Callie wandered through the woods and onto the course when she was ten. The MacCallums weren’t members, but Bill saw her interest, then her talent. He talked to club directors and received permission to give her lessons. He sold them on his dream that she’d become big in the game and that would bring attention to the club.
“Was it love at first sight when you were teamed with Jack?” Beebe asked.
The tone and sincerity of Beebe’s question touched Callie’s heart. “Honestly, it wasn’t quite love. It was a strong connection, though. We became instant friends.” She remembered everything about that first day with Jack. His athleticism and humor melded with hers as deliciously as warm syrup and butter settled comfortably in the wells of Sunday morning waffles.
“There were two occasions in May when Jack turned up on Duke’s home course during matches. He didn’t announce his intentions. I simply sensed his presence, perhaps due to the fact that he was wandering through my mind with increasing frequency.”
“And obviously, you were wandering through his.”
Callie smiled. Her spirit drifted back to the college course, finding Jack in the crowd, his blue eyes lighting a path between them. “He claimed his presence had been job-related coincidences.” She gave Beebe a devilish look. “Neither one of us believed that.”
“Did the relationship progress at that point?”
Now that Beebe knew Jack was married, she wanted to pinpoint precisely when sex entered the picture. Callie left off the introductory phrase, “Sorry to disappoint you,” and said instead, “No, just dinner and conversation. I didn’t see Jack again until my golf obligations for Duke ended in early August and I came home.” Still, no sale pended on the house.
“That was the fateful summer you fell of the bike and broke your wrist.”
Callie’s left wrist went up. “This one. Fixing it required the insertion of four stainless-steel pins, followed by seven weeks of inactivity, and three months more given to physical therapy.”
“Ouch. Didn’t need to hear that again.”
“My parents knew all that would predictably install me in this house for the duration. So the week after surgery, they trailed off to Macon, pining for the grandchildren. They said the real estate agent would deal with any nibbles and never looked back. Never came back either.”
Beebe sat expectant, an elbow pinned to the armrest, one finger pressed to her lips. Beebe knew Callie well enough, now. This time, Callie pulled the string that unraveled her change in mood.
“You know, throughout my entire childhood, I felt neglected. I went on winning one golf tournament after another, being written up on the sports page, and Mark got all the attention. I never understood that. But in the end, my family’s estrangement worked out.” She curled a lip. “After Chesterfield hired me, I bought the house. Jack had private access through the woods, and family didn’t show up at odd times. My family’s disregard played an important role.” Her gaze dropped. “It allowed me to realize the greatest love I will ever know.” She gave herself a moment, then blinked back to Beebe. “That summer, I decided not to turn pro and let the world think the reason was the wrist injury.”
“Thought you’d live life inside a huge glass golf ball, huh?” Beebe smiled. “With television coverage, the onset of social media, and cameras everywhere, questions would naturally rise about that one particular guy always in the crowd. You couldn’t give up Jack.”
Callie matched Beebe’s affirmative statement with another. “So I gave up pro golf. I never regretted it.” She raised an eyebrow. “My coach did. After the surgery, I notified him of my—well, mishap. Duke issued a press release. An account of the accident was reported in Sunday’s sports section, so Jack was aware of my injury when, insanely bored, I trolled over to the club the next day.” Beebe’s eyes flicked to the golf cart and path. Callie continued her retelling. “Jack was just coming off the course. He showed concern and invited me to lunch at the club’s restaurant, I think more to lift my spirits than anything. We lunched there every day that week and had plans to meet again on Friday. That morning, I was out here with the hose, watering Mother’s orphaned geraniums.”
Beebe’s eyes sidestepped Callie to an oval patch out in the yard that grew the same red flowers. Before her gaze returned, Callie went inside herself.
“I will always remember how my heart suddenly pumped hard. I waited a half-second, then turned.” She smiled. “Jack stood there, looking tanned, broad shouldered, his soul bared. I distinctly remember the want in his eyes. It pulled me inescapably into love with a man who was twenty-two years older, twice my age. I never felt too young. I’d been relying on my own instincts for years on the golf course. I took risks.” Callie’s eyes aligned with Beebe’s. “Jack Sebring was a risk to take. I don’t know how my heart contained our love. It was all fire and wind. Any man deserves to have the woman who loves him like that at his bedside when…” She swallowed the rest. Starting again, she said, “Caring for Jack after he got sick, that was the first time I made a difference. That was the first time I did something that mattered.”
“The first time?” Beebe said soothingly. “Surely that’s an exaggeration. You were what, forty, forty-one when Jack got sick?”
Callie understood Beebe’s intention. She thought Callie was undervaluing herself. Callie shook her head and pressed her point. “No. Nothing compares. Not when you look at the full picture.” Callie tugged at her sports skirt, then kicked up a golf shoe. “I played a game my whole life. Jack’s illness, terminal cancer, the care he needed— I promised to provide that care to keep him at home. That was not a game. That was a blind promise. I didn’t know what was coming. Yes, hospice nurses came and went. They gave me hands-on, during-the-crisis training. He was bedridden. That meant bedsores. One, I swear, as big as a grapefruit.”
Beebe winced.
“I dispensed narcotics. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs ran through this house. His pain was severe. His medication was given every two hours. That meant no sleep for me. For weeks, no real sleep. I set an alarm to keep the schedule, to wake me up. Then the coma came. He died in our bed. I watched the funeral director carry his body out. It had stiffened.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Caring for Jack was something that mattered. It’s been the only thing that’s mattered.”
For no reason, Callie reached for Noodle’s treat tin. Her hand shook; she felt herself sway. She had yet to learn how to talk about Jack’s death without reliving it.
“Here, Callie. Sit down.” As Beebe scooted a chair away from the table, the doorbell rang.
Beebe looked around. Callie set the tin down. She welcomed the interruption. It would give her the opportunity to walk off the emotional threads that still clung. “I’ll see who that is, then, why don’t you stay for dinner?”
Callie hoped she would. Earlier in the day, she arranged to spend a week at Heatherwood, the West Virginia cabin she and Jack visited as often as possible. There was a magic about Heatherwood. Callie’s last promise to Jack pledged her return. In recent months, the unfulfilled promise became as haunting as the grief. Beebe knew the story. She understood the magic and the promise. Callie was sure she would back her decision with words of encouragement. Perhaps a kernel of that encouragement would ride in the car with her to fight the pain of returning alone.
No Small Measure
Callie’s hurried steps slowed to a stop when the open front door came within view. Lizbeth Sebring stood on the other side of the screen. She was angled away, her head turned toward the lawn. In the three years Jack lived in Callie’s house, Lizbeth never stopped by. Now she made the drive twice in one day. Callie blew out the breath she held, steeled herself, and then pushed her feet into motion again.
“Lizbeth,” she said pleasantly, capt
uring her visitor’s attention.
The younger woman wore a rueful expression. She gestured toward the mangled flowerbed. “Arnett certainly made a mess of your yard. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I can fix it.” Callie turned the door handle. “Come in.”
Lizbeth did. “After I left Arnett’s, I went by Beebe’s house…” Her voice trailed off.
“Figured she was still here, huh?”
“Took a chance.”
“Have you eaten? I just asked Beebe to stay. I thought I’d cook spaghetti.” Callie’s chin was tipped up to Jack’s tall, willowy daughter-in-law with her pale complexion and russet eyes.
Lizbeth shook her head. A curl of tawny hair slipped from her shoulder. “I shouldn’t impose.”
“Not at all. Join us. Believe me, it won’t be anything fancy.”
“Well, since Chad’s at my brother’s for an overnight—” Lizbeth said of her four-year old son. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Beebe’s out back,” Callie said, walking her guest that direction.
Lizbeth dropped her purse on the window seat just inside the kitchen. Callie crossed the oak floor. She announced Lizbeth’s arrival to Beebe, who sprang to her feet and rushed in from the deck.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. “How did things go with Arnett?”
Callie jumped in front of Lizbeth’s response, retreating toward the back door. “Maybe I should…”
“No. Privacy issues aren’t important. I want you to hear this,” Lizbeth said. “I’ve had a thought. I want to be fair.”
“That’s a good premise,” Beebe said. “Let’s talk.”
The small quantity of knowledge that trickled Callie’s way concerning Lizbeth and Dan Sebring wouldn’t have filled a golf scorecard. The tragedy of Dan’s death at forty-two left Lizbeth to finish raising their two sons alone.
Older son, Geoff, attended the University of Florida as a sophomore. He and his mother shared a treasured closeness that Jack observed, admired, and spoke of to Callie. Lizbeth, pregnant again at thirty-seven, referred to the baby as an unplanned blessing. “Mostly to convince herself, I think,” Jack reported at the time. Now Callie felt Chad’s tugging presence must keep Lizbeth from drifting away in her grief.
While the three women worked to prepare the spaghetti dinner, Lizbeth talked and Callie listened. The story Lizbeth told amounted to the first and last chapters of her life with Dan.
Lizbeth’s love for Dan stirred into being on a spring day in May. She found the business major seated before an easel, painting a picturesque scene on Salisbury University’s campus. After they married, Lizbeth encouraged Dan to pursue his artistic talent. On Saturday mornings, he found a place in rural Maryland, sat under a shady canopy, and copied the countryside onto canvas. When a cross storm rolled in behind him on another spring day in May, he didn’t test his luck. His paints, canvas, and utensils were all in hand, but he didn’t escape the sycamore’s domain before lightning split the tree that crushed him.
The women migrated to the dining room. Beebe sat in the chair across from Lizbeth. Callie looked on from the head of the table. She faced a crosshatched bay window and the dogwood tree beyond. Years ago, the tree was a birthday present from Jack.
“So your plan before tonight was that Arnett would babysit Chad when you return to work,” Beebe said.
Callie listened, confused. Perhaps Beebe was confused, too. Her words accurately summarized Lizbeth’s stance. But how does anything about Arnett’s behavior toward me, Callie thought, connect with babysitting Chad? Why drag Chad into this? He didn’t witness his grandmother’s meltdown.
“Oh please,” Lizbeth laughed, pushing her plate away, “Arnett doesn’t babysit. Others babysit. Arnett grandsits.” Her fingers flipped quotation marks in the air with an attitude rating of plus-one-hundred. The act sent her bangle bracelets a-chattering. “Arnett spawned the exalted term to magnify her importance.”
Callie never heard Jack repeat the coined word. He must have thought it mirrored Arnett’s pesky character flaws. Callie smiled to herself. Proud Arnett created an image only another control-freak could adequately envy.
“So she doesn’t grandsit,” Beebe said, unimpressed. “You find a daycare.”
“Why not use Debbie?” Callie wondered. Lizbeth mentioned her brother’s wife in passing while she tore lettuce into salad bowls. Chad would spend the night at his aunt’s and uncle’s house.
“She’s helped me out this summer, but Debbie’s a teacher. School starts in three weeks.” Lizbeth’s eyes lost their hold on Callie’s. “I’m ashamed to admit Dan and I didn’t save enough. We both knew better, but still.” She grimaced a smile. “So, I’m not well positioned for the loss of his salary. It will take most of Dan’s life insurance to keep Geoff in school these next three years. I just can’t take him out. He’s a bright kid, a good kid. He studied hard all through high school. Chad and I will have to make it on what I earn. I’m not sure what I’ll find. The job market’s slippery, and I haven’t worked since Chad was born.”
“And Arnett’s services are free,” Beebe concluded.
Lizbeth sighed. “They are.”
“And you want to be fair?”
Callie saw Beebe’s tack. She was backing into Lizbeth’s posturing from the other side.
“In Arnett’s world, grandsitting is steeped in tradition. To not let her keep a Sebring grandson would be tantamount to breaking a commandment.”
“A Sebring grandson?” Beebe tilted her head.
“The fact that Arnett bore sons and they gave her grandsons seems to be the allure. I can’t explain it. And since there are no daughters or granddaughters, there’s no true comparison.”
Out in the living room, the telephone rang. Callie excused herself and followed the hall around the stairs. She walked briskly past the couch. At the lamp table, she grabbed the phone in mid-ring.
“Callie? That you?” the female caller inquired.
The voice was full of vitality and Callie knew instantly to whom it belonged. “Sarah,” she exclaimed. Caught up in the situation emanating from the twin quilts, she forgot her early-afternoon call to Sarah Prosser, the property manager for Heatherwood.
“I nearly cried,” Sarah said, “when I saw your name on the call slip.”
Earlier in the day, Callie confirmed the details of her trip to Heatherwood with Sarah’s assistant and left a message that Sarah call when she could.
The friendship between Callie MacCallum and Sarah Prosser hit the ground running, due in no small measure to Jack Sebring. He searched for a long-term center of operations when his work took him into northern West Virginia to design two golf courses. That search led to property manager Sarah Prosser and ended at Heatherwood.
On that first morning when an Eden-like newness dawned over the riverfront cabin, he decided that when Callie joined him, Baron, West Virginia, was the place where they would forsake their Maryland lives. In Baron, they’d push their secrets so far into oblivion that they could, without guilt or fear of discovery, hold hands in public. Such a simple pleasure was not too much to ask. Sarah stopped by daily to deliver the newspaper and tend to cleaning. She had, by pinches and tugs, drawn Jack’s love for Callie out into the mountain air.
Ten days lagged before Callie found a break in her schedule and could drive south. Jack’s directions sent her first to the property office on the outskirts of Baron to pick up a second key. Sarah had grown a fondness for the golf course architect that her words of greeting revealed. To the woman she heard so much about, Sarah said, “So you’re the Callie of Jack’s heart.”
Callie was overcome by Sarah’s certainty and equally stunned by the de
duction that enough personal detail passed from Jack to Sarah to support the older woman’s conclusion. Despite the closeness Callie felt for Sarah, she always thought of Sarah as Jack’s friend first. Something awakened in Jack during those initial ten days and a large part of the benefit was owed to Sarah. At first, Callie envied the kinship between Jack and Sarah, then quickly came to treasure it. Those events took place a dozen years ago. During Jack’s illness, Sarah stayed in touch. Something told her to make contact the morning after he died.
With Lizbeth and Beebe in the other room, Callie stood at the picture window, telephone pressed to her ear. Outside, dusk was gathering.
“So, you’re finally coming for a visit,” Sarah said.
Callie visualized the perpetually bushytailed senior, her emerald eyes alight, and mimicked her upbeat tone. “Yes. Saturday.”
“God, the place has missed you,” Sarah said. “God, Heatherwood, and me.”
Callie threw back her head and laughed. A great relief funneled through her. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“We’ll have a nice long talk when you get here. You promise you’ll come?”
“I promise. You’ve helped, Sarah.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“Just talking with you. I wasn’t sure I was completely ready. I told people I was, but…”
“I understand.”
“You being there,” Callie shrugged, “it’ll help.”
“I’ll give you the hug Jack would want you to have.”
Callie pictured Sarah’s eyes crinkling with her warm words. Soon, they said their goodbyes, then Callie laid the handset against her chest and whispered a belated thank-you to Sarah Prosser.
The realization that she would not be totally alone in West Virginia boosted her spirits. An immediate deflation came before she reached the dining room’s doorway. The tenor of the conversation within changed in her absence.
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