But something else was happening inside Amy that she slowly became aware of. She wanted to go home. Like,reallygo home. She missed her kids terribly. As much as she’d wanted to be free of their constant questions and needs for a short amount of time, she missed them. Already, their texts had become less frequent. When she checked in with Ryan, he said everything was fine, and why did she ask; did she think it wouldn’t be? Because he was just as much a parent as she was, andblah blah blah.
She wondered if Jonah was paying any attention to Ethan, if Ethan had gotten to see his friend Connor. She wondered if they were eating anything other than ramen and sugar, and if Jonah was using the cream she’d gotten him for his rash, and if Ethan was taking his ADHD medicine like he was supposed to. She’d wanted a break so desperately, but now she wanted to be home. Especially as Christmas drew closer.
Furthermore, she felt that she could, privately, admit that she sort of missed the bothersome Bossy Posse. Notmissedexactly, but did not mind. Sort of liked. Okay, missed.
She was starting to get the uncomfortable thought that maybe the bohemian artist’s lifestyle wasn’t what she’d made it out to be in her head. Sure, it was cool to paint every day. In an idyllic setting. With a handsome lover. But she didn’t always have an idea to paint, and really, a whole day of painting was alot. A lot of intense concentration, of thinking, of closing herself off to listen to her inner voice. What she thought she probably wanted was to dabble. If she dabbled in art, she’d have time for her kids and her family and Duchess. And to watch her favorite show or read a book or putter in her garden or go out with the girls.
She’d even begun to wonder if she’d given up the idea of the bohemian artist lifestyle years ago and hadn’t realized it. Maybe it was that even then, she knew this lifestyle would not make her happy.
But when she looked at Harrison, she didn’t want to give that up, either. She wanted that part of her dream, too.
It wasn’t until she began to suspect that Harrison was missing golf that she accepted this would end.
She overheard him talking to his manager, telling him he would be in Scotland, but that he wanted to be at a tournament in January as well. He hadn’t told her—mostly, she suspected, because they had neatly avoided any mention of the future. Eventually, they would have to speak about it. The morning would come when they would have to leave.
But until that moment, neither was inclined. They were perfectly happy to continue the interlude.
26
That moment presented itself the next to the last morning they had in the cabin. Rain had replaced snow, and they were trapped inside. Harrison had been to the big house to begin packing up things and reported that the Bossy Posse had completed a gingerbread house but were packing up, too.
“Is it as big as the gingerbread men in my painting?” Amy asked.
“Weirdly close,” he said. “And decorated within an inch of its life. I don’t know what becomes of it now.”
“Fundraiser,” Amy said as she arranged logs in the small fireplace for a fire. “They do this every year to raise money for the children’s home. They can be super annoying, but they are very civic-minded.” She smiled, thinking about how active they were in the community. The new pickleball court was due, in part, to their efforts.
They sat on the floor before the fire, warming their feet, Duchess curled into a ball between them.
Harrison took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I guess we’re at the end of our stay.”
“We are,” Amy agreed.
“I picked up some steaks for tonight. Thought we’d go out the way wecame in—with a good meal.” He leaned back against the ratty couch and tugged her into his side. “I have a question for you.”
Here it was, the big convo. The denouement. The end of her dream. “Shoot,” she said, because if nothing else, she wasn’t afraid of life at this point.
“Where do we go from here?”
How funny that her heart should lift almost out of her chest at the mere suggestion of something next for them. But her brain, her very practical brain, beat it down again. “Good question,” she said. “The old now what.” She glanced down. “I heard you on the phone. I gather you’re going back on the tour.”
He sighed. “My knee is much better. So is my swing, surprisingly. I haven’t had the chance to work on it like this in a long time. I feel good, feel like I could compete. But…” He shifted his gaze to the fire.
“But?”
He looked at her again. “I realize that it’s more than being physically ready to compete. I’ve been trying to figure out what I want from life now. I don’t know the answer, but I don’t think I’m ready to give up the competition. Or the hunt for one more title. I don’t think I’m ready to say goodbye to so many people who depend on me, like my caddy and my manager. Not to mention the brands that have endorsed me and paid me a small fortune to wear their logos, presumably not in the comfort of my own little condo.” He rubbed his forehead. “I still don’t know what I want from life, or how long I’ll play, or what I’ll do after that…but I have obligations and I’m not prepared to give them all up. What would I do? Where would I go? I’ve never thought of retiring at this stage. At the very least, I could join the senior tour, but even that sounds too…final.” He sighed again, then tightened his loose hold of her fingers. “I guess what I am trying to say is that I don’t have any real answers for myself or for you.”
Amy’s heart fell from its climb. She would have preferred to hearsome declarations of undying devotion. But she understood—things rarely happened like they did in novels.
“I was hoping maybe you had some answers,” he said softly.
“Me?” Amy gave him an ironic smile. “Well…I think I’ve figured out that I’m not ready for a life of art. Not as a full-time gig, anyway.”
“Seriously?” Harrison seemed surprised. “You’ve seemed so happy painting.”
“Oh, I’ve loved it. Mostly. But I really miss my kids. And my friends. I even kind of miss my job. I miss the life I’ve created, and ironically, not the life I thought I was supposed to have had.”
“Wait,” Harrison said, and brushed a bit of her hair from her cheek. “You miss the job where you tell men not to look at women’s breasts?”
