I slip into Alex’s bedroom to change. I didn’t bring any golf clothes, but I figure my khaki shorts and a polo shirt will have to do. I doubt anyone will say anything.
The ride to the club is pretty quiet. Jack never was much of a talker. He’s always been more introspective, choosing his words carefully before speaking, contributing to the conversation only when he has something worthwhile to add. Alex got her chatty side from her mother. Marianne was the life of every party. Gatherings at the Smart house were full of fun and games and singing. I can see why Jack fell in love with her. She breathed life into everything she did. She was creative and interesting, and tackled every project with an obsessive zealousness.
Marianne Smart was like Kahlúa in coffee.
She just made things better.
The first few weeks that Alex and I were back together, all she talked about was her mother. She told me about her impulsive departure. How it broke her and her father’s heart. Alex swore she would never forgive her mom for as long as she lived.
She said that finding me again was somehow like filling that hole her mother had left behind. And that I was the only reason she had the courage to come back here and face her house and her family. Up until then, she had been forced to keep her distance. Because it was just too painful.
I’ll admit, it’s strange here without Marianne around. It feels like someone lifted the needle from a record player. Let the air out of a balloon. Vacuumed the energy right up. I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for Lia, having to hold together the two things her mother abandoned: a husband and a restaurant.
I don’t envy the challenges she’s had. But I applaud them.
I’ve always admired Jack, though. He’s quiet but strong. Reticent but warm. He sells insurance to the good people of Eastbrook. Not the most glamorous of jobs, but a necessary one. And he’s good at it.
It was his money that funded the opening of La Bella Vita when Alex was in high school. I remember spending so many nights there after school. Alex loved having a restaurant in the family. There was always a place to get free food with her friends. We would come in huge groups and Marianne would bring us platters of delicious pasta and eggplant parm, and chicken marsala, feeding us until our stomachs couldn’t take any more.
And then, after hours, Alex would send her friends home and Marianne would pour the two of us glasses of house Chianti from the giant barrel on the bar. We would drink wine and I would help her make sauces for the next day. She taught me so much about combining flavors and using my sense of taste and smell to guide my cooking.
To this day, Chianti is still my favorite wine.
Alex, on the other hand, refuses to drink it.
By the time we arrive at the first hole, I’ve convinced myself that Lia won’t say anything to her sister. She would have to be crazy to dump another scandal onto this family just when everyone is starting to get over the last one. I know Lia. I’ve known her for years, and she wouldn’t do that. Not to her sister. And definitely not to her father.
No matter how pissed off she might be at me—and with good reason—I have to believe that she’s not that selfish.
But I do know that I have to talk to her. I have to get her alone and sort this out.
Her text message last night was vague and unusually dismissive. And then she simply stopped responding all together. Was she mad that I kissed her? But it’s not like she put up a fight. She kissed me back. Hard.
And from what I could feel, she seemed to like it. Really like it. I mean, her body was…
Enough.
I manage to wrangle in my thoughts before they go down that dangerous road again.
Regardless of whether she liked it or not, we still need to talk about this. Clear the air. So we can both move on.
I feel a firm pat on my shoulder and glance up to see Jack and his two friends staring expectantly at me. It’s my turn to tee off. I place my ball on the tee and step back, eyeing the pin in the distance. I grip the rented 5 iron firmly in my hands and take a few practice swings. Then I approach the tee, coil back tightly and whip my body around fast, smacking the ball into the air. The men let out simultaneous whistles as we all watch the little white orb sail straight for the green.
My face no doubt registers my surprise. I’ve never been very good at golf. But apparently the stress of kissing another woman has greatly improved my swing.
The ball bounces twice and lands approximately thirty feet from the pin. Jack applauds and congratulates me on my considerable improvement since we last saw each other. All the men insist on calling me Tiger Woods for the rest of the morning.
I refrain from telling them that actually, I’ve barely picked up a club in four years.
But the Tiger Woods part feels true enough.