Side Order of Love Read online

  “The thing is, Tor, that time might come a lot sooner than you think if you keep on this path.”

  “I don’t get what you’re trying to say, mother.” Torrie was growing frustrated again.

  Her mother’s eyes fixed harshly on her as if to drive home the seriousness of her message. “You’re getting burned out. Mentally and physically. And if you don’t do something to turn it around, your career will be over and you’ll be a mess. That’s my great fear for you.” Her expression grew anguished and the steely eyes watery. It scared Torrie, seeing her like this.

  “Oh, Mom.” Torrie reached for her mother’s hand and held it firmly. “I think you’re reaching here. I really do.”

  “No, Torrie, I’m not.” Her voice grew rigid again. “Your shoulder injury is proof that you’re pushing your body too hard. And as for the rest of it, you have no other hobbies, no other friends outside of the Tour. You’ve never even really had a girlfriend.”

  Torrie flushed with the heat of embarrassment. “I can assure you, mother, I’m not lonely.” Hell, she’d had more women by accident than on purpose.

  It was her mother’s turn to look embarrassed. “I’m sure you’re not, dear. But those kinds of relationships aren’t real. You need someone who loves you for who you are. Maybe someone you can build a life with eventually.”

  Torrie’s exasperation mounted again. “I don’t have time for hobbies and girlfriends and stuff like that. Jesus, I might as well just cash in now and go off and play house and have babies…like you did. Is that what you want for me? You want me to be a quitter?”

  Torrie knew she’d gone too far when her mother’s eyes flared with anger. She’d just scored a lethal hit by calling her mother’s biggest choices into question. More than that, by casting judgment on them. Shit!

  “You might think I regret the way my life has gone because of the way I pushed you into golf. But I don’t. And you don’t know me very well if that’s what you think.” Her voice crackled with emotion, like a branch breaking underfoot. “I love your father and you kids. Family is the most important thing to me, and I just want you to find the same. Golf is transient, Torrie. Family isn’t. Love isn’t.”

  Torrie let her mother’s words dissolve in the dry desert air. It was true, her life was entirely consumed by golf. She hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but there’d been fleeting moments when she’d wondered what it would be like to take a vacation, or to be in love. To live a life with someone whose dreams and plans and fears were held in equal priority. Sometimes it felt like her face was pressed up against a store window, looking at the beautiful things she could never have. And her mother was right. There would be a time when she would want those things, after she’d accomplished everything there was to accomplish in golf. It was a natural progression, at least for those who knew how to move on once their time in golf was over.

  Torrie was silent for a long moment, gazing off into the distance. When she spoke, her voice was nearly a whisper. “I’m afraid to let anything else in. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll lose the only life I’ve known for the last twelve or thirteen years. I don’t know what else to do besides what I’m doing.”

  Her mother squeezed her hand and smiled her sympathy.

  “Take a chance, honey. You’ve nothing to prove to anyone anymore.”

  Torrie squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t know the first thing about taking chances, at least not with anything other than her career. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Try, Torrie. This is the perfect time to see what else is out there. You have to take a few months off anyway. Take the summer.”

  “And do what?” Torrie felt slightly dizzy. This was all so new to her, and it was like falling off a cliff. The gaping emptiness before her was mortifying.

  “You can’t stay here all summer drinking beer and watching TV, that’s for sure.”

  Torrie smiled regretfully. “I guess I have been a bit of a lazy slob lately.”

  “Don’t worry about it, dear. But I do have an idea of how you can spend your summer after that tournament you’re hosting.”

  Torrie’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “If you say a nunnery, I’ll have to torture you.”

  Her mother laughed deeply.“No, not a nunnery, dear. Though I’m not sure it’s exactly teeming with young, single women.”

  “I see. And just where is this place of idyllic celibacy?”

  “Let’s see if I can’t help you with that menu planning, and then we’ll talk about my ideas.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Already, Grace could tell there was something profoundly healing about Sheridan Island. Perhaps it was the limitless expanse of water surrounding it, or the simplicity of its narrow dirt roads and the unpretentious shingled or clapboard homes. The place had probably remained the same for the last eighty years or so, with only a few of the faces changing. The family names on mailboxes likely went back generations. It was remarkably untouched by tourism, unlike most other islands off the eastern seaboard, and that alone was refreshing.

  The locals seemed friendly and not cynical of a stranger, as Grace had expected. They’d probably know more about her after a week than her longtime condo neighbors back in Boston had learned of her in a decade. It was how things worked in tiny, close-knit communities, and there was something safe and welcoming about the implied intimacy, even though the islanders were giving her space.

  Grace did little her first couple of days at Trish’s three-bedroom cottage, other than sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and drink too much wine, or take her chocolate Labrador retriever, Remy, on endless walks. Cooking hadn’t appealed much, which was unusual, nor did eating. Being in a kitchen had always given her comfort, but she was still listless and in a fog after her hasty decision to leave Aly and take the summer off. In rational terms, she could hardly believe she’d done either. She still wavered over whether she had done the right thing in leaving Aly. Countless times in the last few days she’d fought the urge to pick up the phone, just to hear her voice. She knew if she did that, she would capitulate, and things would be just as they were, with more broken promises, more sneaking around, more empty nights. Grace knew she needed more time away from Aly to sort out her feelings and renew her strength. Giving in after a few days would hardly be fair. Or sensible.

  What she doubted just as much was her decision to take a couple of months off work. What had she been thinking? Keeping busy had to be better than moping around, second-guessing herself. How could she possibly have thought that taking the summer off to do nothing was a good idea? How could she find herself, as Trish had counseled her to do, in all this nothingness? It would be like trying to spot a tiny lifeboat in an endless expanse of sea.

  Oh, hell. Trish was probably right. She needed to break with all her old patterns for a while if she was going to heal. She needed to allow herself to feel the sting of the finality of the breakup. It had to hurt before it could feel better. She needed to let herself grieve. The self-help clichés ran through her mind in a repeating loop as she sipped her wine. She never thought she’d be one of those people who needed to look for inspiration in dimestore psychology paperbacks or silly talk shows. There were a lot of things she hadn’t imagined herself doing.

  Grace lifted a socked foot to the deck’s railing, momentarily entranced by the sun setting over the ocean, which seemed so voluminous and infinite. The calm surface was turning to a shimmering liquid orange beneath the fading light, shades of red abstractly streaking across the sky. She thought of the old refrain, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” She smiled. In spite of her misery, tomorrow would be a beautiful day, and that, she decided, was a small victory.

  Grace pulled her sweater tighter around her to ward off the chilly spring air and wished it were Aly’s arms keeping her warm instead. The thought did not comfort her. She scolded herself, thinking it should be easier than this to cast Aly from her life. Aly was a user, a heartless social and career climber, a liar, a sexual profligate. Grace sh
ould hate her, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She should be bitter over three wasted years, but she wasn’t. She missed Aly, but more for what they didn’t have than what they did have.

  The problem, Grace decided, was the object of her desire, not the desire itself, and it was time to place that desire in someone much more deserving.

  It’s okay to want, Grace. Just not her.

  Grace knew that slowly she was getting herself on the right track, but the shifting of her life was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She scanned the horizon without seeing and wondered how long it would take, and whether she could put a time on it, like the careful baking of crème brûlée, or whether it would take the imprecise simmering of a stew.

  Still in her pajamas, Grace studied herself in the bathroom mirror, the morning light unforgivable. She was reluctant at first to look, but then she did. And what she saw did not please her.

  Her eyes, normally a bright, pastel gray with light green specks, looked dark and gloomy, like a rainy day. There were shadows beneath her eyes. The faint lines in her face were deepening these days. Her hair was badly in need of some sunshine or some bottle highlights—something to punch up the dull blond. Her skin was too pale and needed some sunshine too. Grace made a face at herself. She looked like hell lately, and it scared her. She would turn forty soon.

  Maybe my best days are behind me, she thought with a sullen urgency that bordered on panic. Forty. The number had such a starkness to it, like some sort of looming juncture, a precipice, a halfway point—halfway between birth and death—and the clock was ticking. Halfway through the journey, she thought, and she was both far enough on that journey to look back at where she’d been, and yet she could still look forward to the future. Whatever that might be.

  Grace took a deep breath and dropped her hand to pat Remy. She couldn’t undo anything in her past now, but she could still make her own future. Or remake it into something different from the path she was on. She did not want to be in the same place in her life this time next year—busy as hell and trying to juggle it all, with no one to share her life with, no one who really loved her. She had to make changes. She had to take this pile of ingredients she’d been tossed and make something delicious and beautiful out of it. She had done exactly that many times as part of her culinary training. And it had always come easy to her. She’d improvised and been creative and won praise. Now she needed to do the very same thing with her personal life. Make something out of nothing.

  She smiled down at Remy, who was getting squirmier by the minute. “Trade you lives, Remy. You seem to have everything figured out, huh, buddy?”

  The dog grew more excited and as she reached for his leash, he immediately turned into a brown tornado, full of boundless energy.

  “Easy, boy,” Grace soothed as she headed for the door and bounced down the steps, Remy pulling her along.

  The tide was low and the surf calm. It was peaceful and it beckoned to Grace, made her feel nostalgic with a flutter in her stomach. It was so much like the Cape Cod of her youth. The salty, cool spring air washed over her pleasantly and she breathed it in deeply. She walked, secretly wanting to frolic like a kid—make deep footprints in the sand, splash her feet in the cold, frothy water. But her moment of whimsy passed, and instead she simply walked along the dry part of the sand, her sandals kicking up tiny granules, her dog beside her happily tugging on his leash.

  The letter. Grace’s chest clenched as she recalled the words she’d tearfully written to Aly and mailed on the way to the airport. The warring feelings of resolve, hope and regret burned familiarly in her throat. She’d done what she had to do, she reminded herself. It was time for a fresh start, perhaps for both of them. The letter was short and somber, to the point. And very final. She did not equivocate. She wrote that she did not blame Aly for anything, that she was not bitter, but that she needed to get on with her life, needed to build her happiness around something—someone—more permanent. Their time together was over because it needed to be, and she hoped Aly would understand. She’d signed it: Affectionately, Grace.

  She blinked away the sting of sudden tears. Writing the words was so unsatisfying, so inadequate. She’d wanted to say so much more, like how much she would miss Aly’s smile, her touch, her laughter. Even the excitement of sneaking around, as though the covertness made the relationship more important, more thrilling than it really was. She would miss the sex, the acute need for Aly’s body. There was a time when I hoped you might be the one, Aly. That you were the one…God, why couldn’t you have been the one?

  Grace shook her head, determined not to go there. She’d had three years to learn that Aly had no intention of changing anything in her life. Three years of broken commitments and hasty liaisons, aching loneliness and a pervasive hunger that could never quite be sated. Incredible, soaring highs at times and debilitating lows. It was exhausting, distressing and just godawful sad most of the time. It had been both their faults, though blame mattered little now. It was just how it was.

  There would always be her work, Grace thought with some consolation. The focused intensity had always propelled her through the rough patches. But now, at least for a couple of months, she would not even have that. God, what have you done, Grace?

  Remy suddenly bucked and reared, then bolted, nearly sending Grace off her feet. “Dammit!” she yelled, the leash having been yanked from her hand. Remy was off like a rocket, barreling down the beach.

  “Remy! Come here, Remy!” Grace yelled and took off after him, the sand slowing her down. “You little shit,” she muttered under her breath.

  He was a brown speck far ahead, and she kept after him, puffing like a heavy smoker and wishing she’d been more committed to the gym. That’s it. I’m going to start running regularly, even if it kills me!

  Remy made a sharp turn into shore and disappeared toward a home deep among the pine trees. She visually landmarked his exit spot, still yelling his name, and followed his trail. She came to an ungraceful, breathless halt at the sight of the big lug lying contentedly on a beautiful cedar deck at the feet of a lithe, elderly woman with a big straw hat shadowing her face.

  Shy and embarrassed about her dog, Grace approached, her eyes shooting daggers at Remy, but she gave her best TV smile to the stranger.

  “Hello there,” the tall woman said, getting slowly to her feet. “You must be this fella’s master.”

  Grace pursed her lips and hoped the woman wasn’t about to rebuke her. “I am, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what possessed him. He just gets crazy sometimes, especially when he’s outdoors.”

  The woman’s laugh was full of understanding. “I’ll bet it was the smell of bacon cooking inside.”

  “Yep. That’ll do it. Remy,” she said menacingly to the dog. “Where are your manners?”

  “I’m Connie Sparks, by the way.” She extended a leathery hand and Grace shook it warmly from the steps of the deck.

  “Grace Wellwood.”

  A mild look of curiosity passed over the woman’s face, as though the name should mean something to her. Grace was glad she hadn’t been recognized, but she knew that wouldn’t last long. Once the islanders realized she was staying at Trish Wilson’s place, they would make the connection and her anonymity would evaporate like the morning fog—if it hadn’t already.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Wellwood.”

  “Please,” Grace said. “Call me Grace.”

  “Of course.” Connie Sparks’s blue eyes were penetrating but friendly. “As long as it works both ways. Look, why don’t you come and join me on the deck while Remy gets his rest?”

  Grace chuckled and threw another glare at Remy. “That spoiled dog does not need rest. He needs punishment, more like.”

  Connie waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. I can tell he’s a good boy. He was just looking to make friends, that’s all.”

  Grace wasn’t sure she was in the mood to make friends as effortlessly as her dog. She would be poor
company for anyone right now who didn’t have a tail and four legs. And even then…

  “C’mon up,” Connie said again, more insistently this time. “I’ve got coffee brewing.”

  Remy was stretched out now, nearly asleep in the sun. Nothing was going to pry him from his spot, and really, Grace thought a little morosely, it’s not like she had anything better to do. Perhaps the distraction of a quick cup of coffee and small talk with another human being wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  She swallowed and summoned another smile. “I’d love to. If it’s all right.”

  Connie warmly beckoned her toward a cedar Adirondack chair. “I’d love the company. What do you take in your coffee?”

  “Just a little cream, please. I’m not disturbing your breakfast, am I?”

  “Not at all,” Connie said from the weathered, wood-framed screen door. “Would you care to join me?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten,” Grace lied, not wanting to impose. Besides, she’d been eating like a bird lately and really didn’t feel like breakfast.

  “I’ll just turn the bacon off for now, that’s all.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am. Just relax.”

  Grace reached down to pat her stretched out dog, wanting to chastise him, but he was looking up at her innocently with his big hazel eyes. “You big goof,” she whispered. “I know I’ve been lousy company, but really. Running into a stranger’s lap. Could you be any more obvious?”

  Connie returned and handed Grace a pottery mug full of aromatic, steaming coffee. “Thank you,” Grace murmured and gratefully sipped. God, it tasted good. “What’s your secret to such fabulous coffee?”

  Connie sat down in the facing Adirondack, sipping from a matching mug. “Colombian beans and a twenty-year-old, well-seasoned coffeemaker.”

  Grace nodded. “Now those were the days when things were made to last.”

  Connie nodded wistfully, her gaze drifting out to the sea some sixty yards off. “Everything is so disposable now. And not just appliances. Relationships too, if you ask me. If something doesn’t work, throw it out and get a new one. That seems to be the way these days.”