Josephine polished a pint glass and set it on the wooden shelf behind the register, turning it so the course logo was facing forward. Without pausing for thought or rest, she flew to the next box of inventory, slid the X-Acto
knife out of her back pocket, and sliced the tape, ripping the cardboard flaps wide. And did her best not to stare at the growing mountain of flowers, teddy bears, and bubble bath sets sitting just inside the door. Every time she turned around, another gift was being delivered. Accepting them was easy, but allowing herself to interpret their meaning was harder. She wasn’t there yet.
So she kept stocking. Kept pushing.
She was so close to having the whole shop set up. They’d open the doors tomorrow.
Right on time.
She wouldn’t have spare moments to think about what was happening in Georgia. In fact, she didn’t even want to know. It was day three of the Masters. Jim had let it slip on the phone this morning that Wells had made the cut and Josephine had been almost alarmed by the rush of giddy pride
that had rocketed through her bloodstream, but beyond that, she didn’t even know his current score. That was fine. She needed to focus on the shop.
He didn’t want her there. Otherwise she would be in Georgia. End of story.
But as much as Josephine wasn’t in Georgia, Wells was in Florida with her in so many ways. As agreed upon, half of his winnings from Torrey
Pines had been transferred to Josephine from his accountant yesterday, and after reeling over her new financial security, she’d promptly enrolled in a
health insurance plan. As soon as she paid the first premium, she’d burst into noisy tears. The upheaval of relief made Josephine wonder if she’d suppressed her worry over not having insurance for so long, she’d gotten used to living with the stress. And that realization was something she desperately wanted to share with Wells, which left her very conflicted.
Mad at him. Missing him. Mad at him. Grateful.
Josephine finished the glassware display and moved on to stacking boxes of golf balls, arranging them according to brand. When the letters on the box started to blur a little, she remembered her glucose monitor had been going off for fifteen minutes and forced herself to pop some tabs, chewing almost resentfully.
Breaks gave her time to think, and she really, really didn’t want to think.
Thinking made the center of her chest feel like the Grand Canyon, just a yawning, arid place with acres of scorched earth and sharp plants.
Tell me you fucking love me.
For some reason, that was the part of their argument she replayed most. Because it was so Wells. So like Wells to demand something delicate with the roar of a king. That’s what he’d been doing all along. Shouting his
insecurities at her and disguising them as arguments. And she loved him so much for it. She loved him so much she could cry enough tears to fill a lake, just for missing his presence. The scruff of his chin, the scent of his deodorant, the roughness of his hips, those epiphanies that struck his brown eyes when she said something that made sense on the golf course, his
villainous frown. His deep voice, his grudging smile. The way he praised her, challenged her, coveted her. Spending a single second missing those things felt like a year.
And apart from that, apart from the razor-edged pining in her chest, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, he’d truly done the right thing. She was hurt and bitter and still in shock from the man she loved banishing her, but the Golden Tee would be empty right now if Wells hadn’t sent her away. It would be a shell. Or maybe the course would be showing it to prospective replacements. People who wanted to give it a different name, maybe do a whole new renovation.
That would have killed her.
Missing Augusta was killing her, too. Slowly and painfully. Their cable had been installed this morning at the shop and the desire to turn on the
television was high. But no, she was too afraid to find out he’d backslid and needed her.
Not when she wasn’t there to help.
Josephine unstacked another box and got to work unpacking it. She was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t hear Jim and Evelyn arrive. It wasn’t until her mother planted a kiss on her cheek that she joined them in reality.
“Oh! Hey, Mom.” She kissed Evelyn back, before giving her father’s face the same treatment. “We’re getting there.”
“Oh, Joey-Roo, it’s really coming along. It looks wonderful,” Evelyn effused.
Smiling was agonizing but she attempted one anyway. “Thanks. We still have quite a bit of landscaping to do outside, but nothing to prevent us from opening for business. I’m stopping by the bank tonight for cash. The credit card machines are up and running.”
Her parents nodded along with her verbal list of preparations. But when
she finished and they simply stared at her without responding, it occurred to her how frazzled she must sound.
“Sorry for the info dump. I’m just excited.”
“Of course you are, Joey,” Jim said, affection shining in his eyes. “And we’re so proud of you for . . . everything. Especially your determination to carry the Doyle torch. To keep it burning.”
“Why do I sense a but coming?” Josephine asked warily. Evelyn smiled. “When is there not a but coming with us?” “Facts.”
Her parents traded a look. “Far be it from us to meddle in your romantic life, dear,” Evelyn said. “But we’re wondering if you’re just going to ignore the flowers.”
Josephine squinted. “The flowers . . . ?” “And the giant teddy bears,” Jim added. “I’m not following.”
Jim nudged his wife. “Don’t forget about the Bath and Body Works gift baskets.” He winced. “Seventeen of them, to be exact.”
“Ohhhh.” Josephine figured she was abusing her tactic of choice, playing dumb, her gaze reluctantly tracking to the other side of the pro shop, where gifts from Wells were literally piled up to the ceiling. “Those flowers and
bears and gift baskets.”
Evelyn nodded encouragingly. “Yes.”
“I haven’t decided what to do about those yet.” “Dear.”
“I’ll have to clear them out for the grand opening, but—” “Joey, have you turned on the Masters?” Jim broke in.
“We only got cable this morning!”
Evelyn just looked disappointed in her. “Honestly, Joey. Quit being such a pussy.”
“Mom!”
The woman had the nerve to blush. “Well. Stop!”
Jim was slowly recovering from hearing his wife say the P-word. “Uh . . .
I’m just going to turn it on. We can let Wells do the talking.” What was that supposed to mean?
Josephine didn’t know, but she lowered herself onto a box and hugged her knees, bracing. Maybe part of her had known for the last few days that as soon as she turned on the tournament, the ice layer that had formed on her lungs when Wells said you’re fired would melt. Just melt clean away.
And she was right.
There were a few minutes of footage of another pairing before the camera moved to Wells. But then . . . there he was.
Wearing pink.
That alone was enough to bring a watery, incredulous laugh tumbling out of her mouth, the shock that lingered inside her softening until it stung less.
And less. But then he turned around to retrieve a wedge from his bag and she saw it.
Her caddie uniform from Torrey Pines hanging from his back pocket. Josephine’s heart squeezed so hard she gasped.
“Has he been playing with that the whole time?” Evelyn answered. “Yes.”
Josephine labored through a breath. A breath that hitched in her throat when the camera zeroed in on Wells’s face and she saw the patchy, whisker growth on his cheeks, the sunken quality of his eyes, the grim lines on either side of his mouth.
In short, he looked God-awful.
And yet . . . he was playing well and holding his own. Knowing the man like she did, however, it was impossible for Josephine to miss the effort it was costing him to maintain his spot on the leaderboard. He looked tired and haunted. Haggard.
A lot like she felt.
“Honey, you’ve done the hard part,” Evelyn said softly. “You’ve cleaned up the shop, restored it better than ever. We can rent clubs and sell
merchandise for the first couple of days. Rolling Greens and the Golden Tee will be right here waiting when you get back.”
“Back from where?”
Jim implored the ceiling for patience. “Augusta!” “Dad, he needs to do this without me. He wants that.”
“And I know you don’t want to hear this, but that decision was fair enough, Joey. Relationships should be built on even ground.” He squinted an eye at her. “Do you think that man wants what’s best for you?”
Of course he did.
The answer came to her without delay.
Her heart knew the truth, as well as her mind. She’d never stopped trusting Wells, even in the thick of her anger. She’d just been too hurt by his seeming rejection to acknowledge it. Now, though, with his beloved image moving on the screen, and quiet proof that he loved her adorning his body,
there was no more avoiding what she already knew. He’d taken that growth they’d achieved together and he’d done the selfless thing. He’d made the decision she was too scared to make herself. His turn had arrived to be the strong one and he’d risen to the occasion. Maybe she could have celebrated him for it if she hadn’t been blindsided.
Now that she’d gained time and perspective, she had no choice but to see his actions for what they were. A man expressing his love the only way he’d known how.
“Yes, I know he wants what’s best for me,” Josephine said. “Always.” “Do you want what’s best for him?”
“Yes,” she managed. “Of course.”
“That’s love, honey.” Evelyn tipped her head at the television. “And even when it’s hard or you have to swallow your pride, love should always be
celebrated.”
* * *
It wasn’t that Wells didn’t know how to win.
In his early days, he’d won because being the best at something, being feared and revered, was like a drug after a lifetime of being ignored.
Suddenly everyone loved him and that felt great. It was a relief to know the people who treated him like an afterthought had been wrong.
Then he started winning for Josephine. He’d barely taken himself into account when they’d joined forces. He’d wanted success only so he could share it with her.
But on the final hole at Augusta—day four, one shot off the lead—he didn’t have either of those things to win for. Accolades and reverence were fleeting in sports. Was it nice to win and earn back respect? Yeah. But if all of that shit went away, it wouldn’t break him this time. He’d let it send him into a tailspin once, but never again. He knew what real success looked like now—earning the love and loyalty of his soul mate.
Did he want to win for Josephine? Hell yes. Purely because she’d believed in him when no one else would. But she wasn’t there. In his head, maybe, but not physically.
And he was out of fucking steam.
Earlier today, he’d rallied. Birdied nine holes, climbed to number one on the leaderboard. But he’d bogeyed the last hole, gone into the water two
holes prior, and slipped to number two. Nakamura was lining up his shot now, twenty yards from where Wells stood. The veteran golfer was poised to win the Masters and he deserved it. He’d played four solid rounds.
And the guy probably wanted it so bad.
Look at that. His wife was waiting on the sidelines with the rest of the
gigantic crowd, holding on to an older woman’s hand. Probably her mother- in-law. They were bursting with pride, waiting for Nakamura to sink this final putt and take the green jacket home.
Good. He was welcome to it.
You’re burning it all down, Josephine said in his ear. Why?
At the sound of her imaginary voice, Wells drifted back to a conversation they’d had in the dark one night in California.
“Which win do you remember most?” Josephine had asked. “My second major.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know . . . I guess, because I wasn’t an imposter on the tour after that.”
Josephine was quiet for a few moments, her index finger drawing circles in the middle of his chest. “So you remember it mostly because of how . . . other people would see you differently afterward?”
He’d been a little taken aback by that interpretation, but he couldn’t completely deny it. “I guess.”
“But what made it feel good for you?”
Another minute passed while he peeled back layers he didn’t even know existed. That’s what Josephine did. “The game . . . I was honored to become a part of the game. It’s old and loved by people who’ve come and gone . . . and there’s this beautiful ritual to it. I’d never had anything beautiful in my
life before that and I guess I was just stunned when it loved me back.”
Her appreciative exhale had roamed slowly over his body. “Remember that, Wells.”
“I will, belle.”
Recalling what it felt like to lie with Josephine in his arms and talk about their mutual love for the game had left his windpipe the size of a straw.
It shrank even more when Nakamura missed the putt.
The crowd let out an explosion of shock and disappointment. A rush of fire blew over his nerve endings.
Holy shit.
That shot should have been a gimme.
But the guy had missed. Which brought them even at fifteen under par. In other words, if Wells sank the next putt, he would win the fucking
Masters.
And he couldn’t even see the shot. His brain wasn’t working. Lack of sleep, lack of her, too much of everything else.
Josephine, where are you? Jesus.
He could recall her asking him, “If you could visualize the shot, what would it look like?” He strode to the quarter he’d left to hold his place, setting his ball in the same spot and pocketing the change. He turned his hat around, hunkering down and exhaling.
The crowd wasn’t breathing.
The air had stopped moving. Not a hint of wind to dry the sweat beading on his forehead. His temples throbbed, along with the insides of his wrists.
It wasn’t just a ball in front of him. It wasn’t just a hole.
Or some sport.
It was the only good thing he’d had in his life at one time. And he wanted to give this shot everything he had, didn’t he? He had the right to want this
win.
He’d gotten here because of love and that’s how he’d finish it.
Wells mentally calculated the yardage, the angle, took stock of the wind and the grass and his breathing. He took the putter from his caddie and lined up the shot.
And he took it for Josephine, but also for the directionless kid he’d been at sixteen, the guy who’d lost his will to win at twenty-six but found his way back at twenty-nine.
And hell if the ball didn’t curve high and right, then roll into the hole. Wells dropped his club as the crowd erupted, his new caddie slapping him on the back, reporters rushing at him from every direction, the crowd
surging toward the green as security attempted to keep them back, all under a totally airless blue sky. It was like something out of a dream, but it couldn’t be, because Josephine wasn’t there and he wouldn’t waste a dream like that. She’d be—
There. She was standing behind the rope.
Wells free-fell right where he stood. The ground felt like it was rushing up to meet him, his heart thundering in his ears, but the image of Josephine didn’t disappear no matter how many times he blinked or told himself it
was a mirage. She was right there, smiling through tears.
Holding her WELLS’S BELLE sign. The original.
She’d taped it together.
It fluttered to the ground when several fans boosted her up and over the rope, clearly recognizing her as his reason for living. His surroundings
became a blur, because Wells was jogging. And then he was running. But he didn’t make it far before he was brought down to his knees, right in front of her, by gratitude and love so full and vast and all-encompassing that it rocked him to a core he didn’t even know he had.
One Josephine—and only Josephine—had reached.
Ten years from now, people would claim he cried like a baby as he wrapped his arms around Josephine’s waist and buried his face in her stomach. And he would deny it.
But he did. He cried like a motherfucker.
“You won,” she half sobbed, half laughed. “You won, you won.”
“You’re here,” he rasped, inhaling her scent, his hands roaming over her back to make sure she was real. “You’re here.”
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. “Wells. Oh my God.”
He buried his face deeper in her stomach for a moment, those words— her pride—making it necessary to gather himself.
“You were right. You did the right thing. I never could have done it myself.” Her breath stuttered in and out. He held her tighter, trying to drown out the noise so he could hear. “I’m sorry I didn’t see your act of selflessness for what it was. You love me, that’s why you did it. Even
though it was hard. And I’m just as proud of you for that, Wells, as I am of you winning today.”
Every syllable out of her mouth was an embarrassment of riches. He’d woken up this morning wondering if she’d ever speak to him again. Now she was validating the hardest decision of his life. Not merely forgiving
him, but apologizing? Gratitude and relief poured down over his head like a healing rain, even as the need to reassure her overwhelmed him.
“You have no reason to be sorry. No. None. I hurt you.” He reached up and cradled her beautiful face in his hands, swiping away her tears with his thumbs. “You’re forgiving me for that?”
“Yes. Do you forgive me?”
He started to issue another denial that she owed him an apology, but she laid a finger across his lips. “Fifty-fifty, Wells.”
This woman. She was a wonder. Every second with her was going to be a dream. Thank God he got to have seconds with her. Minutes. Years.
Decades. Every last one of them. “Then I forgive you, too.” He caught another one of her tears with his thumb, the very sight of it wrenching his heart sideways. “And listen to me, we’re going to be a team whether or not you’re standing next to me in a uniform. When I’m not on tour, I’m with my girl. I’ll move to Palm Beach so fast, it’ll make your ponytail crooked.”
She let out a watery laugh.
“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it for you. I’m an expert now.”
“I love you,” she sobbed with her eyes closed. “It’s like, painful, you know?”
Fuck. His vision was blurring again, too. So much that he had to bury his face in her stomach again so her shirt could absorb the moisture.
