Of course I knew what she meant, but if she thought she was going to get a play-by-play on my date with Matt, she was going to be sorely disappointed. I smiled and hugged her back. “The only thing I’m worried about being good at is my golf game. I sure hope I don’t make a fool out of myself.”
“I kinda doubt he’s singled you out for your golf game.”
“And that’s another thing, I wonder what he sees in me, surely there are younger, more attractive women he can run into at the clubs in Myrtle.”
“It doesn’t sound like a twenty-something is what he’s looking for. And look at you Cat, you’re a beautiful woman with a lot to offer a man. You’re as pretty in your bathing suit as any model in those lingerie catalogues, I’ll tell you that.” Viv never failed to lift my spirits, whether her words were true or not, she was a fierce and loyal supporter.
“Your Matt is probably looking for a meaningful relationship, not something fleeting. We can only hope that Merlin scouted out the right guy for you.” Tessa gripped my shoulders and squeezed. The woman looked frail, but damned if she didn’t hug like a boa constrictor. When I could breathe again, I patted her cheek. “Can’t wait until you two venture out into this new, terrifying world of dating. I can’t wait to harangue you about the details of your sex lives.”
“I can’t either,” Viv called back as she walked to the gate. “I can’t either!” she repeated with a heartfelt laugh.
After they were gone I took another leisurely swim, and then managed to vacate just as two families showed up with eight kids and armfuls of “noodles.”
At home, I grabbed a water bottle and my helmet, some money just in case, and after checking the air in my tires and walking Gimlet in the front yard, I set out on my bike ride.
I love to ride around the plantation and the surrounding communities. I often rode around Sandpiper, Oyster Pointe, and even went over to the island when it was off-season. During the season there was just too much traffic to add another element, and it was always in the back of my mind that I could get stuck on the other side. I knew Dave Nelson, the owner of the Bed and Breakfast on the island and felt sure he’d put me up if a room was available, but then I’d have to worry about Gimlet and whether I could find someone to walk and feed her until I could find my way back over. Often, I thought how nice it would be not to have to worry about the state of the bridge each time I wanted to enjoy a bike ride by the ocean.
I took a right at the south gate and rode along Shoreline Drive until I came to Lakeshore Drive, then I rode around looking at all the houses and cottages, imagining an earlier time when these residences had been the only ones around for many miles. I loved that each house was so different, there were so many styles, roof lines, colors and trims. I fantasized about the people I saw coming in and out, wondering if they still appreciated their incredible view of the lake from their decks, or if after a while, it all became familiar and lost its special charm.
Ending up over by the Oyster Bay Clubhouse, I went inside for a soda and to use the restroom. It was always important to plan your ride with bathrooms in mind. Fortunately, in golf course communities, there were always lots of clean restrooms on the courses. You just had to remember which holes they were on and how to get to them without using the cart paths.
Finding my way back to the main road along the waterway, I adjusted my stride for the uphill climb. It finally leveled off and I felt my burning thighs relax into a slower, non-torturous pace. Just as I was passing the huge gates to the Gore residence, I saw Dinah Gore clipping some branches from a bush in her front yard.
I had met Dinah at one of the Sea Trail Garden Club fashion shows and delighted in her informative history of the area. She and her husband, Ed, along with his father Mannon, were some of the first people to settle at Sunset Beach in the mid-fifties. Mannon Gore, was the developer of the Twin Lakes community I had just ridden through, and he had also built the first bridge to the island.
I remembered that Dinah had told me to drop by sometime to see the view of the waterway from her gazebo. She told the story of how Ed had dreamed of building on this site for many years as he had always loved this view.
Well, now was as good a time as any to check it out I thought, and without hesitation, I steered off into the long drive and pulled up beside a slightly startled Dinah. It was the fault of my brakes; they had a tendency to squeal.
She turned with a surprised look, clippers poised in mid-air, then her face softened and she broke into a grin. Her bright blue eyes reflected the sun and her hair, a halo of white blonde, lifted in the breeze.
“Cat! How nice to see you.”
I was thrilled she remembered my name as it had been months since I’d seen her. And that of course is the ultimate compliment, to have someone remember your name after a chance encounter.
“You said to stop by sometime to see the view from your gazebo and as I was peddling along I saw you hard at work.” I looked around at all the flowerbeds, so beautifully tended to. “Wow, did you do all this?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No, Ed and I did a lot of the conceptual work, but the actual design and implementation was done by Andrew Edge and Carolina Coast Landscaping. I love to garden, but my knees don’t love it so much anymore. Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“I have a water bottle on my bike. I don’t want to disturb you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing that awesome view of the waterway you spoke about.”
She dropped her clippers in the bush and waved her hand enthusiastically. “Come, I’ll show you. It’s such a beautiful day and wait ‘til you feel the breeze on the backside of the house. It’ll refresh you, that’s for sure.”
I followed her around the side of the house, marveling on the beauty of the house itself. The color of the brick is quite distinctive and the intricacies of the brickwork are amazing. To say that it is a mansion is an understatement, it is more than that. It’s the type of dream house that designs itself in someone’s head over many years, each thing carefully thought out and planned for, each item quality.
As we turned the corner and the view opened up in front of me, it was hard to contain my delight. A beautiful white gazebo sat among walkways lined with flowers, facing the sparkling blue-green water. Asquatty old tug was dutifully making its way through the water and I thought it was quite picturesque. I marveled out loud and asked Dinah how she had arranged to have the old tug there at that precise moment.
She chuckled and told me that it was a fairly common thing to see an old tug making its way up or down the waterway. As we stood, I watched a variety of birds flit in and out of the trees, singing their late afternoon songs and twittering high up in the branches. I took in the wonderful scents of the many colorful blooms wafting on the breeze. Sleek white-hulled yachts followed the tug, cutting the water crisply and sending foaming waves arcing behind.
When she asked again if I’d have something to drink, this time accompanied by the offer to sit in the gazebo with her, I couldn’t turn her down. I wanted to enjoy this nautical paradise for as long as I possibly could. I can’t say I didn’t have some feelings of envy for those who have a backyard view such as this to enjoy—who wouldn’t? But I knew from the stories I’d heard that this couple was certainly deserving of all the good things they had, especially each other.
That was the stinger that had the most envy. That they had all this, and still had each other. Why did so many couples make it into their sixties, so content and so much in love, when I had lost my husband and our blissful way of life in my forties? That was the part of life that seemed so unfair. Yet I knew the Gores had experienced their share of tragedy, they had lost a son in his third year, and Ed’s parent’s marriage had ended in divorce in the days when divorce was still quite a stigma.
As I waited for Dinah in the gazebo, my eyes took everything in, moving slowly so I wouldn’t miss a thing. The long wooden pier, the quaint swing, the boat on the lift, the pathways and the whimsical statuary. It was idyllic
that was for sure.
I was chucking to myself when Dinah came back with two glasses of lemonade. “What are you laughing at?” she asked as she took a seat at the table.
“You, I was laughing at you and at one of the very first stories I ever heard about you.”
“Oh, which one was that?” I could hear the inference in her tone that she was used to tongues wagging with tales, those true and those not so true.
“The pecans. The story about the pecans.”
She laughed delightedly and said, “Well, maybe that one’s true. Tell me the version you heard.”
“Well, I heard it said that you love pecans and that you used to pick your own all the time. That you and Ed owned the area of the roadway alongside Ocean Ridge on 904 that had a small grove of them. And that when it was time to harvest them you used to put on a big floppy hat, park your Lincoln on the grass, and fill baskets with them.” I took a big breath, and continued, “And that you used to shoo anyone away who took a notion to poach.”
The twinkle in her fiery blue eyes was all I needed to know that the tale was true.” “Well, they were mine!”
I laughed, “Of course they were.” I patted her hand on the table. “You’ll be happy to know that I defended you and your solitary right to the harvest. I heard many comments about how you could easily afford to buy bins of pecans that were already shelled, yet here you were picking your own and hoarding them. I told the ladies present that I could certainly understand you wanting everyone to leave your pecans alone. I made the analogy that all over the world there are people wealthy enough to buy whole shipments of roses from South America, yet they feel a sense of pride and accomplishment if they can grow them themselves, and of course who would dream of coming into someone’s private garden, cutting their roses and taking them away without permission? I may have convinced a few people to believe differently with regard to your pecans. But Lord, I would have loved to have seen you shooing people away from your pecan trees, you’re a real spitfire, you know that?”
We both laughed heartily then I finished my lemonade and thanked her for sharing the lovely view with me. She went back to her clipping and I settled myself on my bike. Then just as I was preparing to shove off, she walked over and handed me a beautiful pink rose. “I do share. I just don’t like people taking without asking. It’s the height of rudeness.”
I took the rose and sniffed at its center. “I know, I wouldn’t either.” I thanked her for the rose and tucked it in my basket. “Call me if you ever have any leftover pecan sandies or pies!” I called over my shoulder as I pedaled back to the road.
Chapter Eight
A Morning on the Jones Course Wednesday morning I got up extra early to take great pains with my hair and makeup. I wanted Matt to see me at my very best. It was good that I had started early as it turned out to be one of those days when everything globbed or smeared, and my hair, unwilling to cooperate, ended up French braided instead of down, as I had planned. I chalked it up to nerves and told myself, he was only a man. My psyche whispered back, Yeah, a man so handsome he could skitter a woman’s heartbeat with just a look.
My golf clothes I didn’t have to worry about as Mom kept me supplied with new outfits. Every Christmas I could practically count on a whole new golf wardrobe. I guess it was her way of encouraging me to get out with friends. I grabbed a banana and a cup of coffee and took them out to the garage where I alternately chewed and sipped while I checked my golf bag to make sure I had everything I could possibly need. I swear, if someone got a snakebite or bird poop on his or her shirt, I was ready.
The phone rang just as I was loading everything into the trunk of my Sebring convertible. I heard it ringing from the kitchen and ran to get it. As soon as I heard the voice on the other end, wishing me a good morning, I placed it as Matt’s. I wondered where he’d gotten my number, then remembered that he was a property owner, so of course he’d have a directory; the directory that still had Stephen’s name listed after mine as I had never bothered to return the form that was sent every year to update it.
“Just making sure you remembered,” he said. Then he added, “A morning tee time this time of the year is a precious commodity around here, six people have already approached me trying to fill out our twosome.”
“Why do you want us to go out as a twosome?” “That’s easy, I want you all to myself.” His voice was like silk. I felt a flush creep up my throat.
“How did you get us out as a twosome?”
“Easy, I paid for four. So I’d sure as hell would hate to have to play by myself. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t having any second thoughts.”
“About the golf?”
“About anything.”
“Oh, I’ve had second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts, but I’ll be there. It’s date number two, and I aim to keep my momma happy.”
“Good girl. I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”
When I pulled up to the bag drop at the Jones/Byrd Clubhouse, I saw Matt sitting on the tailgate of a black Cadillac Escalade. He was tying his shoes and talking to another golfer. I popped open the trunk of my car by using the remote and waited while one of the attendants lifted out my bag. I tipped him two dollars and parked my car in the same row as Matt’s truck.
As I walked over to him, he winked and then raised an eyebrow at my matching shirt, slacks, socks, and visor. Mother did nothing halfway. I was completely decked out in shades of lavender, the very best color for my skin tone, according to the experts who had deemed me a “spring.” His cocked brow looked so sexy that I had to keep from jumping into his lap right then and there. I managed to cover up a full-body shiver. The other man nodded to acknowledge my presence then made his excuses and walked away with a wave.
“As they say around here, you fixin’ to get yore ass whooped today?” Matt asked.
“Ahhh, I told you I’m no match for you, and now it’s more obvious than ever that you’re a superior player.” Facing him, I moved my eyes to the right where his golf bag was propped against the side of the truck. I arched my own brow and let my eyes wander slowly up and down, perusing his custom-made bag. It was made from first quality black leather and had Matt Hunter embroidered in thick gold script, it was indicative of a pro or at least someone with more than a passing fancy for the game.
“Oh yeah, I’m better,” he said with a big grin, “count on it. But how much better? Just how many strokes would I have to give you to make it a fair contest, that’s the question.”
I pointed my finger at his shoes as I was sure they were custom made, then to his bag, then to the logo on his shirt—a private course in Massachusetts that most people only dream of playing, “I’m not sure, I think I’d have to see your balls first.”
“No problem! I can golf anytime.” He hopped off the tailgate, leaned back and feigned undoing his belt.
“Your golf balls, you twit!”
He smiled, pushed off the edge of the tailgate, strode nonchalantly over to his bag and unzipped a long zipper on the side. He reached in and drew out two balls that he cupped in his hand—a number I was sure was no mere coincidence. He held them out to me and I picked one up and rolled it around until I could see the brand name—Titleist ProV X. The number one was under it and the name “Hunter” was printed in bold red to match under that.
“Um, hmm,” I muttered. “You’ve got to be at least a scratch player. So you’re at least thirty strokes better than I am, maybe more. Tell me again why you wanted to play with me?”
His eyebrow quirked and he flashed me a telling smile. At the same time he ran his fingers from my wrist to my fingertips, capturing his golf balls and my breath in the same instant. His slow, sensual caress left my hand tingling in its wake.
“Golf. Tell me why you wanted to play golf with me.”
“I want to learn your character flaws. Golf is rather good in pointing those out. And I’m not quite as good as you’re thinking.”
It was my turn to quirk a brow.
/>
“At golf,” he added with his own brow raised for emphasis. “I’ll spot you two strokes a hole.”
“I don’t want to bet with you, at this point I think that would be foolhardy.”
“Agame of golf without a wager is pointless. But we don’t need to bet money. In fact, I’d rather it be something more meaningful,” he said and his emphasis on meaningful led me to believe he meant sexual in nature.
“You mean a kiss or something like that.”
“I was thinking more of a boon than that really. I can’t seem to get the image of you in that bra out of my head, so when the word kiss comes to mind, so does the word nipple.”
I had to lean in and put my hand on the tailgate to keep from falling over, I steeled myself against reacting to the goose bumps I felt pricking my skin. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’d like to see you topless. If I win, you show me your breasts, your boobs,” he leaned closer, “your hooters, your titties. Whatever you want to call them. I’m losing sleep thinking about them.”
I shivered first and then a quick ripple of heat moved through my body so quickly that I had no chance to disguise it. He chuckled and I felt myself flush from not only embarrassment but desire. Surging waves of passion sent blood rushing to awaken long dormant parts—female parts. I knew he had chosen his words to titillate and that they did.
“Uhhh, what do I get if I win?”
“I show you how memorable date number three can be, how’s that?” His voice had become so husky and resonant that I felt my knees go soft. I think I might even have swayed toward him.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. I think you’re out of my league there, too.”
He laughed and it was magical. It broke the mood, and the tension, but not in a bad way. His large hand reached down and he effortlessly closed the tailgate, then he used his remote to lock the truck, dropped his keys into his pant’s pocket, and put his bag on his shoulder. He put his other arm around my shoulder, gave it a light squeeze, and led me over to the bag drop. The clean, woodsy fragrance of his aftershave assaulted my senses and I had to force myself not to turn my head and burrow into his neck.
The Widows of Sea Trail (The Widows of Sea Trail Trilogy) Page 6
