Right Back Where We Started Read online

  Martina looked down at her hands, then interlocked her fingers as if in prayer. “Like this?”

  “No, not all your fingers, just some of them . . .”

  She looked up at him, annoyed. “Like I said: a sucky teacher.”

  Carter fluffed his hair with one hand. “But if I could touch you, I could you show you, that's what I'm saying. I just want to make sure you're okay with that.”

  “Fine, so just show me with your hands. It's not that hard.”

  He edged closer. “What if I need to correct your posture?”

  She blinked at him. “What? That sounds bogus.”

  “No, no,” he chuckled. “It's important. If your posture's bad, the ball's going to go off in some crazy direction.” His laughter drew her forward like he'd lassoed her with it.

  “How do you do that?” She sounded like a breathy fool. She could hear it, but she couldn't stop it.

  “Well,” he said, turning her gently, “the easiest way is to just cozy up behind you and help you with the angle. Teach you what it feels like.” His voice was rougher than the edge of the fairway. He fit his arms over hers, correcting her hold on the rolling pin, their fingers tangling. Tangling was happening inside, too . . . Martina tried to ignore it, but his strong hands over hers weren't helping, and she could feel the heat from his chest radiating against her back. All she had to do was lean back an inch, and they'd be pressed together. “See how that'll work better? Make sure you keep your head down, even when you swing. Keep your focus on the ball.”

  “Like baseball. Check.”

  “Like most games that involve a ball. Let's do a practice swing. Straight arms,” he coached, pulling the rolling pin back, then swinging it forward smoothly. “Keep your hips square. Widen your stance a little. And bend your knees.”

  “You're giving me too much to think about,” she grumped, and her bird's nest of confused thoughts was not made better by his nose brushing her cheek for just a heartbeat.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “You're right, I'm a crap teacher. I guess we'll be losing a lot of balls.” She pivoted to see him better, and for a moment, she was sixteen again, flustered by his sideways glances in trigonometry, craning her neck for a glimpse of him on the soccer field, hanging around Annie's, hoping he'd show up.

  “You can afford it,” she said, giving him a smile she knew would bring out her dimples. Carter's pupils were blown out like he was high, but she knew he wasn't; it was them. It was the way they were together, the highest highs and the lowest lows, mercurial as Oregon's winter weather. A flash of gray appeared in her peripheral vision, and she heard Mrs. Sánchez gasp softly.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, backing out of the kitchen. Carter stepped back quickly as Martina brought up her hand to stop her, still holding the rolling pin. “You're not intruding, there's nothing happening,” she assured her. “Really. Please, come finish your work, I know you're tired.”

  Mrs. Sánchez warily came back into the kitchen, and Carter avoided looking at both of them by finishing his dinner as quickly as possible, shoveling the cold food into his mouth in huge bites, then rinsing the plate himself and putting it into the dishwasher.

  “I'm going to take off,” Martina said to his back, and he nodded.

  “Wear something nice; the club has a dress code.” He was already at the kitchen door into the black hallway. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, looking forward to it,” she called after him, but he was gone.

  “I'm sorry, sweetheart,” Mrs. Sánchez whispered, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “I didn't know.”

  “There's nothing to know.” Martina put the rolling pin away and slammed the drawer shut too hard, wincing at the sound.

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, the agency said there can be nothing, so there must be nothing.” Why did Greg have to dump her now? Couldn’t they have continued the charade just a few more weeks, just through the new year? She didn’t even have a date to Winnie’s wedding now . . .

  “Yes, I understand, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But when she is gone, surely . . .”

  Martina held up a hand. “I can't think about that yet. That could be years away . . .”

  “He’s not worth the wait?”

  Of course he is. But worth sacrificing my career? That I don’t know.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SALEM GOLF CLUB WITH its serene red-roofed clubhouse, manicured landscaping and perfectly-pressed occupants felt like another world to Martina . . . the Carpenters' world. She'd rush-ordered a white golf skirt, which she now tugged down her legs as they walked into the main entrance. She'd have preferred to try something on first, but there was no time. And she'd underestimated how this was going to ride up on her long legs, especially given that she was curvier than the stick-thin model they'd pictured online.

  “You look nice,” Carter whispered as they reached the front doors. He opened it for the ladies, then followed them inside. He has his good manners on today. Martina let her eyes wander around the clubhouse while Carter paid and arranged for clubs for her and a cart. She was careful to keep Willow in her peripheral vision; she was having a good day, but that guaranteed nothing. The smell of roasted potatoes, eggs Benedict, and smoked salmon mingled with leather. Carved wood and old photos filled the walls, and it impressed upon her a sense of history; it wasn't as stuffy as she'd imagined it would be.

  “Well, look who it is. Mrs. Carpenter! It's nice to see you again!”

  A man in a green synthetic polo shirt—one of the golf pros, she'd guess—was walking over to Willow, hand extended, and Martina stepped quickly to join her at her elbow. Willow smiled and shook his hand, but didn't seem to be able to start a conversation with him.

  “Hello, I'm her assistant, Martina,” she said, reaching out for his hand as well. “Willow's going to show me the ropes today.” She'd already decided in the car that she was going to describe herself in the way that put Willow in the best light. Besides, it was true: she did assist her with many things.

  “Well, she always was a natural,” he said, smiling. “I'm Stan Gross.”

  “Great to meet you, Mr. Gross.”

  He turned back to Willow. “So what have you been up to? We haven't gotten an invite yet for the Rotary Club ball; is that still happening this year? We're coming up on it, right?”

  Willow opened and closed her mouth a few times, and Martina waited patiently until she turned to her with helpless, slightly desperate eyes. She interlocked their arms, knowing the contact would help Willow settle.

  “You know, she hasn't been involved this year.”

  “That's right,” Willow said, her throat sounding a bit raspy. “I thought I'd let the younger generation have a crack at it.”

  She and Mr. Gross laughed, and Martina chuckled along, but that rasp had her worried. Acid reflux was a common side effect of her Alzheimer's meds, and she wanted to head off any problems well in advance. She made a mental note to examine her throat at the next opportunity to do so in private as Carter re-joined them.

  “Stan, you know my son, Carter.”

  “Yes, good to see you again,” Stan said, giving him a firm handshake. “My wife’s thrilled to have you for the bachelor charity auction for Doernbecher Children’s Hospital. You brought in a lot of donations last year.”

  I’ll bet he did. Jealousy stabbed at her from behind.

  “You still working on that slice?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, smiling politely, “when I get the time. I've been pretty busy down at Greenfield lately.”

  “You're selling insurance now? I've been thinking of adjusting my umbrella

  coverage . . .”

  “No, sir. I'm an actuary. But I'm sure they could take good care of you if you come down to the office.” He gave Stan a business card, and Martina tried not to be impressed by his grown-up demeanor. They all shook hands again, and Carter shepherded them toward the carts.
She had to try out a set of clubs for size, and she tried to remember what he'd taught her in the kitchen the other night. Then she was helping Willow into the cart for balance, and he was driving the cart along the asphalt path at top speed, all of five miles an hour.

  “Why do you get to drive?” Martina asked from the back seat.

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “Because I assume your driving is as good as it always was.”

  “My driving is excellent, thank you.”

  “If you're on the Formula One circuit, then I agree.”

  “Ha ha ha,” she said mockingly, and his eyes went all crinkly as he grinned at her. They got out of the cart and approached the first hole. “Maybe you could help her pick a club,” Martina prompted, touching his elbow. He nodded and handed her a large-headed club.

  “The bigger the head, the farther it goes,” he explained. “This first hole has a few closer tees, so that should make it easier.”

  “A ladies' tee?” She snorted. “Isn't that a little sexist?”

  He adjusted his sunglasses, and she recognized the move as one he went to when he needed patience. She didn't want to make him regret coming with them.

  “I believe they're now colored, not coordinated to one's sex or gender.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is it good exercise?”

  “What?”

  “Jumping to conclusions like that?”

  Martina elbowed him playfully, and he grinned, elbowing her back. They watched side by side as Willow lined up for her shot. Martina felt her heart lift, seeing Willow 'just know' what to do, her body moving with grace and poise as she pulled back the club and connected with the ball. Her shot was pure poetry; high, long, and straight. They all sheltered their eyes, watching it fly. Then the moment was gone, and she turned to them with childlike uncertainty.

  “Was that a good one?” She knew how to play, but she didn't know how to win.

  In unison, she and Carter both began to applaud her, and she beamed. She even put the club back in the bag instead of laying it down on the tee.

  “All right, your turn,” Carter said, ushering her forward with a gentle hand at her back.

  “Maybe I should watch for a few holes,” she balked. She was going to be bad at this and she was at work. She especially didn't like looking incompetent at work. Yet it didn't feel like work when Carter wrapped himself around her from behind, shielding her from the wind, arranging her hands on the grip of the driver. He adjusted her stance, bending her forward with careful hands, and yet it still felt as intimate as it had when they were alone in the dimly-lit kitchen. At least they were mostly alone out here, and with the weather looking drizzly, there shouldn't be too many other people wanting to play through.

  “Just stay loose, try to keep your elbows straight, and look at the ball, not the fairway.”

  “Okay. One question.”

  “Yes?”

  “What's a fairway?”

  Carter laughed into her shoulder, his body shaking behind hers. “This is gonna be great, just great. I can take a video, right?”

  “No, you may not, Carter James Carpenter and don't you even—where's your mom?”

  They straightened, looking around. The cart was still there. The only sound they heard was the sound of the creek bubbling along between evergreens, and the wind bent the willow boughs. A starling pecked in the grass. Carter cursed under his breath.

  “Mom?”

  “Willow?” The wind carried her voice away, so she called louder. “Willow!” No answer.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Carter said, clasping his hands behind his neck. “What do we do?”

  “Okay,” Martina said, holding him by the upper arms to keep him from pacing away. “She's gotta be close by; we were only distracted for a few minutes. I'll run back to the clubhouse and see if she went that way, and you try to catch up with her. Call when you find her.”

  “She's gonna get hit with a golf ball, she's gonna crash a cart into the creek . . .”

  “Crash.” She put her hands on his cheeks to capture his worried gaze. “Don't panic. Just go to the next tee. She's probably just trying to keep playing, and she didn't think to wait for us. Hurry. Go.” She released him and turned and ran back up the hill toward the clubhouse, suddenly very unconcerned about whether or not her outfit was okay. She slipped into the clubhouse, trying to slow her heavy breathing, so as not to attract attention to herself or the situation. Stan Gross was talking to two men in the lobby, and she quickly went over to him.

  “I'm so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Gross, but have you seen Mrs. Carpenter? We seem to have gotten separated . . .”

  He blinked. “Oh. Did you try calling her?”

  Geez. That felt so obvious now. “No, I didn't. Thank you, I'll try that.”

  “I've been standing here since you left, and I didn't see her come back in.”

  “Thank you. I have to go . . .”

  “Wait,” he reached toward her, but didn't touch her. “Is she . . . okay? She seemed quiet. Different.”

  Martina paused. Now really wasn't the time, and she hadn't talked to Carter about disclosing his mother's condition to anyone. So she just smiled and lied. “She's fine. I really do need to go. Thanks for your help. Really.”

  She dialed Willow's number, and she answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Willow, it's Martina, your assistant.”

  “Oh, Martina.” She could hear her crying. “Help me, I don't know where I am.”

  “You're at the Salem Golf Club,” Martina said, trying to stay calm. “Can you tell me what you see when you look around? I’m looking for you, and it’ll help me find you if you can give me some clues.”

  “Sinks. And toilets.” The bathroom. Martina sighed with relief. That was a fairly safe place to be. “And urinals.”

  Shit, she's in the men's room. Martina stopped a caddie. “Excuse me, where are the restrooms?” He pointed down a long hallway near the restaurant. “Thank you.” Martina heard the beep of an incoming call and realized it must be Carter, freaking out when he didn’t find Willow at the second tee. She wished she could answer and assuage his fear, but it was more important to support Willow and stay on the line with her. “All right, Willow, I'm coming. I'm on my way. Just hang tight.” She could hardly keep her feet to a walk; she felt like a racehorse at the bell, ready to sprint to her as fast she could.

  A man was coming out of the restroom, looking mildly perplexed, still drying his hands on a paper towel. “Excuse me, sir, is there a blonde woman in there?”

  “Yeah, I was just about to talk to the manager . . .”

  “Oh, please don't. That's my patient; she's got Alzheimer's and she wandered away while I was . . .” Flirting. That was the hard truth. This was her fault.

  “This lady was pretty young . . .” He didn't seem convinced that she was telling the truth.

  “Yes, sir, it's early-onset Alzheimer's. Are there any other men in there?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Okay, I'm going to go in and get her. So sorry about this.” She rushed past him without waiting for a response. “Willow?”

  “Hello?” Her voice was small. Martina hung up the phone and hurried inside.

  “There you are,” she said, keeping her voice warm. “We've been looking for you. Is everything okay? I'm so glad we found you.”

  Willow's hug felt more like an attack, meant to squeeze every molecule of air out of her lungs. “You found me.”

  Martina stroked her hair soothingly. “Of course I did! I'll always find you when you're lost. I'm going to take good care of you.”

  “I was scared.”

  “That's totally understandable. I'd be scared, too, in your shoes.”

  “I don't know how I got here . . . where's Carter?”

  “Oh shit.” Martina let go of Willow, but Willow didn't let go of her. She held up her phone and tried to see it over Willow's shoulder as she typed with her thumbs.

  Martina: Found W
, we R OK.

  Carter: Where are you?

  Before she could answer, the phone rang. She put it on speaker.

  “Where are you?” He only sounded a little panicked.

  “We're in the men's restroom in the clubhouse. Also, Willow, do you think we could leave now? Let the men of the golf club do their business with a little privacy?”

  “Good idea,” Willow agreed, letting go finally, getting a tissue to wipe her running mascara. “I don't care for the odor in here, anyway.”

  “We'll be in the restaurant, Carter; can you meet us there?”

  “Yes. I'm on my way.”

  She hung up and slung an arm around Willow's thin shoulders. “You know, it's a shame you can't be the designated driver. I could really go for a beer right now.”

  “That's funny. Because I don't drive.”

  “Right,” Martina grinned, and Willow smiled back.

  They'd just found a table when Carter found them. He was sweating hard and he collapsed into the leather chair with zero decorum. “That was the longest hour of my life.”

  “It was more like ten minutes.”

  “I don't see how that could be true. And you're driving home.” He signaled the waiter. “A beer, please. Anything cold.” Carter put his head down between his knees for a minute, still trying to slow his breathing.

  “He seems upset,” Willow noted.

  “Yes, he is upset.”

  “Is it because we didn't get to go golfing?”

  Carter's shoulders began to shake, and Martina hoped to God he wasn't crying that hard. She was going to have enough trouble getting the three of them out of this golf club without setting the Timber Falls rumor mill aflame. But when he sat up, he was laughing. He picked up his mom's hand and kissed the back of it. “No, it's not because we didn't get to go golfing. Do you want to know a secret?”

  Willow nodded, transfixed by him.

  He leaned closer to her and whispered, “I don't even like golfing. I only came because you like it.”

  “Oh, I don't like golfing. I only play because your father likes it. Where is he, anyway?” Carter and Martina stared at each other in wonder; she couldn’t believe her ears. Willow had never mentioned inviting Harrison, not that Martina would have even if she had. But it broke her heart a little that Willow was still trying to play the part of dutiful wife. She was a far better person than Martina would be in her shoes.