Chapter 22
Morgan's Jeep and Addison's Defender pulled into the circular drive at the same time. Kirstin heard them from the living room where she was buried in Civil Procedure, a highlighter in her teeth, note cards on the couch cushion beside her.
Two weeks since the kitchen. Two weeks of studying every morning, bartending every night, and falling asleep with flashcards on the pillow next to Beck.
She'd registered the day after the kitchen conversation, filled out the form at the table while the coffee was still warm, pressed submit before she could think about it.
The textbooks lived on the coffee table now.
They'd been there fourteen days and they weren't going anywhere.
They came through the front door carrying a tube.
"We brought you something," Morgan said.
"I'm studying."
"You've been studying for fourteen days. Take a break." Morgan cleared a space on the kitchen table, uncapped the tube, and unrolled a proof across the surface.
It was the sign. White background, clean lines, the same design language as the Riley/Banks sign on the corner of Harbor Road and Main.
Riley, Banks & Green
Below it, in smaller type: Representation · Event Management · Legal Services
Addison set a small box beside the proof. Business cards. Kirstin picked one up.
Kirstin Green, Esq.
Riley, Banks & Green
"I haven't even passed yet," Kirstin said.
"You'll pass," Morgan said.
"You don't know that."
"Kirstin." Morgan put both hands on the table and leaned forward. "You finished law school. You scored in the top ten percent of your class. You've been studying for two weeks and you already know more about Civil Procedure than anyone on this island. You're going to pass."
Kirstin held the business card. Her name. The firm name. Esq.
"How did you know I was top ten percent?"
"Beck told me."
"Beck doesn't know that."
"Your mother told Beck."
Kirstin closed her eyes. "Of course she did."
Addison sat on the arm of the couch. She picked up one of the note cards and read it and put it back.
"We're not rushing you," Addison said. "The sign doesn't go up until you're ready. The cards don't go out until you say. But we wanted you to see it. We wanted you to know we're not waiting to find out if this works. We already know."
Kirstin set the business card on the coffee table, propped against the spine of the Civil Procedure textbook, facing her.
"Okay," she said. "I need a break."
Morgan clapped once. "That's what I wanted to hear."
They opened wine. Kirstin's kitchen, the one Nate had built, the countertops she'd picked, the island she'd drawn on a napkin. Three women and a bottle of white and the afternoon stretching out in front of them with nowhere to be.
Morgan sat on the counter. Addison took the stool at the island. Kirstin leaned against the fridge with her glass and for the first time in two weeks she wasn't thinking about the bar exam.
"So," Morgan said. "The t-shirt."
"What t-shirt?"
"The Braves t-shirt. The one you were wearing in Beck's kitchen at seven in the morning when Addison and I walked in uninvited."
Addison covered her mouth with her wine glass.
"We're not talking about the t-shirt," Kirstin said.
"We're absolutely talking about the t-shirt." Morgan pointed at her. "That shirt was mid-thigh, your hair was down, and you were barefoot making coffee like you lived there. Which, I think, you do."
"I don't live there."
"You have a toothbrush there."
"How do you know I have a toothbrush there?"
"Because I looked."
"You looked in his bathroom?"
"Kirstin, I put candles in every room of that rental. I've been in every cabinet. You have a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a bottle of that shampoo you like, and three pairs of shoes by the back door."
Addison was laughing into her wine.
"Addison," Kirstin said. "Help."
"I moved into Luke's house before I admitted I'd moved into Luke's house," Addison said. "I'm not helping. I'm commiserating."
"I haven't moved in."
"Honey," Morgan said. "You've moved in."
Kirstin drank her wine. She didn't argue because she couldn't argue because Morgan was right.
She'd been staying at the rental more nights than not.
Hudson slept at the foot of the bed. Her coffee was in his cabinet.
His shirts were in her rotation. The line between her house and his had blurred weeks ago and neither of them had drawn attention to it because drawing attention to it would mean naming it and naming it would mean deciding what it was.
"It's good, though?" Addison said. Quieter. Not teasing.
"Yeah," Kirstin said. "It's good."
"He's good to you?"
"He's good to me."
Morgan raised her glass. "To the t-shirt."
"I'm not toasting the t-shirt."
"To the t-shirt," Addison said, raising hers.
Kirstin raised her glass. "To the t-shirt. And if either of you mentions it in front of Beck, I will burn the sign."
They drank. Morgan poured again. The afternoon light came through the kitchen window and hit the backsplash and the gray-blue tile caught it and held it and the kitchen was warm and bright and full of three women who were building something together and knew it.
Morgan told a story about Brady trying to assemble a bookshelf and reading the instructions in Swedish for twenty minutes before she told him they were printed on both sides.
Addison told a story about Luke's first attempt at grocery shopping on the island, where he'd come home with eight cans of soup, a bag of limes, and nothing else.
Kirstin told them about the bubble bath boats in Beck's parents' bathroom and Deanna's face when she pulled the bin out of the closet and Morgan laughed so hard she had to set her wine down.
"His mom sounds incredible," Morgan said.
"She's him. She's exactly him. You walk into that house and you understand every single thing about Ethan Beck in thirty seconds."
"I need to meet her," Morgan said.
"You will. She's already asked about you."
"About me?"
"Beck told her about the painting. She wants to commission one."
Morgan went quiet for a second. The operational Morgan, the candle-placing, sign-designing, room-running Morgan, went still. Something crossed her face that was closer to the woman who'd hidden paintings in a closet for seventeen years than the woman who'd auctioned them at the Shrimp Festival.
"Tell her I'd love to," Morgan said.
Addison reached across the island and squeezed Morgan's hand. Morgan squeezed back. The moment passed.
"Okay," Kirstin said. "What's the plan for the firm? Like, realistically. I haven't passed. I have fifty-three days until the exam. What do we do between now and then?"
Addison straightened on the stool. This was her gear.
"Morgan and I continue managing the facility's business operations and the event calendar.
That doesn't change. When you pass, we file the paperwork to restructure the firm, add your name, and register the legal services arm with the state bar. I've already started the framework."
"Of course you have."
"I have a spreadsheet."
"Of course you do."
"The representation side doesn't activate until you're licensed. Until then, Beck's agreement with us is consulting. Once you pass, we formalize."
Morgan jumped in. "And I've already talked to two other athletes on the mainland who heard about Beck's situation and want to know more. Nothing formal. Just conversations. But the interest is there."
Kirstin looked at the business card on the coffee table. Her name. The firm name. Two women sitting in her kitchen who'd built Riley/Banks from a white clapboard building on a corner and were now asking her to build the next version with them.
"I need to pass first," she said.
"You'll pass," they said. Together. Same words. Same tone.
Kirstin laughed. "You two are terrifying."
Addison's phone buzzed on the counter. She picked it up. Read the text. Her face didn't change but her posture did, the shift subtle enough that only someone who'd been watching would catch it.
Morgan caught it.
"What?" Morgan said.
"Luke." Addison set her phone down. "Jerry Smith called him from the airport an hour ago. He's on the island. Jerry wants to have dinner tonight. All of us. Brunswick."
The kitchen went quiet. The wine glasses were still. The afternoon light was still hitting the backsplash but the warmth in the room had cooled by a degree.
"Jerry Smith," Kirstin said. "Red Sox Jerry Smith."
"Yes."
"He just showed up?"
"He just showed up."
Morgan's eyes moved to Addison. "Did Luke know he was coming?"
"He says no."
"Do you believe him?"
Addison picked up her phone again. Read the text again. Set it down.
"I believe Luke didn't invite him," Addison said. "But Jerry Smith doesn't get on a plane without a reason, and he doesn't call Luke Banks first unless the reason involves a baseball player."
She turned to Kirstin. The teasing Addison, the wine Addison, the woman who'd been commiserating about toothbrushes and t-shirts ten minutes ago, was gone. This was Addison Banks. The woman who'd watched the Red Sox try to take her husband back and hadn't blinked.
"Whatever happens tonight," Addison said, "Morgan and I are in that room. And we're in that room for you."
Morgan picked up her wine and finished it. She set the glass on the counter.
"What time?" Morgan said.
"Seven."
Morgan checked her phone. "That gives me two hours." She slid off the counter. "Kirstin, wear black. You're devastating in black. Addison, text Brady. I need to change."
She was out the door before Kirstin could respond.
Addison stood from the stool. She squeezed Kirstin's shoulder on her way past.
"It might be nothing," Addison said.
"It's not nothing."
"No," Addison said. She stopped at the door. "It's not."
The kitchen was empty. The sign proof was on the table. The business cards were beside it. The wine glasses were on the counter. The afternoon was over.
Kirstin picked up her phone.
Luke just called. Jerry Smith is here. Dinner tonight. Brunswick. 7.
Beck's response was immediate.
I know. Luke just texted me. You okay?
She typed and deleted three responses. She sent the fourth.
Wear something nice. I'll be ready at 6.
She set her phone down. She went to the bedroom. She opened the closet.
The black dress was in the back of the closet. She pulled it out and held it against her chest and stood in front of the mirror.
Sixty-three days until the bar exam. A business card with her name on it. A sign proof with three names. And a dinner in Brunswick with a man who ran the Boston Red Sox and had just gotten on a plane for reasons nobody had asked him to explain.
She hung the dress on the bathroom door. She went back to the living room. She picked up the Civil Procedure textbook.
She didn't open it.