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“And I’m telling you . . .” He jabbed the broken chip in the general direction of her face. “I’ve never sneaked around in my life, and I’m not doing it now.”
She couldn’t believe he was saying this. “You can’t jeopardize something so important for a few meaningless rolls in the hay. This is a temporary fling, Ted. Temporary. Any day now, I’ll pull up stakes and head back to L.A. I’m surprised I haven’t done it already.”
If she’d hoped he’d insist their relationship wasn’t meaningless, she’d set herself up for disappointment. He leaned across the table. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what’s temporary. It has to do with the kind of person I am.”
“What about the kind of person I am? Somebody who’s completely comfortable with sneaking around.”
“You heard me.”
She regarded him with dismay. This was the unwelcome consequence of having a lover with honor. Or at least what he saw as honor. What she saw was a looming choice between disaster and heartbreak.
Between trying not to think about falling in love with Ted and thinking too much about a possible reappearance by her mysterious home invader, Meg didn’t sleep well. She used her wakeful nights to make jewelry. The pieces were becoming more complicated, as her small group of customers showed a distinct preference for jewelry that used genuine relics instead of copies. She researched Internet dealers who specialized in the kind of ancient artifacts she wanted to use and plowed an alarming chunk of her nest egg into an order with a Boston-area anthropology professor who had a reputation for honesty and who provided a detailed provenance for everything she sold.
As Meg unpacked some Middle Eastern coins, Roman cabochons, and three small, precious mosaic face beads from around the second century, she found herself wondering if making jewelry was her business or a distraction from figuring out what she should really be doing with her life?
A week after Ted left town, Torie called and ordered Meg to show up for work an hour early the next morning. When Meg asked why, Torie acted as if Meg had just failed an IQ test. “Because Dex will be home then to watch the girls. Jeez.”
As soon as Meg got to the club the next morning, Torie dragged her to the practice range. “You can’t live in Wynette without picking up a golf club. It’s a city ordinance.” She handed over her five-iron. “Take a swing.”
“I won’t be here much longer, so there’s no point.” Meg ignored the pang that tweaked at her heart. “Besides, I’m not rich enough to be a golfer.”
“Just swing the damn thing.”
Meg did and missed the ball. She tried again and missed again, but after a few more swings, she somehow sent the ball in a perfect arc to the middle of the practice range. She let out a whoop.
“A lucky shot,” Torie said, “but that’s exactly how golf sucks you in.” She took the club back, gave Meg a few pointers, then told her to keep working.
For the next half hour, Meg followed Torie’s instructions, and since she’d inherited her parents’ natural athleticism, she began connecting with the ball.
“You could be good if you practiced,” Torie said. “Employees play free on Mondays. Take advantage of your day off. I have a spare set of clubs in the bag room you can borrow.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t really want to.”
“Oh, you want to, all right.”
That was true. Watching so many other people play had piqued her interest. “Why are you doing this?” she asked as she carried Torie’s bag back to the clubhouse.
“Because you’re the only woman other than me who’s ever told Ted the truth about his dancing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do. I also might have noticed that Ted went strangely quiet when I brought up your name in our phone conversation this week. I don’t know if you two have a future—providing he doesn’t have to marry Sunny—but I’m not taking any chances.”
Whatever that meant. Still, Meg found herself adding Torie O’Connor to the list of all she’d miss when she finally left Wynette. She slipped the bag of clubs off her shoulder. “Regardless of Sunny, how could Ted and I have a future? He’s the Lamb of God, and I’m the town bad girl.”
“I know,” Torie said brightly.
That evening, as Meg hosed off the day’s dust from the drink cart, the catering manager approached and told her one of the members wanted to hire her to serve at a ladies’ luncheon at her home the next day. The few townspeople who could afford it routinely hired staff to help at private parties, but no one had ever requested her, and she needed all the money she could get to make up for the materials she’d just bought. “Sure,” she said.
“Pick up a white server’s shirt in the catering office before you leave. Wear a black skirt with it.”
The closest thing Meg had was her black-and-white Miu Miu mini from the resale shop. It would have to do.
The catering manager handed over a piece of paper with the directions. “Chef Duncan is cooking, and you’ll be working with Haley Kittle. She’ll show you the ropes. Be there at ten. And this is a big deal, so do a good job.”
After she got back from the swimming hole that evening, Meg finally looked at the information the catering manager had given her. There was something familiar about the directions. Her gaze flew to the bottom of the page where the name of the person she’d be working for was typed out.
Francesca Beaudine
