Chapter Fourteen
Marc
Sunday morning, I turn over the lakefront project a little after ten a.m. The owner shakes my hand, my boss signs the final report, and the men who have spent the week working beneath me scatter toward trucks, flights, and the next assignment.
I should feel the familiar pull to follow them. Instead, I drive back to Eight Pines.
Kelsey is kneeling beneath the kitchen sink in Cabin Three when I find her. A stack of towels lies on the floor, the cabinet doors are open, and water drips steadily into a plastic pan.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her head appears beside the drainpipe. “A supply line began leaking. I shut off the valve, but it has been dripping long enough to soak the cabinet. The plumber is on his way.”
“What do you need?”
She looks at me as if the question surprises her, then points toward the porch. “There is a box fan in the laundry room at my cabin. Bring it here, please.”
I retrieve the fan, position it where she directs, and plug it into the wall. The outlet is protected and the cord remains clear of the wet area. I check both without commenting because I am capable of being useful without turning every moment into a professional consultation.
Kelsey crawls out from beneath the sink and sits back on her heels. A streak of dust crosses one cheek. “Project finished?”
“Signed, tested, and officially someone else’s problem.”
Her smile is immediate. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
She stands and slides her arms around my waist. I hold her against me, breathing in the clean scent of her hair beneath the damp wood and industrial fan. This is what I came back for. Not an emergency or a job waiting to be solved. Her.
“You called the plumber before trying to rebuild the sink yourself,” I say.
“I know my limits.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Careful. I can still reach the wrench.”
I kiss the dust from her cheek. “I also came to say goodbye before I leave for Denver.”
Her arms tighten once before loosening. “When will you be back?”
“Monday night if the meeting ends on time. Tuesday morning if it doesn’t.”
“Cabin Seven will be waiting.”
“So will you?”
Kelsey meets my eyes. “Yes.”
One word shouldn’t have the power to rearrange a man’s chest. In this case, it does.
The plumber arrives before I can answer. I spend the next hour helping the last Fletchers load vehicles while Kelsey handles Cabin Three. Grandma Ruth is among the final group to leave. She sits in the passenger seat of Suzanne’s minivan beneath the same quilt she wore beside the fire.
When I carry her small suitcase to the van, she points one thin finger toward Kelsey, who is standing near the office with a clipboard.
“That young woman watches everything leave,” she tells me.
I look at Kelsey. Every time a vehicle passes beneath the Eight Pines sign, her gaze follows it.
“It’s her job,” I say.
Grandma Ruth makes an impatient sound. “I have been alive ninety-one years. Don’t explain women to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you’re coming back, make sure she sees you do it.”
Before I can ask what else she noticed, Suzanne closes the passenger door. Grandma Ruth waves through the glass as the van pulls away.
Kelsey and I stand together until the last family disappears up the road. The sudden silence feels larger than the crowd did. Six cabin doors stand open for cleaning, abandoned toys wait near the firepit, and the lake stretches beneath a cloudless blue sky.
“Successful reunion,” I say.
“No injuries, no property damage, and only one overloaded circuit. I am putting it in the victory column.”
We walk to Cabin Seven. My duffel is packed on the bed, but for the first time it is not the only thing I own in the room.
Kelsey brought over one of her travel mugs this morning.
Her hair clip lies beside the sink. A pair of her sandals waits near the door because she kicked them off here sometime yesterday and forgot to retrieve them.
I like every piece of her that has crossed the lawn.
“Your company checkout is today,” she says. “I’ll email you a new rental agreement beginning tomorrow. Monthly rate, thirty-day notice, utilities included.”
“Full price.”
“Yes, full price.”
“Even with the shower disability?”
“Especially with the shower disability. Water conservation is expensive.”
I laugh and lift my bag. Kelsey follows me to the truck, but when I put the duffel behind the seat, the fear she is trying to hide becomes visible.
I close the door and face her. “This isn’t me leaving.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m working on it.”
I take her face between my hands. I planned to wait. Five days is too soon by every sensible measure, and she has only begun to trust that my choices belong to me. But there is nothing sensible about driving away while she wonders whether I will return without telling her the truth.
“I love you, Kelsey.”
Her breath catches. She does not pull away, but she does not answer either.
“You don’t have to say it back,” I tell her. “You don’t owe me the same words on the same schedule. I want you to know what I am driving back to.”
“Marc ...”
“I have spent years packing before I learned the shape of a place. I know the shape of this one. I know the sound you make when a guest calls after ten, the way you check every porch light before bed, and the exact look you give me when I forget to ask before touching something that belongs to you. I don’t know everything yet.
I love what I know, and I want the rest.”
Her eyes fill. “That is a lot to leave me with for two days.”
“Then I’ll come back quickly.”
She rises onto her toes and kisses me. The kiss contains no answer I can hold her to, but it contains enough to get me to Denver and back.
“Drive safely,” she whispers.
“I will.”
“And text when you arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I climb into the truck and start the engine. Kelsey remains beside Cabin Seven as I pull away. In the mirror, she grows smaller beneath the pines, one hand lifted against the sunlight.
Grandma Ruth was right. Kelsey watches everything leave.
The drive to Denver takes me along roads I have traveled enough times to stop seeing. Today I notice every mile carrying me away from the lake. I notice the open country, the traffic thickening near the city, and the mountains remaining visible behind me whenever the road bends.
My apartment looks exactly as I left it.
The blinds are closed. Two unopened boxes sit against the living-room wall, still marked KITCHEN in black ink from a move three years ago.
I have slept here between assignments, paid rent here, and used this address on every form requiring proof that I live somewhere. I have never invited anyone to dinner.
I open the blinds and begin packing.
Clothes require one box. Books fill another. Most of what I own is equipment, work gear, and furniture selected because it could be delivered quickly. By the time Kelsey texts to ask whether I arrived safely, half the apartment is ready to load.
Made it. The place is even less impressive than I remembered
Does it have a bigger shower?
Yes
Then try not to become attached
I laugh alone in the empty room. The sound changes it more than opening the blinds did.
I call the property manager, confirm the early-termination fee, and arrange for a moving crew to collect the furniture I plan to donate. None of the tasks are difficult. I postponed them because this apartment allowed me to pretend I maintained a home without asking what I wanted one to feel like.
Before I return to packing, I take one of the coffee mugs from the cabinet and wrap it in my only dish towel. It is plain, heavy, and dark blue. Kelsey will probably tell me it does not match anything in her kitchen. I am taking it anyway. I intend to make certain she sees me return.