Chapter 40
February had cracked just enough to eat outside.
Beck sat across from Kirstin on the Lighthouse patio and ate pancakes and drank coffee and listened to her talk about the week.
The harbor was behind her. The air still had an edge to it but the sun was out and the wind had quit and for the first time since November the island felt like it was leaning toward spring.
"Morgan and Addison and I are driving to Atlanta this weekend," she said. "We need to see the apartment before we start moving anything."
"What's wrong with the apartment?"
"Nothing's wrong with it. It's a man's apartment."
"It's a nice apartment."
"It's a nice apartment with no curtains, no throw pillows, and I'm guessing one towel."
"I have towels."
"How many?"
He thought about it. "Three."
"Three towels."
"I don't need a lot of towels."
"You need more than three towels, Ethan."
He ate a piece of bacon. She was right. He probably needed more than three towels. He'd lived in that apartment for two years and he'd never thought about the towel situation because the towel situation had never involved another person.
"The apartment is the apartment," she said. "We stay there during the season, we come home in the off-season. I just need it to be livable."
Home. She said it like it was obvious. The island was home. The apartment was the place they stayed when he worked. The distinction was casual and complete and she'd already moved past it.
He took his wallet out. He pulled out a credit card and slid it across the table.
She picked it up and put it in her wallet.
"And I'm bringing my Range Rover back," she said.
"Keys are hanging inside the door."
She took a sip of her coffee. "What time does spring training check-in start?"
"March first. Pitchers and catchers report the week before. Position players report the first."
"So we have three weeks."
"Three weeks."
She set her coffee down and looked past him toward the water. A fishing boat was heading out past the jetty. The market wasn't open yet but the vendor tents were up, the canvas damp, the morning light catching the water between the pylons.
"I like this plan," she said. "Season in Atlanta. Off-season here. The apartment for work, the island for life."
"That's the plan."
"And when you retire?"
"We come home."
She turned back to him. "That's a long time from now."
"Three years on this contract. Whatever comes after."
"And then?"
He looked at her across the table. The woman who'd been afraid of his life sitting in a booth at the Lighthouse talking about his retirement like it was a line item on a calendar.
The credit card was in her wallet. The Range Rover was hers.
The apartment was getting curtains and throw pillows and a reasonable number of towels.
The island was home and Atlanta was work and the woman across the table had organized his entire future over pancakes.
"And then we come home," he said. "And I never leave."
She stole a piece of his bacon. She chewed it slowly, looking out at the harbor, the boats, the vendor tents, the island doing what it did on a Tuesday morning in February.
"You know if you make the All-Star team you're going to screw up my wedding, right?"