Chapter 23
Beck drove. Kirstin sat in the passenger seat of the Range Rover and watched the causeway pass beneath them, the marsh dark on both sides, the mainland lights ahead.
She'd settled on the black dress and the earrings April had given her for her birthday two years ago and she'd done her hair down because Beck liked it down.
Neither of them had said much since they left.
Two hours ago they'd been in her kitchen with Morgan and Addison and wine and business cards and the afternoon had been good, easy, the kind of afternoon that reminded her she had friends who showed up for her. Then Luke's text had landed and the afternoon was over.
"You okay?" Beck said.
"I'm fine."
"You've been quiet since Luke's text."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"Civil Procedure."
He glanced at her. She kept her eyes on the road.
The restaurant was on the waterfront in Brunswick.
White tablecloths. Candles on every table.
A hostess who said "right this way" and led them past a bar where two men in suits were watching a college football game on the mounted TV.
The dining room opened up at the back, windows facing the harbor, the boats dark shapes against the water.
Luke and Addison were already there. Luke stood when they came in.
Cap off, blazer on, the rare version of Luke Banks that cleaned up and still moved like the field was under his feet.
Addison was beside him in a navy dress, composed, but Kirstin caught something in her posture that hadn't been there an hour ago at the kitchen island.
Tension. Addison was holding something and hadn't decided what to do with it yet.
Brady and Morgan were across the table. Brady in a button-down he clearly hadn't picked out. Morgan in something that made Brady's eyes follow her when she reached for her water glass.
The table was set for seven. The empty chair at the head was waiting.
They sat. Beck pulled Kirstin's chair out.
She sat and put her napkin in her lap and laced her fingers together under the table.
She could read every room she'd ever walked into.
She could read Jon's bar, the Pit Stop, a festival crowd, a table of tourists.
She could not read this room because this room was about her and she was inside it and the bartender's instinct didn't work when the bartender was the subject.
Beck's hand was on hers under the tablecloth. He didn't squeeze. He just rested his palm against her knuckles and left it there.
Jerry arrived ten minutes late. He came through the dining room and the room adjusted around him.
Mid-forties, sandy hair, a navy blazer over a white shirt with no tie, because Jerry wore the sport coat every day regardless of weather.
The build of a former athlete who still moved like one.
He'd taken over as GM in his early thirties and built the Red Sox franchise around a twenty-year-old shortstop from Dahlonega, and twenty years later the friendship was still the part that mattered more than the titles.
Luke stood. The hug was real. Fifteen years in it.
"You look good, son," Jerry said.
"So do you. How's the team?"
"Don't ask." Jerry turned to Brady and the handshake between them held a second longer than casual. Two men who'd had a million-dollar conversation and come out the other side still respecting each other. "You doing okay down here?"
"Better than okay," Brady said.
"I know you are. That's why it still pisses me off."
Jerry kissed Morgan's cheek. When he reached Addison, his face opened up. "There she is. The girl from the Bronx who stole my shortstop."
"Good to see you, Jerry," Addison said. She meant it. Jerry Smith was family, even when family showed up uninvited with something in his pocket.
Then he reached Beck.
"Ethan." The handshake was firm. The eyes were direct. "You look healthy."
"I feel healthy."
"Good. We'll talk about that."
He reached Kirstin last. She was standing beside her chair. She read him the same as she read everyone. Three seconds. He was smart. He was warm. And he was here for something that had nothing to do with dinner.
"You must be Kirstin," Jerry said. "It's nice to meet you."
"You too," she said. She shook his hand. Firm. She didn't smile.
They ordered. Jerry was easy, generous, asking the right questions and remembering the answers.
He asked Morgan about the event business and listened like he meant it.
He asked Addison about the facility's operations and took a mental note when she mentioned the youth program.
He asked Brady about the pitching development pipeline and the conversation between them turned technical and specific and Kirstin watched Brady come alive, the quiet man suddenly fluent because someone was speaking his language.
The wine came. The appetizers. The entrees.
The evening moved at the pace Jerry set, comfortable, social, the baseball talk circling but never quite landing.
Kirstin ate and drank and smiled when she was supposed to and laughed when Morgan said something funny and she held Beck's hand under the table and her grip was too tight and she knew it was too tight and she couldn't loosen it.
Beck ran his thumb across her knuckles. Once. Slow.
Jerry waited until the entrees were cleared. The plates went. The wine was refreshed. The candles had burned down to their midpoints and the harbor through the windows was black and still.
"Ethan," Jerry said. He set his napkin on the table. "I'm going to be straight with you. I've seen the reports from the workout. I've talked to four of the eight scouts who were there. I've seen the velocity numbers and the exit velo and the route grades."
The table went quiet. Not the quiet of friends at dinner. The quiet of a room that knows the next sentence matters.
"You're back in the show, kid. It's just a matter of where." Jerry leaned back in his chair. "And you can ask both of these men." He nodded at Luke and Brady. "Boston will take care of you."
Kirstin's hand tightened on Beck's. Her fingers pressed into his knuckles and she couldn't stop it. He pressed back. Steady.
"I appreciate that, Jerry," Beck said. "I do."
"I'm not asking for an answer tonight. I'm telling you where we stand. The front office is interested. I'm interested. When you're ready to have the conversation, call me."
Jerry reached into his jacket and set a card on the table beside Beck's water glass. White card, red trim, the Red Sox logo in the corner.
"Have you ever been to Boston, Kirstin?" Jerry said.
She hadn't expected him to turn to her. The table was watching.
"No," she said. "I haven't."
"You're going to love it." Jerry leaned forward. Warm. Genuine. "The city, the history, Fenway on a summer night. There's nothing like it. And the organization takes care of families. We'll get you set up, find you a place in Back Bay or the North End, the whole?—"
"Whatever happens," Beck said, "Kirstin's part of that decision."
The table adjusted. Jerry's expression held but his eyes recalibrated. He was a smart man. He'd been reading rooms his entire career. He heard what Beck said and he heard what Beck meant and they were not exactly the same thing.
"Of course," Jerry said. "Of course she is."
The conversation moved on. Jerry asked Luke about the facility expansion plans. Addison answered instead of Luke, precise, detailed, and Jerry nodded along because Addison Banks answering a business question was not something you interrupted.
Kirstin leaned into Beck. Her mouth close to his ear. The table couldn't hear.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He squeezed her hand. Once.
"Now," Jerry said. He pushed his chair back. "I'm going to use the restroom and when I come back we're going to talk about something other than baseball because I've taken up enough of everyone's evening with shop talk."
He stood. He buttoned his blazer. He walked toward the back of the restaurant.
The table was silent for three seconds. The candles flickered. The harbor was black through the windows.
Addison slammed her glass on the table. The napkin followed it.
"Lucas William Banks." Her voice was low and level and it cut through the dining room. "You better not have had a goddamn thing to do with this."
Luke's hand froze on his wine glass. Brady went still. Morgan set her fork down.
Addison turned to Morgan and pointed at Brady. "I'll let you handle him."
"Damn, woman," Luke said. "He called me from the airport. He said he wanted to see everyone. I didn't know he was coming here to pitch."
Addison studied him. The table watched her do it. Her eyes moved across his face with the precision she brought to spreadsheets and vendor contracts and every other thing that required absolute accuracy. Reading. Calculating. Deciding whether the man she'd married was telling her the truth.
She nodded. Once. Acceptance. No apology.
"Brady Johnson," Morgan said. Quiet. Just the name.
"Nope."
Morgan picked up her fork. That was that.
Luke looked between the two women. "Why are you two so pissed off? I thought Jerry was family."
Beck laughed. It came out of him before he could stop it, genuine, watching something he'd only suspected get confirmed in real time. He pointed at Addison and Morgan.
"That," he said. "What you just saw. Is exactly why I hired them."
The table shifted. Brady set down his drink.
"Hired them?" Brady said.
Beck glanced at Kirstin. She gave him nothing. He was on his own.
"I let Trevor go last week." He paused. "Hired Riley/Banks as?—"
"Excuse me," Morgan said. "Riley, Banks, and Green."
"Excuse me. Riley, Banks, and Green."
Morgan flung her hand at him. "You can continue now."
"Why I hired them to represent me," Beck said.
Luke leaned back in his chair. He looked at Beck. Then at Addison. Then at Morgan.
"You hired those two," Luke said. "To represent you?"
Addison gasped. Not small. Audible. The gasp of a woman whose husband had just said those two about her in a public restaurant.
Morgan didn't gasp. Morgan stared a hole through Luke Banks's face and let the silence do the work.
"Yeah," Beck said.
"Why?"
Addison gasped again. Louder.
Luke heard it. He knew he'd stepped in it. His jaw worked once, the only tell he had, but it was too late. The question was in the room.
Beck turned to Kirstin. She was sitting beside him, her hand still in his under the table, her face still, her eyes bright.
"Because they'll put her first," he said.
Nobody spoke. The words settled over the table and every person sitting there understood what they meant. Not a business decision. A love decision.
"Why are you so surprised, Luke?" Addison said. Her voice had shifted. Not angry anymore. Something harder.
Luke turned to his wife. "You could've said something."
"It isn't official yet. Kirstin is taking the bar soon. Then it will be." She turned back to Luke and her eyes never left his. "Beck, do you have a spare bedroom at the rental?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Luke will be needing a place to stay for a night or two. Unless he plans to die, he will not cross the threshold of my front door right now."
Beck opened his mouth. Luke held up a hand.
"I don't need the room, Beck."
"Oh, he needs the room, Beck."
Luke turned to Addison. He leaned toward her. The table was watching and he didn't care.
"She's still pissed off I doubled home two runs and put her precious Yankees out of the postseason."
Addison's mouth opened. "Oh my God, you didn't go there."
"I did." Luke's voice dropped. The charm came out, the same weapon that had been disarming people since he was twenty years old. "And then I smiled at you and you didn't care anymore. And you still don't."
Addison stared at him. The boardroom Addison. The angry Addison. The Addison who had just threatened to lock him out of his own house. She stared at him and the whole table held its breath.
Her face broke. Slow. Starting at the mouth.
She kissed him on the cheek. He smiled.
"See, Beck." Luke leaned back. "I don't need the room."
Morgan picked up her wine. She swirled it once. Took a sip. Set it down.
"Oh, that's nothing," she said. "You guys should've been in Dahlonega."
Every head at the table turned.
"What the hell happened in Dahlonega?" Beck said.
Morgan sipped her wine again. She didn't answer. Brady closed his eyes.
Jerry came back from the restroom. The table was laughing. Kirstin was leaning into Beck. Luke had his arm around Addison. Brady was shaking his head while Morgan smiled into her glass.
"Did I miss something?" Jerry said.
"Nothing," Luke said. "Sit down, Jerry. Tell us about the offseason."
Jerry sat. The evening continued. The baseball talk stayed away. Jerry told stories about spring training and the time a rookie showed up to camp with a pet iguana and the clubhouse manager quit on the spot. The table laughed. The wine came again. The candles burned lower.
The drive home was quiet.
Beck took the causeway back to the island. The marsh was dark on both sides. The mainland lights faded behind them. Kirstin had her shoes off and her feet on the dashboard and her head against the window.
Jerry's card was in Beck's jacket pocket. She'd seen him put it there. White card, red trim. Boston.
A thousand miles from Ellery Cove. She knew because she'd looked it up in the bathroom during dessert, standing at the sink with her phone, typing the distance while Morgan guarded the door. Nobody had asked Morgan to do that.
"You're quiet again," Beck said.
"I'm thinking again."
"Civil Procedure?"
"No."
He drove. The oaks passed in the headlights. The island was dark and warm and the road curved through the trees.
"Beck."
"Yeah."
"Thank you for what you said. At the table. About me being part of the decision."
"You are part of the decision."
"I know." She turned to him. His face in the dashboard light, the jaw, the curls, the dark eyes steady on the road. "But you didn't have to say it in front of Jerry Smith."
"Yeah, I did."
She put her hand on his leg. He put his hand on top of hers. They drove home in silence, and the silence was full of everything they weren't saying yet because saying it would make it real and neither of them was ready for real.
February was sixty days away. Spring training was sixty-one. And the question that had been underneath everything since eight teams called Riley/Banks on a Tuesday morning was no longer underneath anything.
It was sitting on the table between them, right next to a white card with red trim.