When Light Breaks (6 page)

I looked at the e-mails that had poured in over the three hours Caroline and I had met. I groaned. Caroline glanced over her shoulder before she left the room. “Kara.”

“Yes?”

She stared back for a moment, as if she could read my thoughts. “Nothing,” she said, then nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I turned back to my computer. I had exactly two hours to return phone calls and e-mails before I headed to the golf course and made sure I stood at the edge of the eighteenth green as Peyton filmed his first national TV commercial.

 

The Pointe River moved behind me in a slow ebb toward the Atlantic Ocean, the wind pushing in the opposite direction. A white egret stood on the top of the dock’s pillar watching Peyton hit his fifteen-foot putt. I clapped when the ball fell with a clink into the hole. Peyton turned, found me on the sidelines, and winked. I nodded at him and blew a kiss. The cameras caught the wink, and a crewman hollered, “Perfect. The wink was perfection. I think that’s a wrap.”

From my bag I lifted my brand-new Nikon N80, which I’d bought with my Christmas bonus, and snapped pictures of the scene. Later Peyton and I would be thrilled I’d photographed these times, then glued the pictures into a scrapbook. “That was the first commercial you were in,” I’d say after time had passed, when there’d been lots of other ads featuring Peyton Ellers.

I ran my finger over the black surface of the camera. Photos were my memory-stapler. With each picture I took, with each click of the camera, I was stapling the moments in my memory so I wouldn’t forget. I’d hoarded all the pictures of Mama that I could find, but they were never enough. Now I took photos wherever I went, of whatever I did, so I’d never forget, never be caught on the other side of remembering.

A cluster of girls on the far side of the green called Peyton’s name, and they motioned for him to come over. He moved toward them with that saunter I’d noticed the first time I met him, a walk of such assurance that he appeared to be headed into a gunfight knowing he was the fastest draw.

The crowd of girls smiled, swung their hair over their shoulders and bent over the rope toward him. He reached them and signed the various objects they held out: hats, paper, T-shirts. Then a blonde scooted under the rope and pulled her button-down blouse to the right, exposing just enough skin for him to sign his name in a bright blue Sharpie.

I took in a sharp breath and felt a forceful punch from below my ribs. I’d seen this kind of behavior before while working these tournaments, but I’d never seen anyone do it to Peyton, my fiancé. Had I believed he was immune to such blatant flirtation because he was engaged, that other women wouldn’t run after him? Seized by primal ownership, I walked around the green, placed my hand on the small of his back. He turned to me, wrapped his arm around my waist, nodded at the fans, and walked with me toward the locker room.

“What was that?” I whispered as we approached the clubhouse.

He shrugged. “A fan with nothing better to do.”

“You didn’t have to sign her . . . skin.”

Peyton stopped, stared at me. “Kara, it’s nothing. I didn’t . . .”

I held up my hand; a cool breeze lifted my hair off my shoulders, and I wasn’t sure if the chill that ran down my body came from seeing this woman, or from the leftover winter air just exiting our Lowcountry.

“I know,” I said, “I know it’s nothing. But it’s gross nonetheless.”

Peyton smiled and kissed me. “It’s only you, only you I love.”

I let the chill pass, but released his hand as I headed toward the clubhouse.

“Hey,” he called. “Where you going?”

I looked over my shoulder. “I cannot be late for dinner. You know how Daddy gets when any of us is late.”

Peyton rolled his eyes. “I swear, that man has an internal alarm clock. I have never met anyone so anal about being late . . . about doing everything exactly so.”

I stopped, turned and walked back to Peyton. “What?”

“Kara, you’ve got to admit it, he’s a little more . . . uptight about things than most.”

An up-and-coming young golfer whose name I could never remember came from behind Peyton, punched the side of his arm. “Keep making those putts and you’re a shoo-in next month.”

Peyton turned away from me and shook the young man’s hand. “Yeah, but I’m watching you carefully . . . you’re coming up behind me way too fast.”

The golfer smiled, hiked his bag up over his shoulder. “See you tonight?”

Peyton glanced at me, then back at him. “Yeah, sure. . . .”

The man walked off, and Peyton pulled me into a long kiss. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be cruel about your dad, really. I have just truly never seen anything like it.”

“It’s his way of . . . keeping some control over his life. Ever since Mama . . . left us.” A wounded piece of me attempted to rise behind my chest with tears; I pushed it down and touched Peyton’s arm. “Where are you going tonight that you have to miss family dinner?”

“They’re every week. We won’t be able to go every week after we’re married. . . . You know that, right?”

“No, I don’t know that. Family dinner is very important to us. It keeps us . . . I don’t know . . . together, I guess.”

“But when we’re married”—He snuggled up to my neck with his lips, then whispered in my ear, “we’ll have our own family dinners.”

A smile spread across my face, and a tingle reached beyond my neck to my stomach.

“Well,” I said, “where will you be tonight?”

“Ah, big party for Lee Pennington’s birthday.”

“Oh?” I raised my eyebrows. I’d been working for the tour long enough to know where Lee Pennington liked to celebrate. “Nice, Peyton. Great way to spend a night without your fiancée.”

“It’s not a big deal, just a party.”

“Probably at a strip club,” I said between clenched teeth. I felt repulsion toward him I didn’t want to experience, negativity I wanted to deny. I’d loved him since the first moment he’d told me he loved me, and I wanted to feel jealous, not repelled. I closed my eyes and found that place of adoring him, then opened my eyes. “Don’t go,” I said.

He kissed me. “Why don’t I meet you later tonight?”

“Babe, you’ll be out so late,” I said, unable to hide the barbs that had entered and attached themselves to my words like sand spurs to the cuff of my jeans.

“I’ll try and call.” He had reached for my hand, when three men came from the side and grabbed him. “Come on, buddy . . . let’s get outta here.”

Peyton turned to me, mouthed, “I love you,” and sauntered in his adorable way toward the locker room with his golf bag over his shoulder. A green grass stain ran along the side of his khakis.

I turned away and blew a long exhale through pursed lips. My stomach gripped in a fist. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt off-kilter. There was something I should be looking at, but I didn’t know where to find it. I rubbed my eyes. I was letting the chaos and being overextended affect my feelings, then was placing them smack on top of Peyton. I loved this kind man who’d wrapped his arms and his life around me.

I sat down at a wrought iron table on the round stone patio at the back of the clubhouse, propped my chin in my palm, and dug my elbow into the tiny holes of the iron.

I’d been watching these pro players for years. I knew about their long hours on the road, their late nights with the guys. Right now, with my stomach in a tight lump, my throat constricted, I couldn’t thread the positive feelings through my insides to where love resided. Then I remembered all the things I loved about Peyton: the way he walked, talked, touched me, loved me. I dwelt on the way he made me feel the minute he came in a room—how he filled my heart.

I stood, stretched, and headed home to family dinner—one of the mainstays of life I cherished.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he following morning I rose early and finished my three-mile run before the sun met the horizon. I stood on what felt like the edge of the world, but was merely the community dock. This was the only quiet time I would have all day. My breath came quick, and I felt as though I were the only human alive in the gentle morning with the whirring cicadas and chirping frogs.

The sun shimmered below a sliver of pink cloud, then burst into flame at the borders. I lifted a hand to shield my eyes, leaned into a lunge. My breath slowed. I stood and then bent forward at the waist, stretched my hamstrings to the groaning point, then hung there, viewing the coastal world from upside down.

The palmetto branches waved at me in reverse patterns; firmament and pavement switched places as a running shoe appeared in the asphalt sky. I jumped upright and smiled at Charlotte.

“You went without me.”

“I did. I’m sorry.” I grimaced. “My day is so insane and I wanted to get started. . . . I couldn’t sleep anyway. But,” I sighed, “I could now. . . .” I sat on a bleached-wood bench and dropped my hands onto my knees.

“Girlfriend, you’ve got two more months of this wedding stuff. You better learn to pace yourself a little better.”

I glanced up at my friend. “Oh, it’s not the wedding. Now would be a very good time to have Mama.”

Charlotte squeezed me tighter. “I know. But I promise I’m here to do whatever you need.”

“I know,” I said and sighed. “Hey, you don’t have any of those old boyfriends you’ve stayed just friends with in a band, do you?”

“No, why?”

“I need a band.”

“Can’t help you there.” She stood and stretched. “I guess I’ll run without you this morning, unless you’re up for another three miles or so.”

“No way. I have to be at Verandah House by eight a.m., then I have two tour meetings, and I’m seeing your mom about the flowers at three and . . .”

“I’ll catch up with you there,” she said. “And don’t forget the shower your future mother-in-law is holding in your honor is at seven tonight.”

I groaned. “That is tonight, isn’t it?”

“You looking forward to it?”

“Not so much,” I said. “It’s our fifth shower. Peyton and I stand there grinning like complete fools oohing and aahing over gifts—it’s so arcane and embarrassing.”

“At least you called him Peyton this time.”

I scrunched up my face. “Very funny. That was a completely honest mistake. Maeve asked me about him—”

“Okay, then.” She pulled her tank top down over her stomach and started to run in place. “Meet you at Mom’s shop at three today. . . .” She reached her arms over her head and went off running, waving over her shoulder.

I waved back and then stared out over the river. I had placed Maeve’s story in the back of my mind. There was too much to do to let my thoughts wander aimlessly down the path of her past losses. But staring at the water, I thought of her oil painting of boats on a bay and smiled, warmth filling my chest.

 

The motor operating the head and foot of Maeve’s bed would surely burn out any moment now. Up, down it went, halfway up, all the way down, head, foot. My nerves were raw and the whirring rubbed like a nail file on the edges of my skin. She’d been playing with the bed controls and ignoring me since I’d walked in the door half an hour earlier.

“Stop,” I said, my teeth grinding against each other.

She jerked her head up from the fascinating vantage point of her feet and glanced at me with a dead stare. “Who are you?”

I took a deep breath. I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. I softened my voice. “I’m Kara Larson. I came to sit with you again today. Would you like to play cards? Or I can read to you, if you’d like.”

“How about poker?” She laughed.

I grinned. “Okay.”

“You know,” she said in a broken voice, “I’ve been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’ve been here for thirty minutes.” I patted the bed rail.

“Well, dear, why haven’t you said anything?” She moved her eyebrows together.

“I have—” I stopped. “Why don’t I get some cards so we can play for the last thirty minutes I’m here.”

“Are you on such a tight schedule?” She lifted her hands as a question. Her voice was soft, melodic, almost like a lullaby I’d heard once and then forgotten.

“I do have a crazy day,” I said.

“You are exhausted and frail. You must not let life eat at you this way, must not let it take your energy from you. Life can either nourish or drain you.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Well, before we continue with my story, dear, tell me a little bit more about yourself, your mum and da and, of course, your Jack.”

“My mama left us when I was nine years old. Jack left when I was fourteen. That’s really all there is to it. So . . .”

“That’s never all there is to it. You poor dear—your mum left the family?”

I shook my head. “No, she died. . . .” I turned away with the sting of withheld tears behind my eyes; I would not cry in front of a stranger.

“Oh . . . but there is a difference, no?”