Now, strolling around the golf course with Polly, I don’t bother to pretend I know what’s going on as people hush and cheer in sporadic intervals. But I’m doing my best to nod along as I scan the golfing equipment of different players, looking for anything that explains the jar of broken tees Gemma had her hair ties spooled around.
I spot Beau across the green, laughing with Ford, Shep, and Marcus on the first tee like he was born holding a nine iron.
“Marcus came?” I look at Nora, who shrugs.
Someone is handing them their scorecards, and I wait for Beau to see me, like he always does. To catch me taking him in from afar. Longing simmers in my chest. For him. For who we were before Gemma died. For a time when I felt like there weren’t secrets and silence lodged between us.
But he doesn’t look my way.
It’s benign. Or at least that’s how it should feel.
I didn’t tell him I was coming. He has no reason to be looking for me.
But up until now, we had a knack for finding each other’s gazes in crowds. He’d wink. I’d blow him a kiss or flip him off, depending on how cheeky I was feeling. And then we’d go backto whatever we were doing, knowing that tether between us was always there.
“You okay?” Nora nudges me.
“No.” The laugh that escapes my lips is sharp. “Why would I be okay?”
I watch as Beau’s group tees off and disappears down the fairway.
Somewhere between the polite applause, the surface-level chatter about weather delays, and which club anyone is using, I lose four hours of my life. And by the time the last foursome finishes their round, the crowd is migrating to the awards table. Which means Carol will be looking for her less-than-trusty assistant.
I take a step in that direction as the first drop of rain hits my cheek. It starts out as a harmless drizzle, sprinkling hairlines and darkening pastel polos. But then, the lavender-gray clouds that have been sulking on the horizon all afternoon finally split open, and it’s a proper torrent, sending golfers and caddies scrambling for cover as they dash for their carts.
Around me, umbrellas bloom like flowers, and the course dissolves into chaos.
“The Tartan Lounge!” someone bellows through the crowd. “Our awards ceremony will take place in the club lounge.”
A wild-eyed Carol starts squawking orders at caddies, telling them to grab the awards and trophies as the rest of us chart a fast-walking, hands-over-blowouts course until we’re pushing through the lounge doors, AC blasting us head-on.
Nora exhales, brushing the raindrops off her white ensemble. “Wait. Where’s Beau?”
I look around.
“How are they going to fit everyone into the Tartan Lounge?” Polly asks, swinging the mini-backpack she’s got on to one side and pulling out a Lip Smacker lip gloss.
“Bleck. That stuff smells like a strawberry farted. Here.” I offer her the Chanel lip stain in my belt bag.
“Looks like Carol’s already on it.” Nora smirks. “You’d better go make yourself useful.”
Carol’s by the door, unloading a box full of trophies from the back of a golf cart as rain splashes off the cart’s roof. A patient-looking caddy in a baseball hat sits in the driver’s seat. She jostles the box free of the back seat and starts toward the front of the lounge.
“You’re the worst,” I mutter to Nora as I spring into action. “Looks like you could use some assistance?” I smile with forced cheer, offering to take the box for Carol.
Maybe killing her with kindness is the play.
A little platform is already waiting near the bar, and I don’t ask who dragged it in or when. Instead, I get to work arranging the trophies on the bar top as Carol taps the mic, gathering the room’s attention.
She nods toward Darl, behind the bar, and he mutes the TV while a text bar appears as the closed captions turn on. Something Carol has coached him on, no doubt.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says with a synthetic brightness, “thank you for coming out today to support our charity tournament. I’d like to invite Este Walker to do the honor of awarding the trophies. While I have the privilege of sharing that this year’s tournament raised seventeen thousand dollars for Give Kids the World Village.”
Eyes turn to me, and I see Beau in the crowd. He’s surprised at first, but his expression softens to a smile, however faint. It lands like a salve.
Carol hands me a note card with a dollar number scrolled across it, but then Kristy Clark appears on TV screens behind the bar with a grave expression. The closed caption reads,Coming up at five, new evidence in the Gemma Klein murder case. We’ve exclusively obtained surveillance footage from the alleyway where—a clip plays onscreen. The camera is off the brightly lit news desk in an instant as security video of Gemma and Beau standing near a utility door together flashes on the flat screen.
Everything in my peripheral vision goes black for a moment.
