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  “You could be describing yourself, you know.”

  Grace shrugged. “I love her, Trish. What more can I say?”

  “Does she love you?”

  Grace knew her hesitation was not lost on Trish. “Yes.” Does she? Grace couldn’t even remember when Aly had last said the words. She didn’t know when she last said them either.

  “If you love each other, then why are you so miserable? And why aren’t you together?”

  Grace’s composure began to crumble. She shook her head lightly. “Because…” Because we’ll never be together. She’ll never leave Tim and the life she has. Her marriage might be a sham, but so is her relationship with me. Tears threatened. She would never have predicted that she would spend three years being the other woman. But here she was, and the picture that was her life was becoming harshly clear. She needed to make a break from Aly, and she had read enough self-help articles in women’s magazines on endless airplane rides to know that it would get harder and harder to preserve her self-respect the longer she stayed. To keep on settling for what she and Aly had just meant burying her own identity deeper and deeper, Grace knew. Loving Aly meant not loving herself. It was that simple.

  “You deserve more, that’s all.”

  Grace gave a cynical snort. “Don’t we all?”

  “Grace.” Trish touched her hand soothingly. “Why don’t you take some time to get away?”

  “Funny.” Grace laughed bitterly. “You’re the second person today who’s told me that. Does everyone think I’m insane or something?”

  Trish laughed. “Insane is the fact that you haven’t taken a vacation in at least two years, Grace. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard the last little while.”

  “So have you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “True. But I don’t have the added stress of running around with a married woman.”

  Grace frowned. “As I recall, you hardly took any time off last year when you divorced Scott.”

  Trish shrugged one shoulder and studied her drink for a long moment, looking wistful. “Maybe I should have.”

  “So, am I really that fucked up, Trish?”

  Trish raised her eyes, which were kind, but there was a hint of criticism in them. “I’d like to see you get some perspective, Grace. Get some balance in your life. Find out what you really want for yourself. Who you really want in your life.”

  “Let me guess. You don’t think it’s Aly,” Grace said quietly, without the sarcasm this time.

  “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

  “You don’t like her. Is it because she’s married?”

  “No. It’s because after all this time, she hasn’t tossed you over her shoulder and carried you off. That’s why I don’t like her. Because she doesn’t know a good thing when she damn well has it.”

  Grace wanted to cry over how much Trish loved her. And then she wanted to laugh at the vision of Aly—or any woman— tossing her over a shoulder and carrying her away. “All right. I’ll take a couple of weeks off.”

  Trish’s face lit up. “Really? And actually go somewhere by yourself?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ll actually go away, though I’d like to bring my dog. So I won’t exactly be by myself.”

  Trish’s expression darkened. “There’s one thing, Grace.”

  “What?”

  “You need more than a couple of weeks. I was thinking more like a couple of months.”

  “What?” Grace nearly slid off the barstool. “That’s impossible!”

  “No,” Trish said calmly. “It’s not. Because that’s how long it’s going to take.”

  “To what?” Grace said acidly. “Get Aly out of my system? Isn’t that what you really mean?”

  Trish squeezed Grace’s hand affectionately. “Truthfully? Yes.”

  Grace shook her head stubbornly. “C’mon, Trish. Two months is ridiculous. I can’t be away from work that long. There’s no way.”

  “Yes, you can, Grace. I’ll pick up the slack. And James is a workhorse, you know that.”

  “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Grace, you’re not asking. I’m telling. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Trish, really. I’ll be fine. A couple of weeks, three maybe.”

  “Gracieeeee. Don’t argue with me. You know what happens.”

  Grace rolled her eyes again, then laughed. “I know, I know. I always lose arguments with you.”

  “Remember my cottage on Sheridan Island in Maine?”

  Grace laughed, the vague sweetness of long forgotten fun floating to the surface like the grenadine in the many tequila sunrises they’d drunk. “The one time I visited you there for a few days, I think I spent the whole time inebriated. So I’m not sure how much of it I actually remember.”

  “Don’t even get me started on the stories from that visit!”

  Grace put up her hand in supplication, still laughing. “All right, all right. We swore what happened on Sheridan Island stayed on Sheridan Island.”

  Trish narrowed her eyes teasingly. “Whew, you had me going there for a minute.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Trish winked. “That-a girl. So, listen. Take the cottage for a couple of months.”

  “You won’t need it?”

  Trish shook her head. “I’ll be too busy, remember?”

  “At least come and visit me?”

  “I’ll try to squeeze a visit in. Only this time, I’ll spend the entire weekend inebriated.”

  “Deal. And I’ll have the wild fling!”

  Trish stared wide-eyed at her and neither said anything for a long moment. Then Grace’s hand flew to her mouth and they both laughed uncontrollably, like a couple of teenagers high on life and all its endless possibilities. And for a few moments, life was easy again.

  They enjoyed their wine and reminisced about that lost weekend six years ago and about all the freedom from responsibilities they’d once had. Then Trish affectionately studied her and said, “God, it’s good to see you laugh again, Grace.”

  Grace smiled, feeling the sting of tears of joy—or maybe relief. She blinked her agreement. She wasn’t sure what she was getting into, but it had to be better than what she was getting out of.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Torrie Cannon polished off her third can of Budweiser, rooted in front of the forty-two-inch television and completely riveted on the playoff between her friend and the young upstart who’d been such a pain in everyone’s ass over the past year.

  Golf was Torrie’s life. Literally. It was what she did for a living and it was her reason for getting up in the morning. More than a dozen years of her life had been completely devoted to the sport, and it had been good to her in return. She’d earned millions along with seventeen championship titles on the LPGA tour, including four majors. She was one of the country’s best women golfers. Except now, for the first time in her career, she was a spectator, watching the Tour go on without her.

  Torrie’s mother slipped into the room and joined her on the sofa.

  “Hey, Mom. It’s Diana and Amy King in a playoff. God, I hope Diana pulls it out.” Torrie leaned closer to the TV. “They’ve both just sent their drives out nicely.”

  Torrie never referred to the teen golf sensation by just her first name. It was always “Amyking,” as if the girl’s first and last name were one word.

  Her mother chuckled softly. “That girl is still giving the rest of you ulcers, isn’t she?”

  Torrie ignored the comment, so fierce was her concentration. She wanted so badly for her friend to kick the youngster’s butt. Show her that victories were to be earned through years of hard work and not by luck and circumstance and the devil-may-care attitude of the young.

  Sarah Cannon moved closer, nudging Torrie’s good shoulder. “You’ve been watching this tournament almost non-stop for the last two days. Can we talk, Torrie?”

  Torrie cast her a quick gla
nce that conveyed in no uncertain terms that her mother’s timing sucked. “Sure. After this is over.”

  Torrie could feel her mother’s impatience, heard it in her sigh. When she wanted something, she was relentless about it— a trait Torrie could certainly identify with. But right now, she would have to wait.

  It didn’t take long for Diana Gravatti to take control of the playoff, finishing off the young sensation with a thrilling chip-in birdie. Torrie pumped her fist in the air and let out a victory yelp. If there was anyone she wanted to win in her absence, it was Diana.

  “Now. Let’s have that talk,” her mother said evenly, rising and leading the way out onto the deck without waiting for Torrie’s acknowledgment.

  Torrie hesitantly followed, sensing a forthcoming lecture. But since she was staying in her family’s house, recuperating from major shoulder surgery ten days ago, she would humor her mother. She would not be impolite in her parents’ home, and she owed her parents so much, especially her mother.

  “How’s the shoulder?” her mother asked mildly.

  Torrie winced. It still hurt like hell, but she would not admit it. If she could convince herself the pain wasn’t too bad, maybe she could get back on the Tour quicker. “Not bad. It’s feeling better every day.”

  Her mother was looking at her with almost clinical detachment, as if she were scrutinizing her swing. “When are you thinking of rejoining the Tour?”

  Torrie shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “Three months.”

  “Isn’t that rushing it?”

  “Not if I push.”

  Her mother scanned the horizon made burnt orange by the setting sun and the hazy warmth of the Arizona desert. Her body language gave nothing of her feelings, but when she turned back to face Torrie, her jaw was set and her blue eyes were icy and implacable. The look reminded Torrie of her high school years, when she’d failed to make curfew and her mother would wait up for her, ready to give her hell.

  “See, here’s the thing.”

  Torrie mentally braced herself. Ah, yes, her mother’s favorite line, the one that always preceded a stern admonishment about something. But for the life of her, Torrie had no idea what she’d done wrong.

  “It’s time you stopped pushing yourself so much, Torrie.”

  Torrie’s breath stalled somewhere in her chest. Surely she’d misheard. The queen of persistence was suddenly advising her to slow down? Where was that sort of attitude when I wanted to slack off my homework? Or dump those hours of practice sessions to go party with my friends? “What?”

  “Torrie.” Her mother paused, her sharp features softening. “I’ve watched you push yourself for years to get to the top. And I think—”

  “Wait. You encouraged me to push myself so hard,” Torrie interrupted, her resolve quickly gathering. “And before that, you were the one pushing me, remember?” She would not quietly take the blame for whatever her mother was about to blame her for. She certainly wasn’t going to feel bad for working so hard all these years. Everything she had learned, including her relentless ambition, had come from her mother, and Torrie had gotten nothing but approval and encouragement along the way. Why is she doing this? Why is she pulling the rug out from under me?

  Her mother blinked, clearly stung. “I know I did, dear. In retrospect, I think I expected you to fulfill the dreams I once had for myself.”

  Her mother was Torrie’s first golf coach. She’d given up her own once-promising golf career when she married her high school sweetheart, Jack Cannon, right after college graduation. Torrie’s birth had come within the year, then three sons in quick succession. Sarah Cannon had never picked the sport up again, except recreationally. Her primary connection to golf remained through Torrie.

  “In some ways,” her mother continued slowly, her voice wavering with emotion, “I regret now how hard I pushed you.”

  Torrie trembled with incredulity. She’d never heard her mother talk like this about golf before. She’d never really heard her talk this way to Torrie about anything before. They were a family where a stiff upper lip was the silent rule of the house. Her parents were pull-up-your-bootstraps kind of people, and this was so not like her mother. Torrie’s career had been the most important thing in both their lives for many years. Their common ambition had driven them, made them practically inseparable at times. It had been all they talked about, all they dreamed about, all they worked toward. “Are you trying to tell me it wasn’t worth it?”

  “Of course not. You’ve done far better than I could ever have hoped, honey. Much better than I could ever have done myself.” She was looking at her like Torrie had just brought home a report card full of A’s. “I’m so proud of you, Torrie.”

  Torrie’s breath hitched. Such emotion was rare from her mother, and it stunned her, sucking some of the fight out of her. “Then what are you saying?”

  “You’re thirty years old now. You’ve been on the Tour for seven years. It’s time you got some balance in your life, Torrie. It’s time you found something besides golf that really means something to you. It’s time,” she added softly.

  Torrie could not believe her mother was counseling her this way. Her mother, of all people—the one person who’d wanted this life for her more than anyone else. It was the reward they had worked so hard for, the peak of their long, arduous climb together. Now she was making her career sound like some tired, antiquated stage in her life that she needed to move on from, like having acne or chasing boys. Or in Torrie’s case, girls.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Her mother raised a hand in concession. “You’re wondering what’s come over me to talk this way.” She moved away from the railing and sat down beside Torrie. “The last few years you’ve pushed yourself so hard. Training, practicing, playing, traveling. That’s all you do. You haven’t missed a single tournament until now. It’s too much, Torrie. I can see that it’s too much.”

  Torrie was confused. Her mother couldn’t be more wrong. Getting on the Tour and staying there was dreadfully hard work. Staying at the top was the hardest of all. Any slacking off and she’d tumble. And once she was on the way down, getting back up was practically unheard of. It wasn’t that it was too much. It was simply necessary.

  “Mom, you know how this works.” Torrie was trying to be patient, but it took all her effort. “I can’t cut anything back. I want to put in another eight, ten years, and to do that is going to take a lot of work. I mean, you see these young kids on the Tour now. You know how hard they are to beat, when they don’t care about anything but winning, and they don’t have injuries and they don’t have to worry about sponsors, and all the traveling doesn’t knock the shit out of them yet. They think they’re infallible, and they are.”

  “You were like that once too.”

  Torrie ground her teeth against the pain in her throbbing shoulder. “Well, I’ve certainly discovered that I’m fallible, haven’t I?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Torrie. You are fallible. You’re pushing your body beyond its limit right now. And your mind.”

  Torrie groaned. “So I’m crazy too?” Was her mother trying to piss her off? Drive her from the family home?

  Her mother laughed loudly.“Actually, I am starting to wonder about your sanity. I caught you watching that food channel on TV the other day.”

  Torrie laughed too, enjoying the momentary diversion. “All right, I confess. Guilty.”

  “So you want to be a chef in your next career perhaps?” The question sounded more hopeful than teasing.

  “Hell, no. I just watch it sometimes because of the hot women on there.”

  “Ah. Well, that makes more sense now.”

  Torrie chuckled bitterly.“Actually, I’ve been watching because I’m supposed to come up with menu ideas for the tournament I’m hosting in a couple of weeks.”

  “The Hartford Open, right?” Torrie, as defending champion, was the official host this year, which meant helping coordinate the plans for the championship dinner. �
��But you don’t know anything about planning banquets.”

  Torrie grimaced. “I don’t know anything about food except eating it.”

  “Well, I’m sure there will be people to help you with it.”

  Torrie sighed heavily. Her chest tightened as she thought ahead to the tournament and how it would feel, watching helplessly as the others went on with the business of playing and winning. It would be torture. “God, it’s going to kill me,” she murmured.

  Her mother rubbed her arm affectionately. “I know, honey. But it will be good to be among friends again, even if it’s only for a week. It’s got to be better than sitting around here.”

  Torrie had never had so much time off from golf. She had no clue how she was going to fill her days and keep her mind and body occupied until she could get back on the Tour. Beer and television weren’t cutting it, that was for sure. Her mother had won a small point, at least for now. She needed to find something to do for the summer.

  “Mom, look. I know you’re concerned, but everything’s under control. I love what I do, okay? I don’t want to change anything. I’ll be fine.”

  Her mother’s face creased with worry. “What are you going to have when it’s over, Torrie? I mean, look how difficult it is for you to take a few months off. You don’t even know what to do with yourself.”

  “Like I said, I’ll be fine.” Torrie knew she didn’t sound particularly convincing. She had rarely given much thought to the future beyond the next tournament or two. Worrying about the present had always been more than enough. But the present sucked right now, and the future loomed like the big monster in the closet ready to burst out. It scared the crap out of her to think of a future without golf, and now her mother was trying to speed her toward it—force her to deal with it before she was ready to. It was like standing on a tee box and taking a blind shot—the kind where you hoped you’d picked the right club and where you had to just trust your instincts and your swing.