A week later, Josephine stood in the middle of the Golden Tee, surveying the progress she’d made cleaning and drying everything out with industrial-sized fans. Nearly all of the drywall would need to be replaced, as well as the warped hardwood flooring. As soon as her prize money from the tournament had hit her bank account yesterday, she’d given a local contractor the green light to start making measurements and ordering new windows.
The Under Armour sponsorship money was due to arrive in the next few days, but Josephine needed to see the dollars in her account before she believed it was happening. During her meeting with the contractor, he’d drawn a plan for a courtyard in front of the pro shop with putting greens and a covered deck, along with a window facing the fairway where golfers could approach and purchase supplies without even entering the store. The very first pro shop drive-through in Florida.
All he needed was the go-ahead.
Making those improvements would clean her out again financially, but unlike last time, the money wasn’t going into a black hole. She wasn’t plugging one leak, only to watch another one grow worse. One more successful tournament with Wells and she would figure out her health insurance. The fabric of her life was finally knitting itself back together.
And she’d never felt lonelier.
Every time Josephine blinked, a memory of Wells would dance on the backs of her eyelids like a taunt. The way he’d stood outside the bag room, waiting for her with that cantankerous expression, arms crossed. How he twisted his hat backward when hunkering down to check the angle of a putt. When he’d checked her mini fridge for juice boxes. The taste and texture of his mouth, the stubble of his chin and cheeks so abrasive, yet welcoming on her softer skin. Their feet drifting side by side in the green hotel pool.
How he drawled her nickname. Belle.
Wells made her feel like she belonged. Like she was vitally necessary.
Treasured. Important. Even when they were arguing.
And she missed him very, very badly.
It was Sunday. Three days remained before she was supposed to meet Wells in California. She’d distracted herself for the last seven with cleaning and gearing up to make major changes to the shop, but three more days seemed interminable now. That morning she’d considered getting in her car and driving the ninety minutes to Miami to see him, but wouldn’t that contradict every decision she’d made on their final night together in Texas? She was keeping her distance for the good of her reputation. In the name of professionalism. Respect.
None of that seemed to matter at that exact moment, though, when she wanted to hear his surly griping so badly, her breastbone ached.
She would have given anything to call Tallulah. Just for five minutes, so she could tell her best friend everything. Tallulah would validate the decision she’d made. Or, at the very least, she’d ooh and ahh over the sex details. Life simply wasn’t as fulfilling when there was no one to tell about the afternoon she’d hooked up in a bag room. That information was meant to be whispered and blushed about after three glasses of wine.
Although . . . calling those stolen moments in the bag room a hookup didn’t exactly do them justice. Not when she could still recall the sensation of him inside her a week later.
Josephine slumped back against the damaged wall.
How had Wells spent the last seven days?
He’d texted her only once, with flight information. Just basic itinerary stuff.
Nothing else.
That’s what you asked him for. That’s what you wanted.
Josephine was saved from having to acknowledge the regret creeping in when she heard footsteps approaching from outside. If she needed any further proof that she missed Wells like crazy, it was in the way her heart rate spiked, her breath running short at the prospect of him walking into the shop.
Jim and Evelyn appeared in the doorway instead.
It took a considerable effort for Josephine to swallow the acute disappointment, which only led to a healthy dose of guilt. “Mom. Dad.” She dropped the tube of cleaning wipes in her hand and approached them, their arms wrapping around her shoulders and drawing her into a double embrace. “I’m sorry I haven’t been over to see you. I just wanted to get the shop cleaned up before you saw it in such terrible condition.”
Evelyn rubbed a firm circle into the center of her back, squeezed her tight. “It’s not your job to shield us from uncomfortable things, Joey.”
Uh-oh.
She knew that tone from her mother. Loving, as always, but decidedly wounded.
Josephine exhaled and stepped back, studying the faces of her parents. They weren’t the type to lay the guilt on thick, but they were guarded this afternoon. Hurt. And frankly, she deserved that reaction from them after being back in Palm Beach for a full week and avoiding the Big Conversation. “I’m not only sorry that I haven’t come to the house. I’m so sorry about the rest of it, too.” She wanted to rub at the discomfort in her throat, but her hands were covered in muck. “I don’t know what exactly you’ve heard on TV, because I can’t bring myself to watch. But . . . you’ve probably realized by now that I’m caddying for Wells because I . . . we need the money to repair the shop.”
“You should have told us, Joey,” Jim said quietly. “We have savings. You didn’t have to shoulder all this responsibility on your own.”
“I like the responsibility,” Josephine rushed to say. “I want it. And it might seem as if you’ve misplaced your trust in me, but I promise, I’m going to build the shop back better than ever. All right? I won’t make the same mistakes again.”
Evelyn sighed. “You know the shop isn’t the part we worry about most.” She looked up at the ceiling and blinked several times, as if holding back tears. “It’s you. You’re a diabetic. You need health insurance. It’s not some optional luxury—”
“Mom, I know. Can you please just trust me?” Josephine gave up on staying clean and massaged her aching throat. “I’m handling it. All of it. One problem at a time.”
“How can I trust you when you lied?”
“Technically, she didn’t lie,” Jim interjected. “She just omitted the truth.”
Josephine’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thanks, Dad.”
He grunted, took a turn around the shop. “Do you have supplies? Sensors for your CGM? Insulin?”
“Yes. Enough to get me through until I can get a policy up and running. I’m not . . .”
“Rationing?” Her mother spat the word like an epithet. “You can’t do that. We’d sell the house before letting you do that.”
“I know! I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything.” Immediately, she regretted her outburst, but her parents were staring at her, stunned, the words lingering in the air. She had no choice but to qualify them. To explain. With a sigh, Josephine turned over the crate she’d been using to transport cleaning supplies and sat down heavily. “What happens with the shop is one thing, my diabetes is another. I’m an adult, guys. I find my own solutions. I’m the one who has to live with this condition. It’s mine. I don’t want caretakers, because it makes me feel like I . . . I need them. It makes me feel sickly—and I’m not. I’m strong.”
It occurred to Josephine that she’d been avoiding this conversation for years.
Smiling through the well-meaning warnings and advice. Nodding. Agreeing.
One tournament with Wells and she was no longer avoiding the uncomfortable topics. Maybe . . . she’d learned something from him? Or gotten used to facing problems head-on—bluntly and loudly. Whatever the reason, her short time with Wells had changed her for the better, hadn’t it? Reminded her exactly how capable she was.
And that made her miss him even more.
Romantically, yes. Her gooey heart and sex feelings for the big jerk were undeniable.
But it was more than that. She missed her friend and fighting partner.
“You are strong, Joey,” Evelyn said, voice quivering. “It was never my intention to make you feel otherwise. Sometimes I just can’t shut off the worry.”
“I know. I’m sorry you have to live with that, Mom. It’s not fair.”
Jim settled a hand on her shoulder. “You’re worth ten lifetimes of it.”
“Thanks.” A watery laugh bubbled out of Josephine. “This conversation is getting way too heavy.” She used the edge of her shirt to swipe at her eyes. “Quick, somebody say something funny.”
“Good idea,” Jim said quickly.
Her parents searched each other’s faces for a moment until finally Evelyn snapped her fingers. “Oh honey, what was it Wells said this morning that had you in stitches?”
Wells? This morning? Josephine’s mouth fell open.
Jim slapped his knee. “He told me there’s a tree at the ninth hole at Torrey Pines where all the golfers go to drain the weasel. It’s tradition! They call it the Pissing Tree. And it’s the fastest growing tree on the course—he swore up and down!”
Josephine couldn’t even begin to process that. They were going to be at Torrey Pines next week, though, so she pocketed the valuable information for future use. “Why were you speaking to Wells?”
“He calls your father every day, dear.”
“He what?”
Jim crossed his fingers. “He’s trying to wrangle me a ticket to the Masters.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Golf. What else? Although . . . ,” Jim hedged.
“What?” Josephine prompted.
“Well, he usually manages to sneak in a few questions about you, Joey-Roo.” He paused, looking sheepish. “Come to think of it, that might be the real reason he’s calling.”
“Oh no, he loves you, honey,” Evelyn assured him.
Jim’s chest puffed up. “He does, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Josephine stared at her parents. “What does he ask about me?”
“Well . . .” Her father scratched his head. “He’s crafty about it. See, we were having a conversation about golf clubs and he says, very casually mind you, ‘What kind of sticks does Josephine use?’ And it goes like that.”
Obviously, there was no satisfaction to be had from this line of questioning.
“He asked about her birthday,” volunteered Evelyn. “Remember?”
“Oh yes. He wanted to know the date.”
“Why?”
“Well, how am I supposed to know, Josephine?”
“By asking!”
“Wells doesn’t like questions.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Josephine pushed to her feet. “If he wants to know anything else about me, he can ask me himself.”
Jim gave a firm nod. “I’ll be sure to let him know that during our next chat.”
“Good.”
“Is there a romance brewing here, Joey-Roo?” asked her mother with a little shimmy of her shoulders. “I ran into Sue Brown at the supermarket yesterday and she seemed to think so. Said the broadcasters implied as much while you were in San Antonio.”
“The checkout clerk at the plant store asked about it, too.”
“Wow. More plants, huh?” Josephine sighed. “Did anyone ask about golf? Or caddying? Or was it all about whether or not Wells and I are—”
“I don’t think I like questions, either,” Jim blurted. “Don’t finish that one.”
“Dating. I was going to say dating.”
“Oh.” Jim coughed into his first. “Yes, it seems people are mostly interested in the possibility that our daughter is seeing Wells Whitaker. Also . . . that he’s a class act for helping you get back on your feet.”
Concerns validated, Josephine’s nod was jerky.
Wasn’t this what she’d been afraid of?
Being recognized as Wells’s charity-case girlfriend, instead of for her abilities?
Apparently, she’d done the right thing by backing away and giving all the hype a chance to die down. Would it pick back up as soon as they were on television in California?
Only time would tell.
And inevitably, she’d have more decisions to make. Such as how much longer could she remain as Wells’s caddie? More importantly, would any length of time serving as his caddie be enough to make people recognize her as an asset to the sport, instead of what had brought her on the tour? Would that talent serve the new and improved Golden Tee? Bring her family’s shop the attention she was hoping for? Or was that only wishful thinking?
An hour later, Josephine was still mulling over these worries when she walked into her apartment. Before the door even closed, her phone started to beep.
Sensor expiring said the alert on the screen.
Time to change the site of her glucose monitor. One arm to the other.
With a yawn, Josephine showered and went through the practiced motions of removing the old sensor, unsnapping the transmitter that sent her blood sugar number to her phone, then attaching the new one to the back of her arm with a slight wince. No matter how many times she performed the ritual, a needle punching into the back of her arm never stopped being a little jarring. Blowing out the breath she’d been holding, Josephine snapped in the fob and tapped the screen on the app to begin warming up the new device, which usually took around an hour. She chewed a few tabs, just to make sure she didn’t go low while waiting for the new device to kick in—and then she face-planted on the couch and fell fast asleep.
