up the kitchen while he talked to his niece. “Instead, I’ve got you,” he said. “Not such a bad deal. What do you want to do today? Watch Teletubbies? Discuss toilet training? We could answer fan mail from all the wackos who keep writing to us,” he suggested.
She offered him some of her peaches.
“No, thanks,” he told Ashley. “I ought to be going nuts. I’ve got so much on my plate I’m about to drop something. My career’s in the shithole, I have this confusing pseudo-relationship thing going on with Maura and I’m having a hell of a time making ends meet.” He picked up Maura’s coffee cup and rinsed it in the sink. “She’s great in the sack, but…not exactly mother material, so we’re in commitment limbo. And Lily.” He shook his head. “What’s up with her, huh? No idea where I stand with her, or if I even care.” He watched Ashley slurp down the last of her peaches, then wiped her face. “Who knew I’d actually like this?”
Mrs. Foster’s illness turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Sean’s golf game. Initially, he thought the temporary absence of the babysitter would be a fiasco. Without her to look after Ashley during the day, he’d be on round-the-clock duty.
He sent Charlie and Cameron off to their respective schools as usual. Cameron was still in turmoil. After the stunt he’d pulled, he seemed as angry as ever, but also more introspective. The grief counselor said this was normal, but Sean wasn’t buying that. What was normal was for a kid to laugh and cut up with his friends, to become obsessed with girls and golf. What was normal was for a kid to yearn to drive a car, not avoid it.
Give him time, counseled Dr. Sachs.
“Nobody seems to know how much time this takes,” he explained to Ashley as he drove to the golf course.
“Nope,” she said, rattling an individual-serving-size box of Cheerios.
“So what do you say we go nine holes?” he said.
“Okay.”
Outside of tournaments, nongolfers weren’t supposed to be on the course. Toddlers in particular, even those strapped into a car seat in a closed cart.
He didn’t care. He was the club pro, it was an overcast weekday morning and there was no one around. He and Cameron had taken the girls out several times before, and they’d behaved themselves. Ashley seemed to think it was funny to be loaded into her car seat in the golf cart.
“You’re going to love this,” he promised her. “I bet you’ll grow up to be the next Annika Sorenstam.”
“Yep,” she agreed.
The natural hush of the golf course seemed to work its magic on her. Low-lying mist insulated sound and softened the edges of the world. The moment his driver smacked the ball with a resounding thwok, he knew he’d hit an excellent drive.
“Wow,” said Ashley approvingly.
“Wow is right,” he said, getting into the cart. “That was a 360-yard drive.”
He birdied the hole, and it only got better from there. Each time he hit, his assurance grew. He even beat his own performance on the morning of Derek’s funeral. This was, quite possibly, the best round of his life. And unlike the funeral round, this one was no fluke. He felt his game coming together; the judgment, the drives, the putts.
Rather than distract him, Ashley somehow enhanced his focus. Never had he concentrated so well or to such good effect. He achieved a peculiar rhythm that he recognized from his very early days as a tournament golf player. It was something he thought he’d lost long ago, and now, stroke by stroke, yard by yard, he rediscovered it.
He was taut with excitement as he filled out his scorecard. “How about that, sugar?” he said. “You must be my good-luck charm.”
“Yep,” said Ashley.
He got into the habit of bringing her to the course every day, and rarely went a single stroke over par. The two of them became a familiar sight at Echo Ridge, a golf cart with a child’s safety seat and a few toys, a set of clubs and a cooler filled with bottled water and Gerber pear juice.
There was not a doubt in his mind that his game had changed. Some golfers rebuilt a flawed swing; Sean rebuilt his attitude. Having a tiny child wholly dependent on you put things in perspective. He used to sweat his score, treating each stroke like a matter of life or death. Now that he was in charge of three kids,