by Unknown
There was a rush of heat up her neck as she realized Connie was studying her intently. Helplessly transparent, she wondered if it was obvious she’d spent the last three years running around with a married woman, living with some sort of fantasy that she would wake up one day and Aly would suddenly be the woman of her dreams. God, she’d been pathetic—and stupid—if that’s what she’d really been doing. Had she really been so out of touch with herself for so long? And was it apparent even to a stranger?
“I’m sorry, dear,” Connie said quietly. “Did I say something to upset you?”
Grace pulled her gaze up and shook her head lightly.
Connie chuckled softly. “I don’t mean to, but I can be an old fuddy-duddy sometimes. My nieces and nephews like to remind me of that.”
Grace smiled and thoughts of Aly fell away, like autumn leaves. “It’s okay. You’re not being an old fuddy-duddy. But you’re right. I guess we do tend to look for the perfect, ready-made thing, and when it’s not there, we discard it and keep looking.” Like instant meals, Grace thought with disgust. People expected a frozen box to taste like a real roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, but it never did of course. “There’s nothing like the real thing,” she mumbled, unaware she’d spoken out loud.
“You’re right about that,” Connie answered her. “Is it really because people don’t have the time? Is that why people give up on one another so easily?”
Grace pondered and sipped her coffee, both hands wrapped tightly around the warm, stone mug that was so sturdy and reliable. That was the thing about instant meals from the grocery store. People think they don’t have time to cook, but they make time to commute hours to work each day, or play on their computers or watch TV all evening. “I think it’s more about priorities, Connie.”
Connie smiled approvingly, and there was a sudden communion with the stranger, as if they’d met before.
“Where are you staying, Grace? I haven’t seen you here before. I’d certainly remember you if I did.” Her eyes swept briefly over Grace, and in that instance, Grace knew the woman was a kindred spirit in more ways than one. It made her smile inside. It was refreshing to know that not everyone on the island was straight.
“I’m staying at my friend Trish Wilson’s place.”
“Ah, okay. Nice woman, but it’s too bad she only comes here a week or two a year. If that, sometimes. She’s a chef, I understand. Are you a chef too?”
“Actually, I am.” Grace was happy for the understating of her career. No celebrity expectations to live up to, no long explanations of what projects she was working on, the people she’d met, the places she’d been.
“Well, good for you,” Connie said enthusiastically with a gleam in her eye. “That means you must have quite an artistic streak in you.”
Grace’s eyebrows arched in surprise. She’d never really thought of herself as an artist, but rather a craftsman, whose skills had been honed by years of hard work and experience. She knew what tasted good, what went together and what worked. And how it could be done over and over with the maximum efficiency and consistency. It was important that her customers knew their favorite dishes would be replicated. “Well, I’m not sure about that.”
Connie rose, her eyes ablaze. “C’mon. Let me show you inside.”
Grace stood expectantly, then tied Remy’s leash to the deck railing. “You stay here and be a good boy.”
“Forty years I’ve been coming here every summer,” Connie said, leading the way into the modest house. “When I come here, I become who I really am.”
Grace was instantly envious. The place was cozy, peaceful, earthy. The interior was painted with whimsical brushstrokes of lemon, sage green and red pine. The floors were varnished birch, the furniture chunky and worn—inviting. Paintings covered every wall.
“Yours?” Grace indicated the canvasses.
“Yes,” Connie answered. “I’ve been oil painting ever since I can remember.”
“Do you still paint?”
“Not so much, no.” Connie raised knobby fingers. “The old arthritis. But I try to sketch when I can.”
Grace moved closer to study a stormy seascape. It was spectacular in its depth of texture and layering of color. “Wow!” Grace exclaimed. “This is amazing.”
“There’s something about the island that brings out your inner peace. It inspires.”
Grace was tempted to touch the rich, textured brushstrokes. The piece was beautiful and so detailed, right down to the tiny sailboat bobbing precariously in the swollen waves. Her eyes drifted to a nearby watercolor. “You do watercolor too?”
Connie moved beside her, towering over her. Her long, bony fingers gently traced the frame around the pastel painting of a covered bridge. There was a look of reverence on her face. “No, that’s the work of my partner of twenty-three years, Helen Crawford.”
“It’s beautiful,” Grace said.
“So was she.”
Grace studied Connie’s profile. She looked suddenly stooped, weighed down by an invisible cloak of sadness. Her blue eyes were misty when she turned them on Grace. Her smile faltered. “She died eight years ago.”
Grace was surprised by the depth of her emotions, even after so many years. Her body spoke the language of her loss. “I’m sorry.” It was all Grace could think to say.
“Thank you. We had a wonderful life together. Helen was very special. We meant everything to each other.” Her eyes boldly appraised Grace again and her mouth was a serious line. “Do you have anyone special, Grace?”
God, not like that. She shook her head lamely. She didn’t know if she would ever have someone like that, who meant everything, and again, there was the fathomless ache of all that her relationship with Aly was not.
There was a flash of pity in Connie’s eyes, but it was gone in an instant. “You will. It’s the most beautiful, inspiring, terrifying thing in human existence, Grace.”
“Terrifying?” Grace quirked a curious eyebrow, and her question was met with a knowing smile as Connie led the way back out to the deck and their sun-warmed chairs, hot coffee and Grace’s sleeping dog.
They sat down, Connie expressionless for a long moment. “When you have it, you’re terrified of losing it, and when you don’t have it anymore, you’re terrified you’ll never find it again.”
Grace gazed at the azure ocean shimmering in the morning sun. She had not known any of that with Aly. She had never been terrified of losing her, only frightened of the prospect of being alone and unloved. Rejected. Of being punished in some way for carrying on with a married woman.
Connie was staring at the ocean too and her voice was far off. “It’s kind of like that ocean out there, Grace. Huge and very deep and powerful.”
Grace shook her head and wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her own life. “I know nothing but tiny streams and ponds, Connie.” And meandering, shallow rivers that go nowhere except around and around.
Connie, her face still handsome but craggy, did not look amused. Her features were like chiseled granite, and her eyes narrowed with either displeasure or disappointment, Grace couldn’t be sure.
“A nice, beautiful girl like you, Grace? What’s wrong with the men…or women…out there?” Her eyes twinkled hopefully at women.
Grace’s laughter was a cover for the tears she wanted to shed. She wished it were as simple as attracting the right woman. “The smart women have learned to stay away from me, Connie. I mean, no woman serious about a relationship would want someone as busy and preoccupied as me.” It was an uncomplicated answer that fell far short of explaining her relationship failures, but it would have to do for now.
Connie smiled with amusement as though she were watching Grace stumble into a trap. “Ah. You said yourself it’s not about time, but rather priorities.”
Crafty old devil, Grace thought with surprising affection. “I did say something like that, didn’t I?”
“You did, my dear.”
“All right.” Grace sighed and fi
nished her now lukewarm coffee. In spite of the personal direction the conversation had taken, it seemed surprisingly appropriate.“Maybe that’s it. Maybe none of it mattered until…”
Connie leaned in, her head tilted with curiosity. “Until now?”
Grace couldn’t speak around the catch in her throat and managed a poor attempt at a smile instead.
Connie patted her knee. “All right, Grace. It’s all right. You’re here, on Sheridan Island, and I promise you that whatever ails you won’t by the time you leave here.”
Grace nodded, relieved by the sudden lightness of the moment. “Can I hold you to that promise?”
“I haven’t been wrong yet.”
Grace silently approved of the bold confidence in Connie’s face and in her deep voice and rigid body. She was a trustworthy soul. “I’ll bet you haven’t.” An idea began germinating in her mind. “Do you cook, Connie?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. My head is so often in the clouds that I rarely think about practical things like cooking.”
“Cooking isn’t just practical, like a chore, you know.” Grace liked the woman too much to be offended, and smiled as Connie held her hand up in apology.
“I didn’t mean to insult you, Grace. I’m sure you do wonderful, wonderful things in the kitchen. I guess my creativity just never extended to food.”
“Well. If I had your talents with a canvas and a brush, I probably wouldn’t have much creative energy left over for cooking, either. Listen, why don’t I cook for you tonight?”
Connie’s eyebrows arched in surprise and delight. “That would be wonderful. But I don’t have much here. I mean, nothing fancy.”
“That’s okay. I have everything I need back at Trish’s. Why don’t I prepare something and bring it over?”
Sharing a meal with someone was the quickest way to bridge loneliness. It would be good to not feel lonely for a few hours, and cooking would make her feel normal again. Needed, even.
Connie smiled warmly. “That would be tremendous, my friend. But you must promise to bring Remy as well.”
Grace shot a dubious glance at her dog, who looked as if he were the best behaved pet on the planet. “All right. I’ll bring Remy.”
At the sound of his name again, he sprang up like a coil suddenly let loose.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was only half a mile, but it was a start.
Grace knew she would be able to work up to running a mile soon enough, maybe even two, on the dirt road that circled the island. She used to run more than that earlier in her career, when running was her outlet for stress and exhaustion. She’d stopped around the time she met Aly.
Stepping out of the shower, Grace moved with a newfound energy. Dinner with Connie Sparks the previous night had been a nice change. The conversation had been light and pleasant, which was just what Grace needed. She learned more about the island and its inhabitants from Connie, and this new knowledge made her anxious to do some exploring. Sitting on Trish’s deck and drinking her way to the bottom of another bottle of wine had definitely lost its appeal.
Grace was drying herself when the phone rang, the shock of it nearly making her slip on the wet floor. Trish Wilson and James Easton were the only people who had the number for the cottage, and Grace had purposely left her cell phone off. It was hard, cutting herself off so completely from Aly—not knowing if Aly was trying to reach her. She wasn’t even sure which would be worse—Aly calling or Aly not calling.
She picked up the phone and answered tentatively.
“Hi, Grace.”
Grace expelled a tense breath. It was just Trish.
“How are you enjoying things on the island?”
“It’s nice. I think I could actually enjoy myself here.” She meant it, which she would not have two days ago. “Good.” Trish’s tone turned ominous. “Does that mean you’re starting to get over her?” Grace blew out an exasperated breath. She did not want to talk about Aly. “Trish—”
“S’all right. Sorry. I just hope you’re doing okay, that’s all.”
“I’m doing okay, Trish.”
There was a long pause before Trish reluctantly said, “I’m not sure how you’re going to take this, Grace.”
Grace’s stomach involuntarily tightened, but she commanded herself to stay calm. “What is it you’re afraid to tell me?” God, it could be anything. Had something happened to Aly? Had the restaurant burned to the ground? Had the new architect quit the Manhattan job?
“Something unexpected’s come up and I can’t do it alone.”
“What, Trish? For God’s sake, just tell me.”
“Look, Grace. You can say no if you want. Really.”
“Trish.” Grace’s impatience was multiplying. Trish treating her like some kind of emotional invalid was new, and she didn’t like it one damn bit.
“Okay, okay. We’ve been asked to cater the championship dinner a week from tomorrow at the LPGA’s Hartford Open. I, ah, said yes, even though I don’t know how the hell I’m going to do it.”
“Hmm. That’s not much notice.”
Trish sighed impatiently through the phone, and Grace pictured her pacing around her house with her cordless phone to her ear. “I know. The caterers they’d contracted had to back out at the last minute.”
Grace easily switched into business mode as she struggled to keep the damp towel wrapped around her. “I’m happy to help, Trish. But do we want the reputation of being available at the last minute to do a job that we weren’t chosen for in the first place?” She understood the dilemma but had to pose the question.
“I know. That part sucks. But I said yes because the promotion opportunities for our television show and the new restaurant are too good to pass up. There’ll be live television coverage for four days and tons of media. Lots of corporate sponsors hanging about, too, with nothing to do but contemplate where and how to spend their next buck. James is already salivating.”
“Well, since you put it like that…” Grace knew a good business opportunity when she heard one. She could hardly say no, not when Trish was already carrying so much of the load.
“You don’t mind?” Trish asked anxiously. “I know you’re supposed to be on vacation and all. I really wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t need you like crazy.”
Grace laughed, knowing Trish must have truly been desperate for her help to pull her out of the seclusion she’d pretty much forced on her. “It’s fine, really. The distraction of work might actually be good for me.”
“It’s only a week of your time, Grace. Then I want you back there relaxing.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Trish giggled. “That’s more like it. This new, compliant Grace I could get used to.”
“Never get used to anything, my dear. Especially not that.”
“Okay, okay. Look, I’ve already booked a flight for you Monday afternoon out of Portland. Can you get there yourself?”
“Yes. I have a rental car.”
“Good. Someone from the LPGA will pick you up at the Hartford Airport. You’ll be staying at the Hilton, which is right next to the golf course. The championship dinner will be at the hotel’s ballroom next Sunday, after the last round of play. The dinner will be for about two-fifty.”
Grace scribbled a couple of quick notes, her towel falling away. She hoped the welcome wagon didn’t pick this moment to appear at one of the many windows with a freshly baked pie or a bouquet of flowers.
“I’ll be able to show up the night before the banquet to help you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to do the rest of the work leading up to it. James will pop in for a day or so just to kiss some corporate ass for us.”
“Do I have kitchen staff?”
“Yes. The hotel will provide us with a sous-chef or two and a half dozen line cooks. Wait staff too, of course.”
“What about the menu?”
“Pretty much up to you. Although you have to work on that with the official hostess of the event.”
“
Huh? What hostess?”
“Last year’s tournament winner gets to choose the menu and be the official host of this year’s dinner.”
Great. Someone who knows absolutely nothing about food in my face the whole time, asking me to do things that are impossible. Or just plain stupid.
Before Grace could complain, Trish was talking again. “Her name is Torrie Cannon. You can meet her when you get there.” Grace thought she heard a chuckle in Trish’s voice. “She’s not playing in it this year because of an injury, so she’ll be available to help you the entire time.”
Grace cursed into the phone. “I’m going to get you for this, Wilson.”
Trish laughed. “See you next weekend, babe.”
Torrie Cannon had only a vague idea of who she was looking for at the airport terminal. Grace Wellwood might be well known in some circles, but not in Torrie’s. All she really knew of the celebrity chef was that she was one of those cute blondes she’d caught sight of a couple of times on the food channel.
Torrie wouldn’t be caught dead holding up a sign with Grace’s name on it. It was the kind of degrading thing that reminded her of an auction, so instead, she squinted and lurked in her dark sunglasses, trying not to look conspicuous. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d picked someone up at the airport. It was always the other way around, and then it had never seemed so awkward and confusing. She could easily have delegated the pickup to one of the many tournament volunteers itching for something to do, but she figured—hoped—it might distract her from the pervasive reminders that she would be sitting on her duff all week instead of defending her title.
A sudden tap on her surgically repaired shoulder made her flinch as much in pain as in surprise. She spun around and lowered her gaze to the palest, most luminescent gray eyes she’d ever seen. A small hand thrust out, forcing Torrie to look down, and she shook it after a delay that bordered on rudeness. The strength in the woman’s grip surprised her. It surprised her that she had so quickly underestimated her strength because of her small stature. Torrie knew from years of experience on the Tour that often the smaller women were some of the longest hitters and the best golfers. Size had little to do with strength.
