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“I wouldn’t even know where to begin thinking of a fee for something like that.”
“If I were in LA, I’d pay at least a thousand dollars a month for one of those shared office spaces,” I tell her. “So, how about that?”
“That seems a bit steep.” She sounds unsure, making me wish I’d never brought it up.
“How about if you throw in unlimited coffee?” I ask. “I drink a lot of coffee.”
She nods her head slowly while saying, “I guess that would be okay.”
Trying to release the tension a bit, Harper says, “Your diner could be like that bar Ernest Hemingway wrote at in Havana.”
Moira suddenly laughs. “I could put a sign up over the booth. Maybe a picture of Ethan tapping away on his laptop.”
I love to see Moira laugh. I haven’t seen her do it often, and the sight of it makes me want more. I turn to Digger. “I can’t tell if they’re making plans for me or making fun of me.”
He grins and raises a brow. “Most of the time, I just assume I’m the butt of their jokes. You get used to it.”
The first pitch is thrown, and the batter smacks it with an abundance of enthusiasm. Wyatt, who’s playing shortstop, launches himself into the air, but comes up just shy of catching the ball. The batter takes off for first and the cheering begins as the center fielder rushes to pick up what is now a grounder bouncing its way through the grass. They finally manage to stop the runner at third. Wyatt starts a series of arm stretches in preparation for the next pitch.
Moira makes a little grunting sound. “He won’t be happy about that.”
“The only thing he could have done on that play would have been growing a few inches before it was made,” I tell her.
She nods her head. “I’ll have to remember to tell him that. It’ll make him feel better.”
“What are you up to this weekend?” Digger’s leaning across Harper again, interrupting my conversation with Moira.
Before I can tell him that my only plans involve writing, Harper interjects, “That’s his way of checking to see if you can help him paint Moira’s kitchen cabinets.”
Digger nudges her in the side playfully. “I don’t remember asking for an interpreter.”
“Don’t worry. She’s always been a bit of a busybody,” I declare. “I’m used to it.” Before Harper can cry foul, I add, “I’d love to help paint cabinets. What time should I be there?”
Digger offers me a grateful smile. “Tomorrow at nine.”
“I’ll be there.” Painting cabinets is not something I’d ever have agreed to help with back home—not that anyone would ask— but still, the answer would’ve been a hard no. And yet, here I am, happy to do it.
In the third inning, the kids get restless and beg their moms for cash so they can go down to the concession stand and buy some popcorn and soda. I offer to treat since I haven’t seen Lily and Liam in so long. I pull out a twenty and hand it to Liam, who leads the others off like a miniature army captain.
Instead of coming back right away, the four of them goof around behind the stands, and eventually start up their own mini-game of baseball with some of the other siblings in the empty diamond next to the one we’re at. I can’t help but think of how much freedom a small town like this affords children. It’s the way all kids should grow up.
The game flies by and I realize I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. Easy conversation flows among us, and we share lots of laughs over the course of the evening.
When the game ends, Jack announces that he’s got a date and gets up and walks toward the dugout to congratulate Wyatt on his way out. The rest of the kids come running back up the steps, looking dirty and wild-eyed.
“Can we go for ice cream now, Mom?” Ash asks Moira.
She nods her head, which sets off loud cheers. Glancing at me, she explains, “It’s our tradition. After wins, we eat ice cream to celebrate. After losses, it helps ease the pain.”
“So either way, everyone gets some ice cream.”
“When you’re the mom, you get to make some rules that work in your favor,” Moira says, standing up. “You coming?”
“I’d never turn down ice cream.”
I wish I’d had a mom like Moira when I was a kid. Mine would only let me eat ice cream once a month and she carefully portioned it out to the half cup serving size suggested on the back of the carton. I used to dream about calling Child Protective Services on her.
After Moira collects Wyatt, we set off as a big group down the sidewalk toward the general store (which Liam, the resident ice cream connoisseur, assures me is THE BEST ICE CREAM EVER).
