Flirting With Temptation (16 page)
She watched his biceps flex as he reached for two sandwich plates. Yeah, she did need a sexual release, or two, or twenty, something beyond her own personal adventures in the shower, and she didn’t need Jeff to provide it. Judging from the way Chris was looking at her, and the way Chris looked period, she could probably get her fill, and then some, from the good-looking lifeguard headed her way.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” he said, sitting on the lounger Rose had vacated. He extended one of the sandwich plates toward Babette. “Turkey and bacon. I had them add Swiss cheese.”
“Perfect,” she said, accepting the plate. He had big hands, long fingers, and smoky eyes that said he aimed to please.
She took a bite of the sandwich and enjoyed turkey and lettuce and cheese and tomatoes and pickles . . . and a drop dead gorgeous hunk watching her mouth as she chewed. He was hungry.
She was hungry too.
G
ert parked her Camry in a visitor spot at Mirror Lakes, cut off the ignition and stared at the rolling terrain, the elevated tees and the massive clubhouse that she’d frequented quite often many years ago. She glanced at her bag in the passenger’s seat, the bag that contained her new golf shoes, soft-spiked to follow proper course attire. Her collared shirt also followed course attire, even if it wasn’t nearly as ladylike as her usual clothing style. At least it was a pretty color, a bright pink, and it matched her skirt, navy with a pink hem. No, she wasn’t as feminine as usual, but to get on the course she had to dress the part.
Then again, to get on the course, she’d have to figure out what to do once she was on it. And she also had to determine how she could get the answers that she so desperately needed. She had an idea, a fairly novel idea if she did say so herself. However, in order for it to work she had to find a way to golf, and she really didn’t want to waste time about it. She wasn’t getting any younger.
She opened her bag and fingered the tiny notepad where she’d written the information Babette had provided. Rowdy Slidell’s phone number and address. She could call him, see if they could reconnect over the phone, and then perhaps arrange to get together for a cup of coffee, or maybe a Starbuck’s Caramel Macchiato with whipped cream.
Then she’d see what happened.
A fairly normal chain of events, she assumed, as long as it was okay with Henry. And the only way to know was to get out of the car.
Swallowing thickly, she dropped the visor and checked her face in the mirror. She didn’t look nervous, or not too nervous, she supposed. Her cheeks were a little more pink than normal, but that might be because she got a little carried away with the blush—probably because she
was
nervous.
She snapped the visor back in place and reached for her bag.
No time like the present.
Inhaling the mingled scents of cut grass and warm asphalt, she walked toward the rock-built clubhouse, only slowing her pace momentarily when the large water fountain outside misted her with its spray. The touch was gentle, tender.
“Henry?” she whispered, looking toward the water as though something magical would happen. Would she see his face? Hear his voice? She stood there, staring and wondering if something would happen to let her know what to do about finding Rowdy, seeing Rowdy.
Nothing did. She saw a hint of a rainbow forming in the path of the spray, but a rainbow wasn’t what she was looking for, even if she didn’t know what she was actually trying to find.
She continued walking toward the heavy wooden doors leading to the clubhouse. Before she had a chance to reach for them, a man exited, held one of the doors open, and smiled to her as she passed.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully, and Gert nodded. It was a beautiful day, and it reminded her of many other beautiful days that she’d spent at this course, riding in the cart and enjoying being a part of Henry’s world.
She entered the clubhouse and immediately noticed two things: first, that she was the only female here, which wasn’t all that unusual. She’d often been the only female around when she came with Henry, but it hadn’t felt quite so awkward then with her husband by her side. She tried to control her racing pulse and silently faced the fact that she would be subjected to an abundance of testosterone, mostly retired testosterone, but testosterone nonetheless.
The second thing she noticed was that she didn’t feel as comfortable here as she’d thought she would. It wasn’t like she remembered. Like many other moments when she’d visited a place that held a special memory in her heart, many things had changed. There was nothing sadder than realizing that you were out of place now, when once upon a time, you’d belonged here.
Her throat pinched tight, and she swallowed past it. There wasn’t really anything that should make her this uneasy; they’d simply remodeled. That was all.
The entire interior had been renovated, with cherry wood paneling, vaulted ceilings, and exposed beams. Or maybe those beams had been here before; she wasn’t certain. But the limestone fireplace taking up the entire right side of the building was definitely new, and the French doors offering sweeping views of the golf course along the back of the building were also new.
It was incredible, and it was a place Henry would have loved, a place Gert felt certain he still loved. Gert’s chest constricted and it became more difficult to swallow. What was she doing here? She didn’t need anyone else. She had her memories of Henry, and they were undeniably still very strong, very real.
What made her think she should even consider asking Henry whether she should see Rowdy Slidell?
Because you thought he might say yes, and you thought he might be tired of you sitting home alone, all the time, and wishing you were still a part of the world, instead of merely an observer,
her mind whispered.
Without really meaning to, she ventured toward the French doors, opened them and stepped out the back of the clubhouse. Then she walked a bit more until she stood on the edge of the course. Memories of the last time she had stepped on this grass flooded her very being, and she fought to overcome the onslaught of pain, and of loss. She hadn’t worried about wearing proper golf attire then, hadn’t questioned what kind of shoes were appropriate or whether what she was doing was right or wrong. None of that mattered, since she had been the only one here. She’d simply been asked to keep a promise, and she had.
The scent of grass was stronger here, giving her a heady feeling that made her momentarily lightheaded. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
“Gertrude? Gert? Is that you?”
The sound of her name surprised her; this course wasn’t near her new residence, and she hadn’t been to Mirror Lakes in so long, who would remember . . .
“Paul?” she questioned, viewing the familiar yet more tanned and more wrinkled, face of Paul Stovall.
His smile slid the wrinkles in different directions, but even so, it was a nice smile, and a nice face. “I thought that was you,” he said, walking toward her. He was dressed for a day of golf, in a pale yellow collared shirt, tan pants and a pair of golf shoes that she was fairly certain she’d seen in the store the other day when she’d bought her own.
The wrinkles and the tan weren’t the only difference since the last time she’d seen Paul, when she’d said goodbye to Henry at the funeral. His hair was a lighter gray now, even more silver, and it suited him well. “It’s been a long time,” she said.
“Too long,” he agreed, then he surprised her by stepping forward and giving her a friendly hug. His scent, that musky masculine scent that said he was comfortable outdoors, enveloped her, and she caught herself trying to inhale a bit deeper. It’d been a long time since she’d been held, even in friendly fashion, by a man.
“I’m really glad to see you, Gert. How’ve you been? You look terrific, as always. I heard you were living next door to one of your granddaughters.”
She smiled. Leave it to Paul to keep up with her, even if she hadn’t even thought to call him after she lost Henry. He’d been Henry’s best friend and golf partner, and Paul’s wife, Emily, had been a dear friend of Gert’s. She’d passed on nearly fifteen years ago, well before Gert lost Henry. Paul looked as if he were doing okay now. Gert hoped she looked the same. She was doing okay, after all. She was simply a little lonely at times.
“Was it Clarise? I believe that’s what I heard, that you were living next to her,” he continued.
Gertrude nodded. “I was, but then she married a nice young man and they live in a neighborhood not too far away from my apartment. But I was fortunate that my other granddaughter, Babette, moved into that apartment.”
“Babette, the one you said was so much like you it scared you?”
What a memory he had. She laughed. “That’s the one.”
“Well good. I’m glad that they’ve been taking care of you,” he said, then grimaced. “That isn’t what I meant. I know you can take care of yourself. I’m just glad that you have them here, in town and nearby, for companionship.”
“I knew what you meant,” she said softly. He’d been in the same position, losing Emily, so he understood.
“What brings you back to Mirror Lakes? You haven’t been here since, well, everything.”
“I was thinking of taking lessons.”
Unfortunately, he was a bit slow on the uptake of disguising his shock. His eyes practically bulged with surprise. “Lessons?”
“Golf lessons,” she said, as though there were any other kind of lessons taught here.
“No, I know that,” he said, then made a little half-smile, half-frown thing with his mouth that didn’t really let Gert in on what he thought about it. But then he told her. “It’s just that you never really cared all that much about the game itself. Unless I totally misunderstood, I thought the reason you came was to be with Henry and to ride in the cart.”
Paul never held his punches; that’s what Henry had liked about him. Good thing Gert liked it too. “That is why I came, but I need to—want to—take lessons now and learn to golf,” she said, then added, “I think.” Looking out at the span of rolling hills, lakes, trees, sandy dunes—was that the right word, or was it sandy pits? sand pits?—anyway, she began to have second thoughts. She was supposed to hit a tiny little ball in all of that? And she’d planned on talking to Henry and having him give her answers throughout the journey. How would that happen if she couldn’t even find her way through the course, much less knock a tiny ball through it?
“Gertrude, if you aren’t careful, your face will stick that way, or that’s what Emily used to always say.”
She realized that her face was, indeed, squished up like she’d eaten a persimmon as she pondered whether she’d made a colossal mistake coming out here and expecting to start golfing in a day.
A day!
Henry was probably laughing at her right now, and she didn’t blame him.
She relaxed her face, forced a smile.
“Gert, why are you thinking it necessary to take golf lessons? You don’t look all that excited about it.”
“I need answers,” she whispered.
He took an audible breath and then indicated a black wrought iron table nearby. A large green canvas umbrella shaded the table and also gave it an air of privacy, even though it was in the middle of the traffic from men going to and from the course. “Why don’t you sit with me and tell me what’s going on?”
She nodded, followed him and sat down, placing her bag on top of the table.
Dear God, don’t let me cry.
“I bought golf shoes.” There was no doubt that wasn’t what he planned to talk about, but that’s what she wanted to say. Anything else would make her whimper, and she was pushing her gumption to the limit by even coming here; she didn’t want to ruin it now by losing it in front of Paul.
He remained silent for a second, and then he nodded and peeked into the bag. “Want to show them to me?”
Her gratitude was instant. He knew that wasn’t what she was thinking about, but he didn’t question her, and he really did look interested in seeing her new shoes. She smiled, reached into her bag and withdrew the rectangular box. “I wasn’t certain what kind was best, so I trusted the salesperson at the sports store at the Galleria.”
He lifted the top from the box, pushed the white paper aside. “They’re pink.”
Gert nodded proudly. “I like pink.”
He smiled, and Gert, once again, admired the effortless way he smiled. Paul was an easy guy to talk to, and to sit with; no wonder he and Henry had been so close. “They suit you, Gert.”
“Chintz rose,” she said, looking at the beautiful shoes again. “And that trim is full grain leather.”
“I can tell.”
“And the kilties aren’t attached, so I can remove them to have a totally different look. Oh, and they’re water resistant, and very flexible.”
“I guess all you need now is to wear them,” he said teasingly, and unfortunately, Gert knew he was right.
“Yeah, and that’s my problem.” Putting the shoes on meant she was ready to hit the course, and even if she were merely going out there for lessons, she wasn’t so certain she was ready. Paul was right; she’d never really paid that much attention to the game. She’d liked being outside, being with Henry and riding in the cart. The actual game of golf had never overly excited her, and now she was wondering whether her sole means for communicating with Henry—or at least the main means she’d come up with for communicating with him—might not be all that great of a method after all. She swallowed, frowned, watched a man tee off and send his little golf ball soaring. Would she even be able to hit the thing? How did they make it go up in the air? Would she have to keep pecking hers all through the course on the ground? And wouldn’t that be a tad embarrassing?
“Gertrude.”
Paul’s voice snapped her back to the table, away from the image of her ripping the greens to shreds trying to figure out how to hit the ball in the air. The groundskeepers probably wouldn’t appreciate her for that.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Have you eaten? Because the Grille has an amazing Reuben on rye, and if memory serves, that’s your favorite. Still like extra kraut?”
