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  Trish laughed, caught the look on Grace’s face and quickly sobered. “You’re not serious are you? Are you going straight?” She shook her head and began to mumble. “Figures. Just when I’m going gay, you’re going straight.”

  Grace blew out an exasperated breath. “No, I’m not going straight. But I don’t want a relationship right now. With anyone.”

  “You like Torrie, don’t you? I mean, two days ago you were on cloud nine.”

  It was true, she had been after that incredible night with Torrie. Before that, even. Torrie made her feel so special—cherished and desired, respected, loved. She was nothing like Aly. She was sweet and honest and genuine. Someone you could dream with, build things with. Maybe even make a life with. And yeah, Torrie wasn’t an expert at relationships or handling her emotions. She would make mistakes, just like Grace would. And maybe making those mistakes together was better than being miserable apart. Maybe, but it’s too late now, anyway. She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do about that.

  Grace allowed the weight of sadness and loss and that familiar sense of futility to press on her like an invisible weight. “Trish, when are you going back to Boston?”

  “In a couple of days. Catie has to go back on the Tour, and I need to get back to work.”

  Grace nodded sharply. “I’m going with you.” She was already an island. She didn’t need to spend any more time alone on a real one.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It didn’t take Aunt Connie long to raise her concerns about Torrie and her seeming fixation on punishing herself. That was her aunt—never one to keep her strong opinions to herself, especially where her loved ones were concerned. The only thing that made the habit annoying was the fact she was so often right.

  After spending a week in the hospital and another week convalescing with her friends on the mainland, Aunt Connie had flown out to Arizona to stay with Torrie and her parents. The pain had aged her, but she was as feisty as ever. She had graduated to crutches, but the family didn’t trust her to look after herself for at least a couple more weeks. They were happy to help look after her, and now, as she sat on the covered patio of the Cannons’ Spanish-style, sprawling bungalow, her broken leg elevated on a footstool, her eyes intently followed Torrie as she repeatedly swung a golf club in the backyard.

  “Isn’t it a little soon to be swinging golf clubs?”

  “Nope.” Torrie swung again, harder this time, not connecting with anything, but just trying to get the timing of the motion back. She still didn’t have her full backswing, or her power. It would be at least a couple more weeks before she could start practicing for real.

  “You’re pale and you’re wincing, Torrie. Aren’t you going to make things worse?”

  “I’m fine. My physio said I could start swinging a club.”

  Aunt Connie snorted. “She probably meant putting. Not a full swing.”

  Torrie knew her aunt was just being overly protective. “I’m fine. Really.”

  Torrie wasn’t fine and she knew it. In the mirror, she’d seen the shadows beneath her eyes, the slightly haunted look on her face. The pounds had been melting off, and not just because of the endless miles of jogging and trips to the gym nearly every day. Much of her notorious appetite had deserted her, and she knew exactly why.

  Aunt Connie sighed impatiently. “Torrie, honey, come and sit down for a minute. Take a break.”

  Torrie swung the club a few more times. It could make her forget things for a while, but now the pain was sharp. She wiped the sweat from her face with the hand towel she’d stuffed into her back pocket. “All right.” She relented and dropped into a chair, her body more exhausted than she wanted to admit. Her shoulder throbbed dully, like a persistent toothache.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Grace?” The question was posed as matter-of-factly as asking about the price of gasoline.

  “What?” Torrie was momentarily stunned. Had Grace said something to her aunt? Catie perhaps? “What makes you think anything happened?”

  “Oh, Torrie.” A gnarly hand reached over and patted her knee affectionately. “Haven’t you realized by now how well I know you?”

  Torrie smiled at that. In some ways, her aunt knew her better than anyone in the family. Her mother knew what drove Torrie, knew her strengths and weaknesses and had an uncanny ability to perceive what her daughter needed to become stronger, better, happier. But it was Aunt Connie who had a unique grasp of Torrie’s deepest, most intimate self. Aunt Connie had always known when she was struggling with some inner demon, or some elusive desire. She understood her private pain. She seemed to understand things about Torrie before Torrie even acknowledged them to herself. It was inevitable that Aunt Connie would figure things out, she supposed.

  “We got to know each other better after you left,” Torrie said.

  A single gray eyebrow arched. “Did you tell her how you felt?”

  Torrie’s throat closed up. “Yeah,” she rasped. She’d laid her heart bare to Grace in a way she’d never done with anyone before. Grace had been so gracious, accepting of Torrie’s love, even though she couldn’t fully reciprocate. Torrie would give anything to have that one, precious night back. It had been almost perfect, and she’d been so sure then that Grace would have returned her love with just a little more time. Grace did care for her, even if she couldn’t say the words. It was expressed in the way she responded to Torrie’s touch, in the way she looked at Torrie. It was in the way she arched back and called Torrie’s name at the moment when the body collides with the soul in perfect, blissful synchronicity.

  “Judging by the way you’ve been acting, I’d say it went badly?”

  “No.” Torrie shook her head and gazed off into the distance, immersed in the fleeting joy of their night together. “It was wonderful. I had the best night of my life, Aunt Connie.”

  Aunt Connie whistled low and long, then smiled broadly. “Well, that’s wonderful, dear. You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.” Her expression turned to worry. “But what went so terribly wrong?”

  Torrie didn’t speak for a long time. She wanted to be composed first. She’d cried privately enough times over Grace, but she couldn’t be sure there weren’t still more tears.

  “What is it, dear?” Aunt Connie pressed gently.

  Torrie had felt a certain measure of destiny with Grace. Now she wasn’t sure of anything anymore, except that she was alone and more lost than at any time in her life. She thought returning home would help, but it hadn’t. Maybe rejoining the Tour would. “She told me she wasn’t ready to commit herself to me, that she wasn’t ready to love me. She was just coming out of a relationship.”

  Aunt Connie nodded thoughtfully. “I see. I’d suspected as much.”

  “You did?”

  “She hadn’t told me specifically, but it seemed that way to me from things she’d hinted at. I gathered it wasn’t a very good relationship.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I can understand why she needs time, Torrie. Are you not patient enough to give her that time?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  Aunt Connie looked puzzled. “I don’t understand, dear.”

  “You see, right after we…” Torrie faltered, hesitant about discussing sex with her aunt.

  Aunt Connie smiled knowingly. “It’s okay. I get it, Torrie. After a night of mad, passionate love.”

  Torrie warmed at the sweet memory of Grace beneath her, Grace moving rhythmically on top of her, their bodies fused together in a utopian blend of fiery want and patient need. Then her heart clamped shut at the memory of Aly showing up and wanting to claim Grace. She’d succeeded in making Torrie feel that Grace would never really be hers, and for that, she would never forgive Aly. “Her ex showed up unexpectedly,” Torrie said roughly. “She wants Grace back.”

  Emotions flickered across her aunt’s face. First surprise and then doubt. “What does Grace want?”

  Torrie shrugge
d. “She feels some sort of duty to help…” that bitch, she wanted to say, “her ex through the breakup.”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s better to fall in love with someone kind like that than someone who’s coldhearted?”

  “I don’t think it’s better to fall in love at all.”

  “Oh, Torrie. You can’t mean that.”

  “I can and I do, Aunt Connie.” It was simpler on her own, immersing herself in her career. Golf would be her refuge. It would fill her loneliness—that and perhaps a good-looking woman every now and again. Golf and meaningless flings had always been enough, and they would be again. “I’m not cut out for that kind of life, Aunt Connie.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Torrie had rarely heard her aunt swear before. It gave her a jolt.

  “You’re afraid because this isn’t coming easy to you,” Aunt Connie continued. “Oh, love can come easily enough, but to keep it, Torrie, takes guts. And hard work. And commitment.”

  Torrie’s anger spontaneously hardened her jaw.“I know about guts and hard work and commitment. I wouldn’t be on the Tour this long if I didn’t.”

  “But golf came easy to you, Torrie. It always did, right from the get-go, and that’s my point. You can’t be spectacular at everything right away. You can’t be perfect at everything you do. Some things take time, and sometimes you have to fall down before you succeed.”

  Torrie sometimes hated these little nuggets of wisdom from her aunt, particularly now. She was thirty years old. She could make her own way, make her own decisions. She didn’t need her aunt’s guiding hand anymore.

  “I know that, Aunt Connie. I really do.” Torrie drew hard on her patience. It was the kind of patience that let her persevere against windy, stormy conditions on the golf course or a swing that was just off.“And I know you’re trying to help me. I appreciate that. But I think it’s just as well, the way things turned out.”

  Aunt Connie shook her head lightly. “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s not meant to be.” Torrie said the words with a finality that eluded her, but for now, it was what she wanted to believe. “We both have our careers, Aunt Connie. She’s in Boston and I’m not. And if her ex wants to try to get her back, well, I can’t stop her.”

  “You can overcome geographical distances, Torrie.”

  “I know that. But I can’t put something I have no confidence in above my career. It’s a gamble I’m not able to take right now. Golf is my present and my future. Grace… I’m not so sure.”

  Disapproval poured from her aunt just as surely as if she’d given voice to it. She knew Aunt Connie thought she was making a mistake, but if she was—and it was a big if—then it was hers to make. “I need to work at getting back on the Tour,” she said softly. “This is my time now. And being reminded that I failed with Grace is not what I need right now.”

  Her aunt looked at her with more love than criticism. They clasped hands on the glass tabletop.

  The weeks since Grace had left Sheridan Island had brought about changes, not the least of which was her appearance. She’d decided on impulse to cut her hair short. Once cut, it was naturally thick and wavy, and she’d had it highlighted. She had to agree with Trish and James. It made her look years younger. Better yet, she hoped it signaled a fresh start in other facets of her life too.

  Torrie hadn’t contacted her, and while Torrie’s silence hurt, Grace struggled to move on from the brief affair that had been another addition to her list of mistakes. She tried to take it easy, going for lots of walks with Remy, reading novels, hitting the gym regularly. She eased herself back into work, unsure of how much of her old way of life she wanted to resume. The pace of work she’d once endured was grueling and that, she now knew, was at the root of her problems. If she was going to make positive changes in her life, she knew she needed to take more time out for herself and slow the crazy pace that had consumed her life the last few years. She needed to dial back the clock somehow.

  It was a Friday afternoon, hot and sticky and typical of early August in Boston. Grace wanted to work a shift on the line at Sheridan’s. She hadn’t actually cooked on the line in months, her role revolving into a more supervisory one over the past year, and most of it at arm’s length while they filmed their television show and toured with their cookbook. She and Trish would go over the books regularly, meet with the executive chef once a week to talk about the menu, staff, supplies. Her managerial relationship with her restaurant had become boring and unsatisfying, and now she yearned to get her hands dirty, get back in the trenches for a night or two. It just might help her remember why she was in this business and find what she still wanted from it. She was toying with the idea of scaling back, finding her niche again, and there was nothing like a hot, frenetic, bustling kitchen on a busy Friday night to do just that.

  Trish was there too. They started the afternoon by inspecting each of the chefs’ stations under the guidance of their executive chef, a short, stocky, African-American woman who was one of the best chefs on the eastern seaboard. Liz was fussy and ran her motley crew with the precision of a battle-hardened general.

  Several of the line chefs were busy getting their mise en place ready—chopping onions, peppers, garlic, chives and other herbs. The chatter was relaxed and nothing like the brusque, rude commands and vulgar language that would leave the air blue once the dinner rush started. Music was an assortment of hip-hop and urban, just loud enough and pounding enough to work up everyone’s energy. Grace and Trish moved on to where a tall, Latino chef was boning a leg of veal. He smiled and nodded in their direction without taking his eyes off his work. He had already separated the skinned leg into different muscles: top round, bottom round, top knuckle, top sirloin and shank. He was trimming each of the cuts. It was a meticulous process, but he went about it quickly and adeptly.

  Another cook was cleaning fish, and at the sauce station, chicken and beef stocks were on a low simmer in large iron pots. A third pot was a béchamel. Grace knew that a slight variation in seasoning, viscosity, reduction or cooking time could make the difference between an average and an extraordinary sauce. Stocks and sauces were the backbone of a successful kitchen. They were the main thickening or flavoring agent and were usually the essential but nearly invisible element behind a great dish.

  Each chef had a territory, an area of expertise, and the kitchen had begun to take on a rhythm that would escalate as the dinner hour approached. Grace liked the unspoken inclusion in a restaurant kitchen. It didn’t matter what your religion or sexual preference was, whether you had a criminal record or an addiction. What mattered was that you worked quickly and efficiently, took orders and worked as a team. She missed the camaraderie, the hard work under pressure, the praise for a job well done.

  Tonight, Grace would prepare a large vat of New England clam chowder. She set to work on chopping and frying bacon, then chopping and sautéing onions. She was a little rusty with her knife work, but only a little. It didn’t take her long to work up her speed so that she could almost do it without looking. Chopping, scraping, chopping, scraping. Her hands danced across the cutting board—fluid, decisive, smooth. She chopped clam meat then diced some red potatoes. The repetitive work was a nice break. She didn’t have to think, and it was exactly what she needed after almost three months of doing nothing but thinking. Thinking and, too often, agonizing.

  Customers had begun arriving for dinner. Soon the constant sizzling of steak or pork being tossed in a pan or on a grill sliced through the music and chatter. Liver was being sautéed, pork was being seared, a large pan of beef tenderloin was pulled from an oven. Orders were shouted out. “Where’s my fucking tuna steak!” the sous-chef yelled. “Did you run out and catch the bloody thing yourself?”

  “Coming,” someone called back. Potatoes were spooned up, sauces were drizzled. Grace moved to the pasta station to help out. She poured olive oil into a pan and began sautéing paper thin garlic slices and crushed red peppers, artichoke hearts, vegetable
s, olives. Thankfully, the music had changed to Ella Fitzgerald, then Frank Sinatra, and she started humming, even sang a few bars of “That’s Life.”

  She mixed the concoction into a bowl of cooked penne, threw some fresh basil and grated parmesan on top, spun and slid the plate the length of the counter, putting a little English on it. “Number five ready,” she yelled and started another. The assembly line was in high gear now and Grace’s body responded to the rush. Adrenaline pumped and she began shuffling her feet and swaying her hips to the music. Oh yeah. This was fun!

  As the evening progressed and the pace eventually slowed, exhaustion began to seep in. By midnight, the restaurant was empty and the chefs had cleaned their stations. The tradition was to hit last call at a pub to soak up the final fragments of leftover energy and to hash over the night’s events. A group of them cabbed it to a pub in Harvard Square, where Trish handed Grace a vodka and orange juice. She downed half of it in one gulp.

  “Thirsty?” Trish teased.

  Grace stretched her neck, hearing the fine bones click. “God, I haven’t worked that hard in a while. My feet are killing me, and my hands feel like they’re the size of oven mitts.”

  Trish laughed wearily. “Believe me. I know what you mean.”

  Jayla, a new hire at Sheridan’s, sidled up to them and leaned against the bar, a frothy glass of beer in one hand. Her skin was the color of milky coffee and her eyes were as dark as cocoa. She smiled at Grace, her perfect white teeth a dazzling contrast to the dull lighting of the pub. “You were awesome, Grace. I really enjoyed working with you tonight.”

  Surprised for an instant, Grace returned the smile and tipped her glass. “Thank you, Jayla. I enjoyed working with you too.”

  “I like how you’re so calm and cool in there. Like when Juan burned his hand? You never missed a step, taking over his station the way you did.” She stepped closer and laid a hand softly next to Grace’s. “Truthfully? You work faster than Juan. And…” Her eyes quickly shot up and down the length of Grace’s body as her smile lengthened. “You’re much nicer to look at.”