FORTY-FIVE

As he did for most of the expenses on their trip, Gary insisted on picking up the tab for the hotel in Macon. The others all objected, as he knew they would, and he told them either he covered the costs or they’d walk the rest of the way to Florida. “Look, Son,” Gary said as they settled into their shared room. “Meg and I didn’t agree on everything during our marriage. But my gosh, she was frugal, and I actually learned to appreciate that about her. That lady didn’t spend a penny without interviewing it first to be sure it knew where it was going. But it served us well, and I can cover this. We’re okay.”

Troy objected again, but only for the record. He knew Gary would never change or relent—on this or anything else. “I’ll buy breakfast tomorrow then, all right?” Troy said.

“At the free breakfast downstairs? You got it.”

Across the hall, Mark and Beverage chatted about their spacious room with two comfortable queen beds, a huge television and a view of downtown Macon. “What do you think, Beverage? Nice to be indoors for a night?”

The dog didn’t hear a thing. She was sprawled across the bed on her side, already deep into an evening nap.

“That’s my girl,” Mark said. “Enjoy.” He sat on the bed across from her and emptied his bag. He pulled out a photo of his wife and stared at it until tears pooled and the image blurred.

Three doors down the hallway, Grace stood in the bathroom and washed the day off her face. Moses had once again chosen to bunk with her, and she smiled at the sound of his snoring from his bed. Downstairs at the front desk, Grace had also insisted on paying for her own room while they waited for the bus to be repaired. She’d given up quickly and decided that when she was back in Rock Hill, she’d send Gary a certified check for her portion of the trip and give him no choice but to take the money and be grateful. She’d also extracted a concession that she could pay for the group’s dinner that evening in the hotel restaurant.

Troy, Grace and Mark had all wondered aloud if they needed a place quite so nice while they waited for the bus to be roadworthy again, and all balked at the steep pet deposit Gary had paid to let the dogs join them. But when the gang walked to the elevators and saw the hotel’s restaurant, gym, indoor/outdoor pool and large library with overstuffed couches and even bigger windows, they stopped questioning Gary’s generosity.

An hour later the men arrived first in the restaurant and were seated at a table just to the right of the hostess stand. Mark wore clean jeans and a cream-colored button-down shirt he’d ironed in his room. Gary and Troy wore matching blue golf shorts—an accident, they insisted—and polos. When Grace arrived ten minutes late, Mark stood and pulled her chair out while Gary and Troy gawked. She was wearing a sun-bright yellow sundress, no makeup, and her blonde hair was pulled back and draped over her right shoulder.

“Thank you, Mark,” she said as she sat. “Such a gentleman,” she added, and she nodded her head at the two Gorton men across the table.

“I was just about to stand,” Gary said.

“Me too!” Troy said, and he looked to everyone like an embarrassed sixteen-year-old.

“Uh-huh,” she said, and she dove into her menu. “I’m famished.”

They each ordered and sipped ice water and strawberry lemonade. As they picked at side salads, Mark reluctantly answered questions about the spots he’d visited on his deceased wife’s behalf.

“And have you sensed her?” Grace said, trapped in his stories and cadence like a willing prisoner. “Like she’s been there?”

Mark took a drink and nodded. “Almost every time. Yes. I feel her near me.”

“Like she’s coaching you . . .” Grace said.

“I don’t know,” Mark answered. “Perhaps more like she’s rooting for me.”

Grace looked at Troy and Gary. “Imagine that, gentlemen. A love so strong, so real, that even from heaven you feel them cheering for you.”

Their dinners arrived, and each appreciated their finest meal in days. Gary and Troy retold stories from the road and laughed and teased one another. Gary was almost emotional as he shared with Mark the story of the wreck near Spartanburg. “I’m sorry,” Mark said so softly the words barely carried across the table and cloud of restaurant noise.

“Thank you,” Gary said. “But I figure there’s no need to be sad, right, Troy? No need for sadness about the near misses. We’re all okay.”

“I understand,” Mark said. “Still sorry. Sorry you had to witness something like that. Those things can be hard to forget.”

The other three let his observation land and get swept away by silence and the arrival of dessert. “I’m in actual heaven,” Grace said, plunging her fork into an oversized piece of cheesecake.

But before she could take her first bite, a man approached the table and apologized with his hands as if surrendering. “I am so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but you’re Troy Gorton, right?”

Troy wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “That depends. Am I in trouble?”

“No, no, I’m Frank Yurkovich. I’m a baseball scout for the Dodgers.”

“Then yes,” Gary said, his voice piercing through the awkward moment. “This is my son, Troy Gorton. The kid with the best fastball and sneakiest slider you’ve ever seen.”

Frank extended his hand. “I know. I’ve seen it. I watched you pitch a few times in Texas last year. I was there the night you got two outs from a perfect game.”

“Hey!” Grace squealed. “I was there too. Almost perfect.”

Troy smiled politely, thanked him for saying hello and turned to face the others.

“Stand up.” Gary leaned in and whispered too loudly.

“No, it’s fine.” Frank said. “I don’t want to interrupt. You doing okay? I heard your rotator cuff needs surgery.”

Troy, still seated, nodded and forced a closed-mouth smile.

“Tough break, man, but you’ll be back. Your stuff is so good. Just a matter of time before you’re pitching for someone like the Dodgers.”

“That’s what I tell him,” Gary said, reaching over and slapping Troy on the back several times. “World Series talent here. Couldn’t be prouder.”

“I bet. Hey, would you mind if we took a photo? My wife is right over there. We’re staying here tonight. I think she has a camera in her purse.”

Troy reached out to shake Frank’s hand again. “No thanks, but have a great night. Enjoy your dinner. We just want to finish up here and get some rest.”

Frank finally shook his hand, and Grace leaned across the table. “Come on, Troy. Take a photo. We don’t care. Maybe you’ll be a Dodger someday.”

Mark shifted uncomfortably, snatched his napkin off his lap, refolded it and put it back down again without looking up.

Gary slapped his son’s back again, with a little more force than fatherly pride might call for. “Yeah, kid, take a photo. Maybe you’ll look back and—”

“—I said no thanks, but nice to meet you, Frank. Maybe another time. My best to your wife.”

Frank nodded at the others, apologized again for the interruption and walked away.

“My best to your wife?” Gary said. “For real? What was that?” He took the napkin and tossed it on his plate.

“Nothing, Pop. Just trying to enjoy some dinner, eat some cheesecake, with you all. That all right?”

“Troy,” Grace said, and her head was turned at a disappointed-schoolteacher angle. “He’s right. That wasn’t you. Why not just take the photo? I watched you take photos and sign autographs back in Texas all the time after games.”

Troy took a long drink of water until all that was left were a few puny ice cubes. “I guess we’re not in Texas, are we? And this isn’t a game.”

They sat in silence. Mark studied his hands. Grace pulled at her ponytail and looked across the restaurant. Gary examined and reexamined the check and tucked a credit card into the leather folder. Troy held his glass and spun the melting cubes in the bottom with a straw.

“Yes, Troy,” Grace said. “You’re right. This isn’t Texas, and it sure isn’t a game.”