surrounded by towering loblolly pines and white-fenced, emerald pastures where hunting horses grazed. A network of unpaved bridle paths wound through pristine forests. Each white-painted house sat like a jewel on a green cushion of lawn, idealized as a movie set. This was a place where famous families settled—Firestones and Beau-regards, Banfields and Whitneys.
None of the guidebooks had prepared her for the splendor of a Southern morning the moment the sun came up, the way the light fell through the long-needled pines, the grassy smell riding the breeze. She jogged through a neighborhood with the self-important name of Royal Oaks, although she had to admit there was something majestic about the open-armed live oaks lining the main street. Tara, Tara, Tara, she thought in rhythm with her breathing, and listened to the muffled sound of her feet hitting the soft trail.
She didn’t have to go far to find the golf course where the tournament would take place. At this hour, the parking lot was deserted except for two eighteen-wheelers, one painted with a flying American flag and the other an intense green. One contained a huge generator, the other a lot of high-tech equipment, perhaps for keeping score. At the moment they were completely silent, two sleeping giants.
She slowed to a walk and stepped between the trucks to an apron of perfect grass fringed by magenta azaleas and a whitewashed fence. A sign in the shape of a pointed finger indicated the way to the driving range.
As she walked along the pinestraw-covered path, she felt as though she had entered a magical emerald forest. It was so quiet she could hear the beating of a bird’s wings overhead and the sound of her own heartbeat. There was not one lick of wind, though the morning mist cooled her bare arms and legs.
She heard the now-familiar sound of a swinging club. Sean had practiced or played every day during the cross-country drive, and she’d grown accustomed to hearing the rush of a shaft through the air, the thwok of the club head meeting the dimpled ball. Then a long, impossibly long silence ensued, followed by the faint thud of the ball dropping many yards away.
It was interesting, how she knew it was the sound of Sean hitting a golf ball and no one else. She was learning the sound and rhythm of his game.
At the driving range, she expected to see a number of players lined up and practicing. Instead, there was just one. Sean looked so alone, there in the morning mist, the sun filtering over him. He had a certain intensity of concentration that seemed to possess him like a magic spell. He worked with such total absorption that Lily felt certain he hadn’t noticed her.
The dog was tethered to a bench next to him, her breath making little puffs in the air. Each time he hit a ball, her ears would prick forward and she’d quiver with anticipation, but she never went after the ball. Sean had taught her to retrieve range balls, but only on command.
Sean maintained his fierce concentration as he hit ball after ball, far beyond the yardage markers.
She stood still on the path, loath to interrupt him until he finished the entire bucket of balls on the ground behind him. It was fitting that he was the first one out, she thought. For the sake of the children depending on him, he needed to do well. But he was driven by something more than that powerful need. He wanted this more than any of his opponents possibly could.
“Good morning,” she said when he paused.
Babe wriggled and sneezed in greeting, then bowed and whined a little. Lily was still opposed on principle to keeping a dog, but she had to admit, it was fun having someone go into paroxysms of ecstasy every time she saw you.
“Good morning, Miss Robinson.” Sean smiled and wiped off his club head.
“Isn’t your caddie supposed to do that?” she asked.
“Last I checked, my caddie was facedown in a wad of blankets.”
“He was still that way when I left, too.”
“I’m too easy on him.”
“Probably.”
He finished polishing the clubs he’d used. As he worked, his attention stayed on her. She felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. As usual, she was at a disadvantage in her jersey shorts and T-shirt, a frumpy contrast to his golf shirt, fresh out of the package, and creased, dun-colored trousers.
“I thought I’d see more players out here,” she said. “Why are you so early?”