Flirting With Temptation (17 page)

Her stomach chose that precise moment to growl. Loudly.

He laughed. “Take that as a yes.” Then he strode toward the clubhouse café known as The Grille, while Gert sat dumbfounded. She’d forgotten how close the four of them had been, she, Henry, Emily and Paul, and she’d forgotten what a good friend Paul had been. He even knew her favorite sandwich. Incredible. She tried to recall his favorite, or Emily’s favorite. She couldn’t.

What did that say about her? Maybe she hadn’t been all that great of a friend, but she’d always thought she was. However, a friend should remember those kinds of details. Perhaps her memory was going. Maybe she should make an appointment with her doctor and get that checked out. She might have forgotten all sorts of things, and didn’t even know it. Maybe she’d even known Rowdy’s real name and had forgotten that too.

“Oh,” she said, then opened her bag and looked inside to spot the tiny notebook where she’d written his information. She pulled it out, read what she’d written, and frowned. Babette hadn’t told her his real name. She’d only provided the address and phone number. She’d need to call Babette later and ask, not that she’d actually address him by his real name, since everyone knew him as Rowdy, but if she were going to make a go at connecting with him again, she should probably know his name.

Other things were important too, but she’d figure those out when they finally got together for coffee or whatever. She’d need to ask what he’d been doing all these years, how many kids he’d had, whether he had grandchildren, how he was enjoying retirement. She assumed he was retired. From Sally Mae Lovett, she’d learned that he was a widower, that he was bald, and that he had his own teeth. But that was about it.

Seemed she should know more. But first, she’d need to make sure Henry was okay with her trying to learn more.

Paul returned to the table with their sandwiches. “Sorry. It took a little while, but I think it’ll be worth it.”

Gert thanked him and began eating the sandwich. Amazing how certain foods spark certain memories. This Reuben, toasted lightly and seasoned with just the right amount of Thousand Island dressing and with way more kraut than anyone else would want, but the perfect amount for her, sparked a vivid collage of days sitting on this deck with Henry and Paul and Emily, all of them laughing and chatting and getting to know each other. Paul and Emily had a daughter . . .

“Kate,” Gert said, remembering their pride and joy. “How is she?”

“Fine. She and Ike, her husband, are living in Vermont now. They have three kids, all of them coming up on those fun teenage years.”

Gert thought about that. Kate was his only daughter, and she was living in Vermont. “You didn’t want to move closer to them?” she asked.

He shrugged. “This is home. And I don’t much care for cold weather. Besides, they come down at least three times a year and let me properly spoil the kids.”

She continued eating, and was inwardly grateful that she had family nearby. Three times a year didn’t seem quite enough, though Paul seemed okay with it. What did he do the rest of the year? He’d been a doctor, but had retired. Did he golf a lot? Did he stay home? He still had the athletic appearance he’d always had, so he must be active doing something fairly regularly. Gert wondered if all widows and widowers were as content in their single-again status as Paul appeared to be.

“How is it?” he asked between bites. “As good as you remember?”

She nodded. “Yes. In fact, it’s perfect.”

“Wait until you try the lemonade.”

Oh, she remembered that too. Mirror Lakes had the best fresh-squeezed lemonade, the club’s gentle reminder that this was a Southern golf course, and that the owners were known for traditional Southern charm. She wrapped one palm around the glass and brought it to her lips. The tart-yet-sweet combination that hit her palate was a welcome reminder that this really was a place where she was comfortable, a place that’d been something special to her way back then, and Henry’s very favorite place in the world. She smiled.

“Feeling better?” he asked, and she realized that whether he’d mentioned it or not, he’d understood the difficulty she had at even setting foot on the grounds at Mirror Lakes.

“Yes, thanks.” She knew a simple “thanks” wasn’t enough to express her gratitude to him for helping her accomplish the task at hand, readjusting to this part of her past, but she didn’t have the right words to convey the depth of her appreciation. However, Paul’s nod and gentle smile told her he understood that as well.

He finished his sandwich first, then leaned back and surveyed his surroundings, including Gert, while she continued on hers. The Reuben was too good to leave on the plate, and she’d always been a healthy eater, so she ate every bite, then every chip, and finished off with the pickle spear. When she was done, she drank the rest of the lemonade, and then looked at Paul, simply sitting in the chair and relaxing, and still looking at her.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“You have a little Thousand Island,” he said, the hint of a smirk playing with one corner of his mouth, “right there.” He pointed just above the curve of that smirk, and Gert dashed her tongue out to lick the extra dressing away.

“Did I get it?” she asked.

His eyes widened a bit, but then he nodded. “Gert, I want to ask you something.”

Heavens, that sounded ominous, but she merely said, “Okay.”

“Do you really want to learn how to play golf?” He pushed his plate aside, then leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his fingers clasped in front of them. “Because if you do, I’ll do my best to teach you. But something tells me that playing golf isn’t what you really want to do.”

“But I need to.”

His head bobbed slowly, giving her one of those nods that said he realized she’d made up her mind, and that there wasn’t anything he could do to change it.

And that about summed it up, even if the thought of actually taking a golf club on that course terrified her. Speaking of that . . .

“I need to see about renting clubs, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling the word out with his natural drawl, “Or . . .”

“Or?”

“You’re finished, right?” He grabbed his plate, then reached for hers.

She laughed. “I’d better be. There’s nothing left.”

His laughter joined hers. “I’m glad you enjoyed your lunch. Okay, then, let me get rid of these, and then I want to show you something.”

She grabbed her bag and was standing beside the table by the time he returned from tossing their trash. “Show me what?” she asked, like a child waiting for a present.

“Come with me.” He moved toward her, as though he might take her hand and lead the way, then he seemed to catch himself, and he paused. “If you want to, I mean.”

“Of course.”

They walked around the side of the clubhouse, down a rock pathway sprinkled with bold red tulips, and then toward a thick hedge of hot pink azaleas. Gert didn’t remember the hedge and was fairly certain that the pretty rock pathway hadn’t been here the last time she was here either. “Where are we going?”

“Around here. You’ll see.” He moved to one end of the hedge, than flipped his palm and waved her ahead. “See what you think of this.”

Gert stepped through and saw a miniature golf course, set up much like Twin Mirrors, with tiny little pools on each side of the course, small bushes instead of trees, and cute little sand-colored dunes—pits, whatever—composing a course that had obviously been built for kids. “It’s adorable!”

He nodded. “Yeah, the owners wanted to provide something for children, or for teens on dates. I see a lot of them out here at night, putting around the course and having a good time.”

“It does look like a lot of fun,” she said, noticing two teenage girls at the far end of the course trying their luck at pecking—putting?—a ball over one of the sand areas.

“Yeah, and the best part is that it’s actually a part of the original course. This area, I mean. It used to be part of the main golf course.” He waited a beat, then two. “Isn’t that something?” he asked, and his voice had softened, or maybe it seemed that way to Gert because of where her thoughts had headed.

This was a part of Henry’s course, and this was a course she could handle.

“How much does it cost?” she asked, her hand already reaching inside her bag to withdraw her wallet.

“Wait here, and I’ll find out.”

Within a few minutes, he returned holding two putters. “Here you go.” He extended one toward her, and she took it. “I rented you a locker for your things,” he said, indicating her bag. It’s over there.” He pointed to a row of taupe covered lockers by the building where he’d gotten the putters. “Locker twelve. You want me to put your things in there for you?”

“You paid for me to play?” she asked, handing him her bag.

“I got you a ten game card.” He pulled the rectangular box out of the bag and handed it to her. “You’ll want to wear these, won’t you?”

She couldn’t keep her smile from spreading to her cheeks. “They’re not really required for this course, are they?”

“No, but you’re a woman with new shoes. I’ve never known a lady with new shoes who didn’t want to wear them.”

“You’re a very perceptive man, Paul Stovall,” she said, moving to a nearby bench, then sitting down and sliding her walking shoes from her feet and slipping on the dreamily soft golf shoes. “Oh, these do feel good.”

“I thought that’s what you’d say.”

“Did you say you bought ten games?”

He laughed. “I don’t expect you to use the whole card today, and I was kind of thinking that I might take advantage of five of them, if you want a partner, that is.”

She couldn’t deny that she’d enjoy this more with company. “That’d be nice.”

He turned and headed toward the lockers while Gertrude thought about all of the ways that Paul had helped her break through her barriers today. Whether he knew it or not, Paul was helping her determine her future, today, on a miniature golf course. Because before the day ended, she intended to get an answer from Henry.

Chapter 11

J
eff spent the entire day at the Seaside store, since it was his new store manager’s first Saturday on the job. He had promoted the woman from within the compay, so he’d known that she was prepared, but he still didn’t want to leave her completely on her own today, so he’d been at the store at the crack of dawn going over everything that traditionally occurred on a Saturday. Everyone in Florida knew that was when the tourists came out in full force, and when the locals finally got that long-awaited day off from work and went shopping. Forty percent of the store’s weekly sales occurred on Saturday, and although Jeff didn’t anticipate his new manager doing anything that would change that on her first day, he also didn’t want to throw that much responsibility at her too quickly.

He’d planned to stay at the store until noon, make certain that everything was running smoothly and then head home for the day. However, the store had been even busier than usual, and he’d ended up staying the whole afternoon. That wouldn’t have been a hardship if he hadn’t stayed up so late talking with Babette, walking on the beach with Babette, taking Babette back to her condo, merely two floors down, and then—and this was the biggee— fantasizing about her all damn night.

Jeff assumed that he’d probably spend every night the same way, as long as Red was in town. He wondered how many times she’d beaten on the door to his condo trying to see if he was home, or how many times she’d called. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, so she’d had plenty of time to try to talk to him and plenty of time to get pissed when she didn’t find him. Knowing Babette, she probably thought he’d left the resort to keep from talking to her.

While he really had needed to help his newest manager today, pissing Babette off had plenty of appeal. She was so damn cute when she was mad, like she had been last night when he splashed her during their walk back. It was a childish gesture, as she’d said—or screamed—but it also got the response he wanted. He could still feel her body launching into his, the power of the two of them hitting the water and the way she felt on top of him.

He stepped off the elevator and walked toward his condo, half expecting to see her standing outside his door and fuming. She wasn’t there. Nor was the phone ringing when he went inside or the message light blinking on his machine. Obviously, she’d developed patience during the past year.

As was his usual custom, he dropped his keys on the table and walked toward the balcony. It didn’t matter that he’d been outside only a few short minutes ago. It didn’t matter that he’d seen the beach throughout his drive home from Seaside. What mattered was that now he could go to his balcony, with his personal view of the beach, his bliss.
This
was his favorite feature of the condo and the primary reason he’d selected White Sands. It centered the most captivating area of the beach, and with its ceiling-to-floor windows, his condo had an outstanding view from any angle. More than that, he’d picked the fourth floor because it wasn’t too low to get a full view of the spectacular beach, nor too high to appreciate being a part of the scene.

He moved toward the railing and peered toward the Gulf, where a mass of seagulls, their silver-tipped wings a stunning contrast to their white pelts, dived to catch fish just beyond where the waves were breaking. Then he watched as wave after wave pitched a whitecap to its peak before slamming into the shore. He listened to the beachgoers enjoying the sun, the sand, and each other. Then he scanned those on the beach, teens and adults and little kids . . . and didn’t see what he was looking for, or rather,
who
he was looking for.

He was surprised she wasn’t out there; it wasn’t like Babette to miss out on such a gorgeous day. Maybe she’d been out earlier and had headed inside, and Jeff had missed the chance to see her play again, or sunbathe the way she always did whenever she came down to see him.

A horde of sunbathers were taking advantage of the hotel pool, he noticed, and he glanced in that direction, not really looking for her, since he knew she preferred the beach, but on the off chance that . . .