted her thigh for the dog, who trailed after her, chewing happily on the busted ball.
Then it was just the two of them once again. In the golden hour before sunset, their faces glowed in the gilded light. He reached to brush the blonde wisps off her cheek and slipped his fingers beneath the hair at the nape of her neck, sending a shimmery shock wave through her veins.
“Mmm.” She whispered, “We should go inside.” She yanked him along and led him toward the house. “Let’s celebrate.”
“You know Annie’s not going to let us off the pickleball hook.”
Meg huffed. “Fine. One game.” She walked her fingers up his chest. “And then—”
He caught her fingers in his. Annie had appeared beside them, paddle in hand. “I turned on the court lights.”
“One game,” Ethan promised.
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Meg’s smile lingered even while she warmed up, dinking diagonally with Ethan and returning Annie’s low, arcing hits. Michael appeared, bringing out his company’s latest product: a quieter ball made of durable plastic. As they tested and admired it, he explained the ball was 2Win’s solution to two of the sport’s trickiest pickles: how to cut down on noise and breakage. And bonus: the ball glowed in the dark.
“Enough with the friendly chatter,” Annie said, fire in her eyes. “I serve first.”
As the evening darkened, the court lights brightened, illuminating the glowing sphere as it soared through the air. Back and forth, they batted the ball: serving, lobbing, spinning, dinking. They passed the winning score of 11–8, but still, the dim tick-tock of the ball continued.
“12–14,” Annie called. She paused before serving. Her cheery voice warned, “You better let us have this point, or we’re never going to get to bed tonight.”
“If you have to forfeit, you can forfeit,” Meg goaded.
There would be no ceasefire and they all knew it. The minutes ticked on, and the volleys continued. “16–17,” Annie called, harnessing the excitement that hovered in the air. Together, the players focused, open to the opportunity before them.
Annie served. The ball whirred, whizzed through the cooling air, skimmed past Meg’s paddle, and struck the court beyond Ethan’s reach. All four players whooped.
“Game over!” Meg leapt to Ethan for a high five. Their voices overlapped as a dance of champions ensued on all quarters of the court. “17 to 17!” and “Finally,” and “We did it!” they all chimed, gathering at the net to tap paddles.
In the wash of the moonlight, they reviewed the highlights and ribbed one another about shot choices. Michael jibed, “I was worried you would never catch us. We had you at 5–love for the longest time.”
“You mean 5–0, honey.” Annie explained, “Not 5–love. That’s only in tennis that love means nothing.”
“That’s right,” Ethan added, holding Meg’s gaze. “In pickleball, love is everything.”
Clutching at her chest, Annie cooed, “Awww,” and Michael clapped Ethan on the shoulder. “Buddy, you are in deep.”
They joked and reminisced until the conversation circled back to Meg and Ethan and well-wishes for their bright future. Their laughter floated above the courts and drifted on the wind out to sea. Michael yawned and apologized, and Annie went to hit the lights. They flickered out like fireflies. Cheerfully wiped out from the events of the day, Annie and Michael retired to the house.
“That was fun,” Meg said, smiling up at Ethan. “I love playing until we’re even instead of trying to win. Takes all the pressure off. You know, that might have been our longest match yet.”
Ethan’s lovely fingernails bunched a handful of her hair against her scalp. “Kiss me.”
“Seventeen…” she said, teasing him with a saucy smooch, “to seventeen.”
“Stop talking,” he whispered.
Meg wasn’t certain which made her shiver more—the cool of the salt breeze or the freckled thumb brushing her hip bone. She sank into the sensation, swaddled in a cocoon of contentedness.
Yes, she reasoned, there was great satisfaction in ending when everything was neatly tied up.