up her hand. “No excuses, just a band. And now.”
I nodded, then sat back down as Frieda turned on her heels and walked out of my office. I motioned to Caroline to close the door. My office was as organized as the rest of my life: the mahogany desktop uncluttered, with files in separate slots, and a picture of Peyton in a silver frame. Wingbacked chairs in matching pink and green fabric were arranged in front.
Our PGA TOUR office was located in an old wood-slat house across the street from the Palmetto Pointe Golf Club’s tenth green and iron front gates. The older woman who’d previously lived in the house had not appreciated the golf course taking the place of the wild nature once spread before her window, so she’d gladly sold the house to the PGA TOUR. The pink-and-brown bathroom stayed, but I’d had the walls in the other rooms painted and the green shag carpets yanked up, revealing antique heart-of-pine floors.
My office was located in a back corner in what had been the woman’s bedroom. A large window overlooked the front lawn, with a sweeping panorama toward the golf course. I loved my view—it was the green where I’d met Peyton, where my new life had started. Over the past six years, I’d done well enough at my job to be put in charge of the first ever Palmetto Pointe Open—a huge honor and responsibility that had, unfortunately, coincided with planning my wedding.
When the door clicked shut, I glanced up at Caroline. She twisted her watch around her wrist. “Kara, what are we gonna do?”
“We’ll find a band. It’s not that hard, Caroline. Let’s go over the checklists, make sure everything else is in order, then we’ll figure out the band situation.”
Caroline pulled up a side chair, sat down and tilted her head sideways to glance at the papers on my desk.
“Okay . . . did you line up the table rentals?” I tapped on the folder.
Caroline nodded. “Yes, and the caterer is confirmed, but she needs you to decide among the menus.” She stood and walked toward the filing cabinets. “I put them in here.”
I nodded and scribbled a reminder on my desk blotter just as a knock resonated on the office door. I didn’t look up until Peyton’s voice said, “Hello, can I come in and get a kiss from my girl?”
I was thrilled it was Peyton and not Frieda at the entranceway. His curls were wild from a day on the golf course, his shirt clinging to him in all the right places. I jumped up and went around the desk, hugged him and gave him a quick kiss. He pulled me to him; I motioned toward Caroline. “We’re working here.” I lifted my eyebrows at him.
He glanced at her. “Oh . . . I didn’t see you.”
She nodded, but didn’t answer.
“It’s okay,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing . . . just coming in from a practice round.”
I nodded. “You feel ready to take this tournament in a few weeks?” I smiled at him.
He grinned. “I hope so.” He backed toward the door. “You remember today is the day I shoot that commercial for the tournament. You’ll come, right?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. See you there.”
“Perfect,” he said, nodded, and left the room.
I took my seat at the desk and glanced at Caroline. “Okay, back to the menus.”
She lifted her pen in the air and waved toward the golf course through the window. “They’re filming a commercial today?”
I nodded. “Yeah, Palmetto Pointe GMC just signed on as one of the tournament sponsors and Peyton is in the commercial.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “I’m sure he loves that. . . .”
“What do you mean?” I stared across the desk at her.
“I just mean it’s a big honor. . . .”
“Okay,” I said, “back to work.”
We spent hours making sure every element was in place for the inaugural Palmetto Pointe Open. Nothing, absolutely nothing could go wrong. We’d prove to the PGA TOUR that they hadn’t made a mistake in giving us this tournament. We’d added a benefit for tuberous sclerosis on the last night: an event to raise money for charity, meet the players, and party with the winners.
I rubbed my eyes with my fingers; smudges of mascara came off. “Okay, Caroline . . . it looks like everything is in order.” I handed her a folder. “I’ll go hunting for a band if you’ll talk to Palmetto Pointe General Motors about which truck they’ll donate for the hole-in-one