White Picket Fences

Randi shook her head. Her blond hair reminded him of Meg Ryan’s in that movie French Kiss—all flyaway and sexy as hell.

“Actually, I wasn’t planning to attend college at all.”

He turned to look at her. “You’re kidding, right? Your brother’s president of the local university.”

“When I graduated from high school, I was already turning pro. There was hardly time to think about more education. Besides, I thought I had all the education I needed in order to get where I was going.”

Something prickled the back of his neck. “Turning pro?”

She grinned at him. “I forget you’re relatively new to town. Nobody talks about it much anymore, probably out of kindness to me, but you’re riding with Shelter Valley’s ex–child star of the Ladies Professional Golf Association.”

Tension shot through him. “Golf?”

“Yeah.” She nodded slowly, looking straight ahead at the dark road. “I was good at a lot of sports, but my first love was golf. I was competing—and winning—by the time I was fourteen. By twenty, I was officially on the LPGA tour and slated to break all the records.”

Golf. He swallowed. Adjusted his big frame in the seat. Did that mean she knew Barbara Sharp? Did she know Dawn, too?

“What happened?”

“I was in a car accident in Florida not quite ten years ago. On my way to play the final round in a tournament with a purse of one hundred grand. I was up by five strokes going into the day and some idiot ran a red light and broadsided me two blocks from the golf course.”

Golf. But almost ten years ago. Then she wouldn’t know Dawn. And maybe not Barbara, either.

“You were driving?”

“Nah, I was in a cab. The back passenger door took the brunt of the collision and I was on the other side of that door. My right rotator cuff was crushed. And so was any future I’d hoped to have swinging a golf club.”

“I’m sorry.” He responded to the pain in her voice. And to the sick feeling he had in his own gut. She’d been a golfer.

“You seem so cheerful,” he told her, “like nothing really bad ever came your way.”

Turning to face him as much as she could within the confines of her seat belt, Randi took a moment to answer him. Already he knew that meant she was going to be completely serious. Randi had a tendency to blurt out the first thing that came to her mind. And it was often tempered with a large dose of her dry wit.

“The way I choose to see things, I’m very lucky,” she finally said. There was no doubting that she meant every word. “I have a great family—the best. A job I love, a job many women spend their entire lives aiming for but never get. And I had a chance to live a dream, too. That’s more than most people have. Life on the circuit is tough. Lonely. Still, I would’ve loved every minute of that life… But I love Shelter Valley, too.”

“So you don’t miss golf? Or get frustrated because you can’t play?” Was the woman superhuman?

“Are you crazy? Of course I do,” she said. “Just last week I went into Phoenix to play some rounds with a couple of friends. They’re still on the circuit and wanted me to critique some problems they were having. By the last round, I was in tears. But I played until the bitter end.”

Zack glanced at her. “Your shoulder hurt?”

“Yeah, but not enough to make me cry.”

Not wanting to impinge on her privacy, Zack didn’t ask any more. But he waited, hoping she’d tell him, anyway.

And wondered if the people she’d been playing with knew Barbara Sharp.

“I just got so tired of my head telling my body what to do—and my body not doing what it was told. My game was mediocre at best.”

“Why play, then?” he asked, but he knew the answer. Probably the same reason he still played basketball even after he’d been cut from the college team his senior year. Some was better than none.

“Because I love the game. I love being on the course, smelling the fresh-cut grass, the feel of the club in my hands, the slight sting as the club makes contact with the ball. I love the sound of the ball falling into the cup. I’m still pretty damn good at putting.”

“You could always take up miniature golf,” he offered, throwing her a grin.

“Yeah, but those fake greens…”

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. Disappointment and warnings rang in his head. He’d had a great time tonight. Far better than he’d expected. But that was all. He couldn’t read more into it than a very pleasant evening.

Zack didn’t do long-term relationships. Not anymore. Short and sweet had become his motto. Long enough for pleasure on both sides. Not long enough for either party to become disenchanted.

And he sure as hell wasn’t ready to take up with a golfer. Even if she’d been out of the game for ten years. A man could only stand so much.

“But she’s a woman.” His own words rang silently in his ears as he recalled the pathetic happiness he’d seen in his wife’s eyes.

He wanted to ask Randi if she knew Barbara, a woman he’d never met. But the words stuck in his throat. Because he didn’t want to know or because he did? He wasn’t sure. He just knew he didn’t want to think about that part of his life. It was over.

THE FIRST WEEK of school came and went before Randi had a chance to stop long enough to acknowledge it. And she didn’t even have any classes to teach. A couple of regional conference meetings, budget requests from disgruntled coaches and the hiring of new game-management personnel were only a few of the tasks that occupied her time.

In spite of its small size, Montford, with its dormitories and full scholarships, was a Division One school. In many respects, this was good. From Randi’s perspective, it meant a lot of extra pressure. Pressure to find the best of the best if she was going to direct winning teams and keep her job.

Having grown up in the world of competitive sports, Randi was not afraid of pressure. She actually thrived on it. But it helped when she could focus one hundred percent of her energies on the task at hand.

She wasn’t focusing that week. Hadn’t focused since Zack Foster had dropped her off at her door without so much as a peck on the cheek a week and a half earlier. Things had been going so well, too. Right up until the part where she’d mentioned her previous pro status.

And why should that surprise me?

Disgruntled, knowing she had to be energetic when she showed her face at the women’s tennis match later that afternoon, Randi gave in to her need for comfort and picked up the phone.

“Hey, it’s Randi,” she said as soon as she recognized the voice on the other end of the phone.

“What’s up, woman? Got another revelation for me? Another good tip to help me improve my swing?”

“No.” Randi grinned. Barbara was slated for the number-one spot on the LPGA tour this year, in spite of all the younger athletes coming up behind her.

“I was planning to send you flowers or something, to thank you again for all your help a couple of weeks ago, but I know you hate to see them die.”

“Putting me up at the Phoenician and feeding me for three days wasn’t payment enough?” Randi asked. Barbara was one of the two friends she’d spent time with the week before school started. On the golf course, using her sharp eye and years’ worth of studying every intricate detail of the game, she’d critiqued their performances. And wept with frustration as she watched others do what she could no longer do herself.

Barbara had been the only one who’d seen her tears on the back nine that last day.

“The hotel was comped, and you know it,” Barbara said. “And seriously, Ran, I really appreciate your help. You hit that slight weight switch perfectly. I haven’t been able to miss since we straightened that out.”

Randi fidgeted with a pencil on her desk. “Glad I could help.”

“So what can I do to return the favor?”

“Remind me why we care about the things we care about.”