by Unknown
“I just… I haven’t…” Grace gave up trying to explain. Hot, mindless sex was about the last thing she wanted in her life right now, and yet… If she were going to fall into a transient affair again, Torrie would certainly be a delicious choice. She couldn’t deny the appeal of it. But Jesus. I am not going down that road again.
Trish’s smile was sympathetic. “The only point we’re trying to make is that there is life after Aly O’Donnell.”
“I know that, Trish. I just don’t know that I’m ready. And I certainly don’t want to replace Aly with a carbon copy of her.”
James sighed woefully. “You girls take sex far too seriously.”
“Not always,” Grace countered, looking pointedly at Trish, mischief in her voice. “You’ll never guess who Torrie’s cousin is.”
Trish looked bored. “Let me guess, Angelina Jolie?”
Grace chuckled. “As a matter of fact, it’s someone you know.”
James squirmed excitedly. “In the Biblical sense?”
Grace shrugged coyly and watched Trish grow annoyed. “As a matter of fact—”
“Oh, stop! Just tell me already!”
“Does the name Catie Sparks ring a bell?”
Trish tapped bright red fingernails on the table and shook her head impatiently. “Grace, you know I suck at names.”
“Okay, how about this.” Grace was enjoying herself.“Sheridan Island. That weekend six years ago, right before you married Scott.”
Trish’s eyes grew bigger, if that were possible, and her fingers stilled. “No!”
“And the best part is she’s here.”
“Get out!”
“What am I missing here, girls?”
Grace began to giggle so hard, the table shook. “Let’s just say someone from Trish’s past has come back to haunt her.”
James rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Oh, goodie. I love soap operas.”
Trish looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. She downed her drink in one gulp.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“C’mon, Grace, get on out there and enjoy yourself.” Trish was half begging, half ordering.
Grace was only too happy to stay in her comfortable world of stainless steel and frenzied cooks who pushed food along as though on an assembly line, dishing up the chicken cacciatore and grilled salmon, the potatoes and vegetables, for the servers to deliver. Voices called out over the din for more of this or that, for something to be warmed up, for more wine. A vegetarian request had been misplaced. Something else was overcooked. It was a frenetic pace and Grace enjoyed it, because as hectic and disorderly as it might seem to an outsider, it actually followed a script, like a stage show. And Grace was the director, the commander who had pulled it all together, starting with her own vision. Now she watched with a critical eye as others carried it out.
Her gaze never left the steady stream of plates being wheeled out, or the bodies that dashed about with purpose.“Keep it going, guys. We’re almost there.” She called more encouragements, then turned to Trish. “Trish, really, I’d rather make sure—”
“Nonsense. Everything is going perfectly. You’ve done a ton of work already. Let me handle the rest.”
Grace frowned down at her stained white smock and rumpled checkered pants. “Look at me, Trish. I’m not going out there like—”
“Of course not.” Trish brightened, looking smug. “That’s why I brought you a gorgeous cocktail dress, exactly your size. It should be in your room by now.”
“That was rather presumptuous of you, wasn’t it?” Grace couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or pleased. She should have figured Trish would have something up her sleeve, and she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Torrie. Undoubtedly, Trish was trying to push Grace into Torrie’s arms, as if that would somehow make her forget about Aly quicker—as though there were some formula or recipe for expunging a lover, for softening the loss, like chasing away a spicy aftertaste with a spoonful of sorbet.
“Grace, look. You deserve a little fun, and I know you’ll look absolutely irresistible in that dress!”
“I’m not trying to look irresistible.”
“Well, it can’t hurt.”
“Can’t hurt what?”
Trish was already shoving her out the swinging stainless steel doors. She was just trying to help, Grace knew, so it was hard to be truly pissed at her. Besides, Grace had little appetite to argue. She was strangely agreeable with Trish these days, and it was because of Aly. It was as though excising Aly from her life had taken all the fight out of her. “All right, all right. I’ll be back before it’s time for the cake. And don’t let Torrie in here to see it while I’m gone.”
The Tuleh dress she found waiting for her was simply stunning. It was made of silk, with thin shoulder straps, a squared top cut low, with a dropped waistline and a short, godet skirt. It was a bold floral print in hues of white, black, pink, turquoise and yellow. Perfect for spring, though she would not be able to match its cheerfulness.
The main courses had been served, and by the time Grace appeared in the ballroom, the post-dinner speeches, thankfully, were over. She plucked a flute of champagne from the tray of a young, bow-tied woman, and drained it quickly. Though Grace was used to the company of celebrities and wealthy people, she never really felt like one of them, even though she qualified on both counts. At heart, she was just a working chef who enjoyed hard work and the results of her labor. She enjoyed the fact that others appreciated the results too, but she knew any adulation was transient. Loyalty could quickly disappear with one bad dish.
She supposed it was much the same for the athletes, as she watched them together laughing, some whispering conspiratorially, others talking loudly, sharing old yarns over a drink, as though they would not be competing against each other again in a few days. There was a common bond among them that looked hard to penetrate, as though their experience could not truly be shared by anyone who did not do what they did for a living. It was true, Grace hardly knew a slice from a draw, but then, how many of them knew what to do with arugula, or how to make perfect puff pastry?
“Hey, I see someone managed to drag you out of the kitchen.” It was Catie Sparks, her hand genially on Grace’s arm. “Was it Torrie?” Her expression seemed to suggest that it couldn’t have been anyone—or anything—else.
Grace scanned the room crowded with women in expensive dresses and suits, but she couldn’t spot Torrie. She was mildly disappointed and answered Catie with a nervous smile. “Actually, I’m not sure where our defending champion is. I just got here.”
Catie scooped two glasses of champagne from a passing waitress and traded Grace her empty glass. “I’m afraid we can’t call her the defending champ anymore. Diana Gravatti is the new champ.”
“Of course,” Grace said, embarrassed by her oversight. She was glad she hadn’t made the gaffe in front of Torrie.
“It’s okay.” Catie, as though reading her mind, gave her a reassuring smile. “She’s not that fragile, you know. She’ll get through this, and next year she’ll be winning this thing again.”
“I know.” Torrie would get through her injury and her hurt pride and her doubts, just as Grace would overcome her own issues, too. Eventually. But it would take time. Time that would not pass quickly or easily.
“You know,” Catie said quietly. “I feel like I should apologize.”
“Oh?”
Catie fidgeted a little.“You know. For what happened between us six years ago.”
Grace smiled but really wanted to chortle. Catie wanted to apologize for some stupid kiss all those years ago? My God, what a sweet, naive girl. “Oh, Catie. There’s no need. Really.”
“I didn’t, you know, cause problems between you and your friend, did I?”
“Not at all. I’m afraid it would take a lot more than that.”
Catie looked relieved and offered Grace a silent toast. “I’m glad.”
Amusement quickly gave way to guilt, and the g
uilt had more to do with Torrie than Catie. Grace felt shame when she saw the hurt in Torrie’s face when Catie had blurted out that they’d kissed. “You know, Catie, about that kiss. I think maybe I should apologize to you too.” She shrugged. She had no explanation that could justify her behavior. “I was impulsive. It was wrong.” I used you for my own entertainment, Grace wanted to say, and her thoughts skipped to Aly—the quintessential expert at using people. Grace swore to herself she would never become an Aly O’Donnell. “It was inconsiderate and selfish of me.”
“It’s okay, Grace.” Catie shrugged casually, looking a little mystified. “It was no big deal.”
Catie was right. The kiss wasn’t such a big deal, but her own behavior had been.
“Your friend,” Catie said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Trish?”
“Yeah. I think I should apologize to her.” Catie had that awshucks look again that was probably irresistible to many women. “I mean, I knew she was going to marry some guy, and still, I… you know, we—”
“Yeah, I know.” Boy, did she ever. She’d heard them through the walls for two nights having endless, raunchy, noisy sex. At the time, it shocked the hell out of Grace that her straight, engaged friend had thrown herself headlong into a wild fling with another woman. But what the hell. It was Trish’s business and it hadn’t gotten in the way of her relationship with Scott. It certainly wasn’t why they’d divorced, and as far as Grace knew, Trish had not been with a woman since.
Grace slid her hand around Catie’s forearm and squeezed gently. She knew how Catie felt, sleeping with someone who was spoken for. “It’s okay, Catie. Really. But you should probably go say hi to Trish. She’s in the kitchen, you know.”
“You think that would be all right?”
Grace blinked encouragingly and gave Catie’s arm another squeeze of encouragement. “Yes, it would be more than okay.” If Catie wanted to make peace with Trish, more power to her.
“All right.” Catie shot a wink over her shoulder. “Thanks, Grace. I’ll see you later.”
Grace secretly relished the idea of Trish being surprised by Catie. She wished she could sneak into the kitchen and watch them—Catie trying to be cool, a little shy and charming at the same time, and Trish trying to hide her discomfort, or maybe thrill, at seeing Catie again. Who knew?
“Good evening, Grace.” It was Torrie’s voice suddenly behind her, deep and caressing, and it nearly made Grace stumble backward into her, where she was sure Torrie would easily have caught her.
She turned, watched Torrie’s eyes rake delicately over her and felt the heat of Torrie’s approval on her skin.
“You look incredible, Grace.”
Grace knew she looked pretty damned good and was secretly pleased Torrie had noticed, but she wished Torrie would stop looking at her that way, like she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Torrie was good for her ego and nothing more, Grace reminded herself for the hundredth time. Her attention was a pleasant, maybe even needed distraction, but she didn’t want the distraction to become a complication. She certainly didn’t want to give Torrie false hope.
“Thanks, Torrie.” She touched the expensive fabric of Torrie’s tuxedoed lapel. “You clean up nicely yourself.”
“Thanks. I hope it dispels any myths you might have about jocks not dressing well.”
Grace gestured expansively. “Please. These women dress exquisitely. They could put Hollywood to shame. Any one of them.”
Torrie smiled rakishly. “Even me?”
Especially you, Grace wanted to say. Torrie was a female Cary Grant or George Clooney in that rich black Armani suit, white linen shirt and lavender bow tie. Grace loved how handsome and strong she looked, with that glint of mischief in her eyes. “I’m sure any leading lady would be happy to walk down the red carpet with you on her arm.”
“What about you?” Torrie whispered close to her ear, her voice thick and sweet, like molasses. “Would you be happy to have me on your arm?”
Grace swallowed a quick yes. She’d been to so many events over the last couple of years—awards banquets, guest appearances at lectures, parties, book signings, television appearances. Not once had Aly accompanied her. But Aly, she had to remind herself, was gone now. And so were the years of going about solo, if she chose. She could do whatever she wanted and with whomever she wanted. But in reality, she really didn’t know what to do with her sudden freedom, even though she had never actually been tied to Aly. Not in any real way. It was an odd place to be, feeling constrained by shackles that had never really existed.
Grace blinked hard at a faint headache coming on. “Torrie, I—” She didn’t want to be having this conversation, not even in jest.
“Are you okay, Grace?”
Grace sipped her remaining champagne. It wouldn’t help her headache, but it would help her nerves. “I’m fine, thank you. I just realized we’ve got to bring out the cake now.”
Torrie lit up. “So it is a cake? Can I see it first or do I have to see it with the others?”
Grace laughed at Torrie’s childlike enthusiasm.“You can have your own private viewing if you’d like.”
Torrie looked pleased. “I would like that.”
“So would I,” Grace said, knowing she would enjoy the look of surprise on Torrie’s face. “C’mon.”
Torrie didn’t disappoint, and Grace felt like a culinary student again, showing off her prize creation. The cake was nearly five feet long, narrow and curving, its surface alternately smooth and undulating, with rich, grass green icing. It was an exact replica of the fourth hole, where they’d gotten stuck in the rain. Grace had even copied the deep sand bunker, complete with two little figures in it. Flowers and shrubbery were intricately carved in icing, a tiny water hazard was made out of blue sugar water. It had taken Grace and a kitchen staffer almost two full days to make.
“Wow, Grace!” Torrie said, bending close to examine Grace’s handiwork. “It’s beautiful!” She looked pleased and happy, and it gave Grace a quiet, satisfying thrill.
“What can I say? I was inspired.”
Torrie shook her head in awe. “This, Grace, is a work of art.”
Grace looked at Torrie as if she should know better. “No. Your Aunt Connie is an artist. I just happen to have an eye for details.”
“And an imagination. And the skill to make it all work. No, Grace. You’re an artist too. It’s just that your kind of work can’t be hung in a gallery.”
Grace laughed. “Maybe that’s why I don’t think of food as artistry so much. Don’t get me wrong. The presentation can be artful, and how you blend flavors and ingredients takes creativity and imagination. But I guess because it’s gone so fast and there’s no time to stand around and admire it, or have others admire it, that I don’t see it on the same level as a painting or a sculpture. And then, of course, you have to be able to duplicate it on demand.”
“Don’t try to deny it, Grace. You’re a Picasso of food. Believe me.”
Grace narrowed her eyes playfully at Torrie. “Then you’re the van Gogh of golf.”
“Is this a crash course in art history or something?” Catie yelled across the kitchen. She approached with Trish in tow.
Grace was dying to know what, if anything, was going on between them. She watched them for clues—a secret look, a trace of strain, or maybe even delight, in their body language. But neither was giving anything away. She’d have to talk with Trish later.
“Is this cake awesome or what?” Catie said.
“Almost too good to eat, don’t you think?” Trish challenged with a wink.
The two cousins looked at each other and chimed in unison, “Nah!”
“Well then, let’s not keep everyone waiting,” Grace said.
“Wait,” Trish said, pulling a small digital camera from her pocket. “Let’s get a picture first.” She motioned for one of the other cooks to help her, then gathered Grace, Torrie and Catie around the cake, jumping into position herself at the l
ast second. They posed for a couple of photos, their arms slung loosely around one another, their grins broad and jubilant, as if the cake were the trophy they’d just won.
Grace laughed at the small spectacle they made when the cake was unveiled to the crowd, Torrie supplying an abbreviated version of why Grace chose the fourth hole to sculpt out of batter and icing. The women loved the story and wouldn’t stop chanting until first Torrie and then the new champ cut the cake. There were more photos, Grace trying to melt into the background with someone always thrusting her back up to the front. She was enjoying the energy of the room and grew more and more relaxed with another glass of champagne and small talk. Torrie introduced her around, and the women praised her work, many of them already familiar with her television show or one of her cookbooks. A handful had even eaten at her Boston restaurant. Grace was sure there were times on the Tour when there were little mind games, or gossip that was over-the-top, even hurtful. But tonight at least, the women were supportive and welcoming and in a mood to celebrate.
Torrie introduced Grace to her friend Diana, the new champ. She was a big, burly woman, her handshake as warm and welcoming as her smile. She reminded Grace of a big teddy bear.
“I’m dying to dance with the woman responsible for this fabulous dinner tonight.” Diana looked at Torrie for permission, which Grace charitably chalked up to nothing more than some kind of butch etiquette.
“I’d love to dance with the champion, thank you.”
“Perfect,” Diana said, taking Grace’s hand. “Since you’re responsible for giving me these extra calories tonight, it’s your duty to help me burn some of them off.”
Grace laughed and let Diana Gravatti twirl her around to Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” the other couples deftly moving out of their way.
“You’ve certainly done this before,” Grace said.
“What, won a golf tournament?”
Grace could see why Torrie liked Diana. “Well, that, yes. But I was talking about dancing.”
“Oh, that. My partner Becky is crazy about dancing. She got me into it about ten years ago, just after we got together.”