### Contents

  1. Also By
  2. Free Download
  3. Dedication
  4. Chapter One
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  43. Chapter Forty
  44. Chapter Forty-One
  45. Chapter Forty-Two
  46. Chapter Forty-Three
  47. Chapter Forty-Four
  48. Chapter Forty-Five
  49. Chapter Forty-Six
  50. Chapter Forty-Seven
  51. Chapter Forty-Eight
  52. Chapter Forty-Nine
    1. Free Download
  53. Chapter Fifty

## Guide

  1. Contents
  2. Start of Content

Also by Michael Carlon

Motel California

All the F*cks I Cannot Give

The Last Homily

Uncorking a Murder

Return to Casa Grande
**Free Download**

**Join the author's VIP Mailing List and get your '80's on with a free copy of**

**Return to Casa Grande**

<https://mikecarlon.com/home/vip/>

For my children, Grace, Patrick, and Maggie—may your winning streak never end.

## CHAPTER ONE

_AUGUST 2015_

Professional golf isn't like other professional sports. There are no contracts; competitors earn their income in prize money. Whereas professional baseball players or football players can sit on the bench for a season and earn millions, with golf a player has to place in a tournament in order to collect a check. If a golfer doesn't make the cut, the tournament doesn't cut you a check—it's that simple. Statistically speaking, only a very small percentage of professionals make their living by playing the game; those who do are the best of the best.

While professional tournaments are played throughout the year, there are four that stand out: the Masters, the US Open, the Open Championship, and the PGA Championship. In the world of professional golf, these four tournaments are known as golf's majors, and winning all four in the same calendar year is known as winning golf's Grand Slam—a feat no professional golfer had accomplished since 1930. The closest player to do so in the modern era of the game was Tiger Woods when, in 2001, he held all four of golf's major titles simultaneously, but he had not won them in the same calendar year.

This fact was certainly on Patrick "Trick" Evans' mind as he lined up his tee shot on the eighteenth hole of Sterling Hills Golf Course in Kohler, Wisconsin. Having won The Masters, the US Open, and the Open Championship earlier in the season, winning the PGA Championship didn't just mean making history—he had already done that by winning three majors in the same year—it meant being immortalized in the game he loved.

The road to golf immortality, though, would not be a cakewalk. Challenging his lead was twenty-four-year-old Thomas Andrews who was only one stroke behind Trick coming into the eighteenth hole. Trick knew that anything could happen on this last hole and paused his setup to go confer with his caddie with whom he shared the same last name.

Dave Evans had been by his son's side throughout his amateur and professional career. Once a carpenter in a small resort town on Cape Cod, Dave put his business aside to carry the bag for his son; but he was more than just a caddie, he was his son's counselor. Trick's peers on the PGA Tour referred to Dave as his son's consigliere and gave him the nickname Hagan, after the character Tom Hagan in the movie _The Godfather_. Like Dave Evans, Tom Hagan was of Irish descent; a fact that helped the nickname catch on.

Trick removed his hat, freeing his long hair from the cap that had been hiding it all day long. He placed it over his mouth, not wanting the cameras to focus on it lest he wind up on a future episode of _Bad Lip Reading_.

"I'm nervous, Dad."

"Remember to breathe, son," Dave said, putting his arm around Trick. "With any luck this will be over in three or four more strokes. Just go up to that ball, close your eyes, picture yourself making a perfect shot, and then swing away. You've got this."

With the counseling session over, Trick did as his father advised. He swung his club and put the ball in the center of the fairway; far enough away that he would only need one more shot to make it onto the green. He breathed a sigh of relief, and the gallery that was watching him erupted in deafening applause.

Thomas Andrews placed his ball between the two blue markers on the eighteenth tee box, pointing with his driver down the center of the green as if he were golf's Babe Ruth. In a much less dramatic fashion than Trick Evans, he swung at the ball and watched it sail straight down the fairway and outdrive his opponent's by twenty yards. No, this last hole would certainly not be a cakewalk; at this level of play, anything could happen.

The two golfers and their caddies walked off the tee box toward their second shots. They were followed by a few network cameramen and an army of spectators who hoped to be on the cusp of seeing history in the making. It was almost as though Trick were Moses and they were following him across the newly parted Red Sea.

Those watching at home would have heard the banter between commentators Larry Charles and Pepper Michaels in the announcer's booth perched high above the eighteenth green. "What we may witness here will be talked about for decades to come," Pepper said in her hoarse voice as she watched Trick walk up the fairway; she was still new to the broadcasting business having retired from the LPGA tour last season and had yet to learn to speak from her diaphragm rather than her throat. After four days in the announcer's booth, Larry joked that his broadcasting partner sounded more like one of Marge Simpson's sisters than a professional announcer.

"You are so right, Pepper," Larry said in his soft and seductive Scottish accent as they watched Trick line up his second shot. "But Andrews isn't going down without a fight. If Trick doesn't execute perfectly, we may wind up in sudden death." If the match ended in a tie, the two would go hole for hole until one opponent beat the other. In the golfing world, this is known as sudden death.

Trick forced the prospect of sudden death to the back of his mind as he lined up his second shot; he wanted to end it on the eighteenth and make history. At a hundred yards from the green, he accepted the pitching wedge his father advised him to use. Having played this hole for the previous three days, Trick knew that, like his competitor, it wasn't going to be taken without a fight; the green was protected by sand traps on all sides. Trick tried to focus on the flag sticking out of the ground in the upper right area of the green rather than on the traps surrounding it.

"Just breathe," he whispered to himself.

Trick swung his club but knew right away something went wrong. His stroke didn't feel right and he, the thousands in attendance, and the millions viewing at home watched as his ball sailed into the sand trap on the right side of the green. The gallery erupted in a loud " _Ohhh_ ..."

Thomas Andrews, meanwhile, hit his ball and watched it land three feet from the hole, leaving him an easy putt for birdie. Sudden death, it seemed, was imminent; Trick would need a miracle to prevent a playoff.

"Don't think about it too much," his father said as they walked toward the sand trap. "What have I always taught you?"

"Overthinking leads to mistakes. Trust my gut."

"That's right. Remember, nice and easy does it. Have a little faith—you've got this."

Thomas Andrews marked his ball on the green, and Trick lined up his shot from the trap. Trick was positioned so far below the hole that he could only see the top of the flag waving above him. With his heart pounding in his chest, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves and drew his club back.

Those watching from the other side of the green saw a bunch of sand fly up over the lip of the trap with a little white ball trailing behind. The ball hit the green and rolled toward the hole; Trick couldn't see what happened next, but he could certainly hear it. The ball rolled directly into the hole, giving Trick another birdie and a two-stroke lead over Andrews. At this point, his victory was sealed—there was no way Andrews could beat him. His opponent placed his ball on his marker, made his three-foot putt for birdie, and waited for Trick to make it onto the green so he could shake his hand, as is customary at the end of a match.

The gallery watching the match stormed the green in a fit of excitement. Peter Hogan, the network's announcer covering the match from the field, was eager to interview professional golf's first Grand Slam winner in eighty-five years, but he had a hard time getting close to Trick for an interview given the chaos that erupted around the green. When he and his cameraman were able to cut through the crowd, Peter said, "What an unbelievable day for you—what an unbelievable year for you! Trick, tell us all how you are feeling right now."

"I really can't put it into words," Trick said, looking at the announcer; his hazel eyes, more green than brown that day, started to tear up. He was practically in a state of shock and visibly trembling. "I can tell you one thing," he said as he regained his composure, "if I didn't have this guy in my corner, I wouldn't be here."

"Who is that?" Peter asked.

Trick turned around, looking for his father. "My father and caddie, Dave Evans. Dad, where are you?" Trick asked loudly. The cameraman panned his camera but could not spot Trick's caddy anywhere; too many people had stormed the green.

In the excitement of everything that had just happened, no one noticed Dave grabbing his chest after the two golfers shook hands. His heart had been giving him trouble periodically throughout the season, and his doctor had warned him to avoid sudden excitement. He joined his son this week at the PGA Championship against his doctor's wishes, a fact that he hid from Trick, because he knew that his son would play better if he carried the bag. It was a choice that would prove to be fatal.

For those viewing at home, Pepper broke the silence from the announcer's booth; perched high up over the green, she spotted Dave lying on the ground near the fringe. "Peter, it looks as if Dave Evans fell down and is clutching his chest. You may want to get over there quickly."

Trick noticed Peter's attention diverted and saw his father lying on the edge of the green.

"Dad!" Trick screamed, running to his father's side. While he was running at top speed, time seemed to slow down as he approached his father.

"We need a doctor!" Trick yelled, and then looked into his father's eyes while supporting his head. At that moment Trick no longer heard the roar of the crowd and, for a short few seconds, it felt as if he were alone with his father instead of surrounded by thousands of spectators.

"I am so proud of you, son," his father said weakly.

"Stay with me, Dad; don't go anywhere on me." Trick's own heart was beating overtime.

"I think it's my time, son... I can't control it."

"Where the hell is the medic?" Trick screamed, and then saw a team of medics approaching the green with a stretcher. It was too late, however; Dave Evans had already passed from this life to the next on the eighteenth green at the Sterling Hills Country Club in Kohler, Wisconsin, three weeks before Labor Day.

Trick felt as if he were watching from another person's point of view as the medics tried to revive his father using CPR and a defibrillator. He felt confused, as if he were in a dream on the cusp of waking up.

But it wasn't a dream. Trick Evans had just watched his father die on what should have been the happiest day of his life; immortality, it seemed, came at a steep price. Later that evening, enveloped in a fog of shock and grief, Patrick "Trick" Evans, the first player of the modern era to complete professional golf's Grand Slam, silently vowed never to play the game again.

## CHAPTER TWO

_MARCH 2016_

Brandon Anderson walked determinedly toward his boss' office. He had just arrived back in Westlake Village, California, after spending a week in Chatham, Massachusetts, where he had tried his hardest to interview Trick Evans but had hit a dead end every time he got close. Brandon was arguably the biggest reporter in golf and wrote for _Fore!_ magazine, the golf publication with the widest circulation in the world. With all of his credentials, though, at the moment he felt like a failure. He stormed past his boss' reception desk.

"Mr. Anderson, I'm sorry, but you can't go in there now," said Sylvia Thompson, Don Quinlan's secretary. "Mr. Quinlan is behind closed doors and told me he was not to be disturbed."

At eighty-one, Don Quinlan was a legend in the golf business. After returning from the Korean War in 1953, he attended Iona College in New Rochelle, New York, on the GI bill. He had a knack for writing and, after graduating with a degree in journalism, took a job with _The Standard Star_ , his hometown newspaper. While he enjoyed writing about local happenings in his hometown, his real passion was golf. In his mid-twenties Don managed to save some money by putting off marriage and started _Fore!_ magazine from the basement of his parents' modest home on Chatsworth Avenue in Larchmont.

The middle of the twentieth century was a simpler time for the game of golf; players did not go from tournament to tournament by plane; rather, most rented mobile homes for the season and traveled with their families to and from events as a caravan. While the magazine struggled to turn a profit in the second half of the 1950s, as the fifties turned into the sixties, golf entered what many consider its golden era—due largely to the growing popularity of television as well as three players who were the superstars of the era: Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and Gary Player—affectionately known as golf's "Big Three." Another player, though, won even more tournaments than the Big Three but was never bestowed with the same accolades. His name was Billy Casper, and over the course of his career, Don Quinlan came to count Billy as a personal friend; having become so close that Quinlan named his only child, a daughter, after him.

Players loved to be interviewed by Quinlan because his interviews were as unpredictable as the game of golf itself; a big reason for that was the fact that these interviews were never conducted in an office, hotel room, or some other stationary location; they unfolded over the course of eighteen holes at his subject's home course. During these interviews, Don never wrote anything down, and players were amazed at how much he was able to remember in each article. This skill endeared him to the players, a fact that helped make _Fore!_ magazine the premier golf publication.

While it was still at the top of its game, _Fore!_ wasn't immune to the significant threats facing the traditional publishing industry. Subscriptions and total circulation had been declining steadily over the past decade. As a result of the loss of readership, the number of pages devoted to advertising were also down, requiring Quinlan to raise the price of each copy. Increasing the price invariably meant a loss of more subscribers and, in short, the magazine was struggling.

These troubles, of course, were due to the rise in popularity of online publications. Quinlan, accurately described as being set in his ways, was initially dismissive of the Internet's potential as a publishing medium. He truly felt that his readers would want to hold something in their hands as they read articles about Jordan Spieth, Jason Day, and Bubba Watson; what he didn't realize is that what they would be holding in their hands wasn't a magazine, but a phone or tablet computer, and _Fore!_ was behind the times digitally.

At the moment Brandon Anderson barged in, Don was having a meeting with his daughter Casper about the prospect of her joining _Fore!_ to help craft and redesign and drive its digital strategy. At the age of thirty-one, Casper ran the wildly popular _Uncorking a Story_ blog, where she published feel-good stories based on everyday people she met in her travels; she had inherited her father's ability to capture and craft the stories that people wanted to read. Don knew that both her technical expertise as well as her writing skills would be beneficial to his magazine and looked to his only child as the future of the business.

Many people wondered about the age difference between Casper and her father, assuming he married a much younger woman. But while it's true that Don became a father for the first time at the age of fifty, that's because he and his late wife held off having children until much later in life and then had trouble when they decided to start their family. They finally decided to adopt a child as doctors considered them too old to be candidates for successful fertility treatments.

"Casper, I need you now. The business needs you. Name your price."

"It's not about the money, Dad; it's about why now? I have been telling you for years that this magazine had to go digital, and I wanted to help you with that—but now? I'm not so sure I want to get involved anymore." In addition to his writing ability, Casper also had inherited her father's ability to be shrewd in negotiations.

"I am an old man, Casper; I make mistakes. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time me and Bobby MacGyver tied a rat around Mush Ahearn's rearview mirror?" This was one of Don's favorite stories from childhood; Mush was a bus driver who always pulled away from the bus stop when Don and his friend Bobby would approach, making them run to catch the bus. Even when they caught up, he sometimes wouldn't stop and open the door for them. Don and Bobby knew that Mush tended bar at the Sittin' Room, a singles lounge on North Street in New Rochelle. One night they spotted Mush's car across the street, pressed the handle, found the car unlocked, and then hung a dead rat by its tail from Mush's rearview mirror.

"You've told me that story a million times..."

"Casper, I made a big mistake that night. Instead of going home, Bobby and I waited for Mush to come out of the bar and find the rat hanging from his rearview. When he did, he almost had a heart attack, and Bobby and I started laughing. We laughed so hard, Mush could hear us and, from that point on, he never let us on his bus."

Casper looked at him blankly. "So are you saying I should have tied a rat to your rearview mirror years ago to get your attention?"

"No, I'm saying that sometimes you have to be punished for your hubris. I've been punished with sagging circulation and declining sales, and now I'm reaching out to you as my one and only child for help to turn this ship around."

Brandon entered the office just as Don finished pleading his case to Casper.

"Don't ever send me there again—I won't go back to that backwards town!"

"I am so sorry, Mr. Quinlan," said Don's secretary, who followed Brandon into the office. "He ignored my plea to respect your privacy."

"It's okay, Sylvia," Don said, smiling at his longtime assistant. "Brandon, can't you see I am in a meeting?"

"I'm sorry, Don, but this can't wait."

Casper had always disliked Brandon Anderson. In her opinion he was arrogant, smug, and didn't show her father the respect he deserved. He came across as a typical spoiled country club boy—someone who was used to getting his way, pouting when he didn't, and always a sore loser. He was also dismissive to anyone he felt wasn't his social equal. Still, she had to admit he was a talented writer, which was the primary reason he worked for _Fore!_ magazine. With no other successor, Brandon was the next in line at _Fore!_ Should anything happen to her father, Brandon was the heir apparent.

"You can at least do my daughter the courtesy of apologizing for interrupting our meeting."

"Oh, hey, Casper," Brandon said dismissively. "I didn't see you there. How's the blog thingy going?"

"I'd tell you about the millions of page views I have every month, but I don't think you would grasp the significance of that," Casper said, equally dismissively.

Brandon was curious as to why Casper was in her father's office; in the back of his mind, he always worried that Don would start grooming his daughter to eventually take over the magazine, leaving him with competition for the top spot. "What brings you to Westlake today?" he asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

Casper looked at Brandon and smiled subtly. "My dad is trying to convince me to come on board."

Realizing his worst fear might be about to come true, he said, "That's great," unconvincingly

Don was becoming impatient. "You were saying, Brandon?"

"Oh, yeah. I couldn't land the interview with Trick; those townies he surrounds himself with protect him like the Swiss Guard protects the pope. There was one in particular, a woman named Freddie, who was an absolute thorn in my side. I believe she might be the devil incarnate."

Casper couldn't help but quip, "Sounds like every other woman you meet."

Brandon glared at her and then turned his attention back to Don. "I'm afraid we won't have the Trick interview for the Masters edition."

"Damn!" Don said. With the Masters tournament one month away, he was hoping that an exclusive interview with last year's winner would help boost circulation. Trick Evans had not spoken a word to the professional golf community since he won the PGA Championship the prior fall. An exclusive interview with last year's Masters winner, who also went on to win professional golf's three other major tournaments that same year, would give whoever published it the ability to print money; the magazine would fly off the shelves.

"It's not just us he's avoiding. I talked to fellow writers and colleagues at all the major networks—the kid isn't talking to anyone."

Brandon's words hung in the air. It was Casper who finally broke the silence.

"Do you think he would talk to me?" Her wheels had been turning since Brandon barged in and admitted defeat. As hurt as she was that her father was only coming to her now for help with the magazine, she was beginning to see it as a compliment. Coupled with the prospect of being able to upstage Brandon Anderson, the words flew out of her mouth almost involuntarily.

"What?" both Brandon and her father said at the same time.

"Do you think he would talk to me?" Casper repeated, this time very slowly. While she had the ability to light up a room with her personality, she could also command attention when necessary.

"Why would he talk to you?" Brandon asked dismissively.

Not appreciating his tone, Casper countered with, "Why wouldn't he talk to me?"

"Because you don't even work in the industry," Brandon shot back.

"Well, maybe that's precisely why he will talk to me," Casper retorted.

"You're not even a real writer," Brandon protested.

"Just because my work is published online doesn't make me any less of a writer!"

"Even if you could," her father interrupted, "we wouldn't have the interview in time for the Masters edition."

"We can make the deadline if you agree that this could be a digital story," Casper replied.

"Digital? Our readership isn't online. They want a hard copy of the magazine," Brandon said with exasperation.

Brandon's resistance to change wasn't because he didn't believe in technology; it was because his ego was getting in the way. Any byline with his name in it had to be in print; Brandon felt online was for amateurs—and Brandon Anderson certainly was no amateur.

"Does this mean you are accepting my offer to join the business?" Don said.

"I guess it does," Casper replied, winking at Brandon as if to say, _Game on_!

"Talk to Sylvia outside—she can arrange all your travel plans to and from Cape Cod. I can't underscore how important this story will be to the future of our magazine, Casper; I know it's your first official assignment for us, but it's one that we are all counting on."

"I understand, Dad; I'll do my best to uncork his story."

"Word of advice," Brandon said arrogantly. "Don't go there expecting to make any friends in Chatham; you'll be treated as an outsider from the moment you arrive. And if you run into a young woman named Freddie Daniels, run as far as you can in the other direction."

Casper merely nodded as she headed out of the office to speak with Sylvia about arranging travel to Chatham.

## CHAPTER THREE

PATRICK "TRICK" EVANS was in the workshop of his secluded home located off a sandy trail accessible only from the north parking lot on Harding's Beach in the town of Chatham, Massachusetts. Trick named the trail Mt. Pleasant Street as a reference to his favorite Crowded House song, and the house was adjacent to a nonworking lighthouse and considered an historic landmark.

Years ago the property was put up for sale and the townspeople took up a collection to purchase it for fear that some wealthy developer would acquire it and put up more million-dollar eyesores along the water. When they came up a few hundred thousand dollars short, Trick Evans purchased the property with some of his PGA Tour winnings and made a promise to the town that he would restore both the home and the lighthouse. These days, it was the perfect refuge for someone who didn't want to be found, as an electric gate blocked vehicular access to the trail. It could only be opened three ways; by the radio-controlled clicker Trick kept in his Jeep, through a code entered into a keypad adjacent to the gate, or from a button located inside the house. In short, if a visitor didn't know the code or if Trick didn't grant them access from his house, they would have to walk a mile on a sandy path to reach him.

As he toiled in the workshop, Trick could hear the waves crashing on the shore of Harding's Beach, and he allowed his mind to wander. It was on this beach where his father taught him how to swim and, later on, how to hit a golf ball on sand—a lesson that certainly proved valuable when he holed his final shot from the sand trap at the PGA Championship last August.

Prior to becoming a caddie for Trick, Dave Evans had been a carpenter, helping the residents of Chatham make upgrades to their homes so they could command higher rents "in season." In addition to updating kitchens, renovating bathrooms, and putting on additions, Dave Evans also purchased and restored antique furniture; he had a knack for taking something old and making it new again. He would sell these items in his small shop just off of Main Street in Chatham.

Trick was thinking about his dad while he sanded an old wooden hatch taken off a "mothballed" Coast Guard cutter from the 1950s. His father had purchased the piece a year earlier and planned to make it into a table during his son's off-season. Trick, who was looking for something to keep him busy, decided he would take a shot at finishing a project his father never got the chance to start.

To say that Trick missed his father was an understatement. It had always been just the two of them. Trick's mother died in childbirth, and at the time his father had just turned twenty years old. His mother's parents, who were wealthy vacationers in Chatham, did not approve of their young daughter marrying a carpenter and cut off all ties with their daughter when she agreed to marry Trick's father after learning she was pregnant. Trick had never met his maternal grandparents and had never been tempted to look them up; he resented them for how they treated his parents and wanted nothing to do with them—if they were still alive, that is.

Trick wasn't alone in his workshop; Freddie Daniels volunteered to help him turn the hatch into a table and had joined him that day.

"Trick, can you hand me some more sandpaper?" she asked.

Trick was lost in thought and didn't respond immediately; the haze that surrounded him the day his father passed had yet to lift.

"Trick, listen, if I could use The Force I would, but it doesn't run strong in my family."

The _Star Wars_ reference brought his attention back to the present moment. "What? Oh, sorry. I was just lost in thought." Trick, whose personality could once electrify a room, had become sullen and distant since the unexpected death of his father. It was almost as if a piece of Trick died along with his father that day last August.

Freddie was eighteen years old and had been in Trick's life for the past ten years. She was a beautiful girl with honey-toned skin and large, chestnut-colored eyes. She moved to Chatham when she was eight years old after her mother, Cheryl Daniels, ended an abusive marriage and had no place to go but back home to live with her parents in Chatham. Cheryl's dreams of becoming an actress in LA were squashed when her agent turned husband took his career failures out on her physically. Cheryl and Trick's father had dated in high school and remained close over the years; when Cheryl moved back, Dave took it upon himself to be a father figure to Freddie. When Trick lost his father last August, Freddie felt the loss as well.

"I miss him, too, every day," she said, knowing what Trick had been thinking about.

"I know, Freddie. He loved you like a daughter; I guess that makes you my sister huh?"

"Sister from another mister!" she proclaimed in her trademark feisty tone. And feisty she was; it was a trait she inherited from her father's side of the family. Her father, a proud African American man from a proud African American family, had been shunned by his family after falling in love with and eventually marrying a white woman. Just as Trick never got a chance to build a relationship with his maternal grandparents, Freddie never got to know her paternal grandparents or any of her cousins; if she had, she would have met a group of people who were equally feisty.

"By the way," Trick said, sanding a portion of the hatch, "I forgot to thank you for taking care of that reporter last week."

"That guy seemed like such a tool," Freddie replied, referring to Brandon Anderson.

When Brandon Anderson came to town looking to interview Trick, he made a point of showing off what a big deal he was. He rented a big, black SUV and dressed as if he were attending a fashion show in Milan; among the working-class people of Chatham, he stuck out like a sore thumb. His multiple attempts to track down Trick failed; the townspeople were very protective of one of their own. Toward the end of the week, he became so desperate that he started bribing people with hundred-dollar bills if they could give him any useful information on finding Trick Evans. Freddie, who had zero patience for the reporter's ostentatiousness, agreed to meet with Brandon and sent him on a wild goose chase straight out of a movie. She sent him to every major tourist attraction between West Yarmouth and Orleans before he realized he'd been had. At that point, Brandon let off a stream of obscenities that would make Quentin Tarantino blush.

"I've read his stuff, and he is a good writer, but no one understands that I am not ready to talk about golf right now. They all want to know when I am coming back, and the truth is, I don't intend to go back. It wouldn't be much of a story."

Since winning the PGA Championship last August, Trick hadn't thought much about golf because it just didn't seem important without his father by his side. Instead, he chose to become a hermit and sentenced himself to a self-imposed exile.

Freddie never asked Trick why he gave up the game after his father died; she respected his privacy and assumed he would talk about it when he was ready. As such, she didn't probe any further.

"I know you quit golf, but do you think you could give me some pointers? My game isn't as consistent as I would like it to be."

Freddie was a talented golfer; growing up, she often accompanied Trick and his father to the local course in Chatham and developed a knack for the game.

Trick sighed. "I'm sorry, Freddie—I'm just not ready."

Freddie wisely decided to change the subject. "Any chance I can get you to play tonight at The Bleeding Seal?" The Bleeding Seal was the town bar where Freddie waitressed. Every Saturday night, the bar hosted an open mic night where Chatham's local poets, comedians, and musicians could show off their talents. Trick was an accomplished guitar player, and Freddie frequently tried to get Trick to play at the event.

"I'm not ready to do anything like that either," Trick replied, blowing some dust off of the part of the hatch he was sanding. He seemed to go into a trance as he continued to work on the hatch.

After twenty minutes of working in silence, Trick looked over at Freddie and asked, "Hey, remind me, when is your graduation?"

"June 10th. Are you going to come?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied. "Did you make a decision on college yet?"

"I'm still trying to decide between Pepperdine, USC, and the University of Arizona. All have great golf programs for women, and all three are offering me partial scholarships, but I can't decide between them." It was Freddie's dream to turn pro after finishing college, but she didn't want to play on the women's tour; she had set her sights on being able to play with the men. While she was excited about the prospect of going to college, she was worried what it would mean for Trick. She took care of his grocery shopping and, with the help of her mother, prepared many of his meals; she was worried that there would be no one to take care of him after she left.

"As I told you before, I'd be happy to pay the difference," Trick said, reaching for another piece of sandpaper.

While Freddie thought his offer to pay for her education was very generous, she was too proud to accept any money. "I'm good."

Trick didn't push the issue, although he fully intended to pay back whatever student loans Freddie would incur. He finished sanding his part of the table and looked over what the two had accomplished that day. "I think Dad would have been proud," he said, allowing himself a brief smile.

"True dat," Freddie replied. In this case, being feisty was a cover-up for the sadness she felt for Trick. She wondered if he would ever come out of the fog he'd been in since his father's death.

## CHAPTER FOUR

CASPER QUINLAN WAS waiting in the security line at LAX. She had a seven a.m. flight to Boston and then planned to drive from Boston to Chatham on Cape Cod. If the plane landed on time, she figured she could be at her hotel in Chatham by five p.m. and hopefully attend Mass at Our Lady of Healing Church at 5:30.

Casper was a cradle Catholic and never missed Mass on the weekends. She preferred an evening vigil on Saturday to a Mass on Sunday morning; she liked to keep her Sundays free and clear of any plans or obligations. Sylvia, who made Casper's travel plans, knew this about her, so she printed out the Mass times from the church's website and put them in Casper's itinerary.

At the moment, Casper was watching the person in front of her argue with the TSA agent about having to take her shoes off.

"But I am not wearing any socks—are you sure I have to take my shoes off?"

"Yes, ma'am," the TSA agent replied impatiently. "Unless you are twelve or under, over seventy-five, or have TSA Pre-Check, it is a federal requirement to remove your shoes."

"But eww, the floor is so gross." The woman was obviously a stereotypical California valley girl who thought the rules didn't apply to her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but those are the rules. Now please remove your shoes so everyone else in line can make their flights."

The woman continued to pout and put up a fight. As Casper stood there watching, she had the feeling that someone was watching her. She turned around to look and confirmed her suspicion—the guy behind her was staring at her. She noticed that he was devilishly handsome and looked vaguely familiar, although she couldn't quite place his face.

"I'd hate to be that woman's husband," he said as a way of breaking the ice.

"She's strong-willed; I'll give her that," Casper replied with a smile. She removed her shoes and placed them on the conveyer belt to be scanned. Her shoes were joined by her laptop bag and her carry-on.

"Where are you going so early on a Saturday morning?" the mystery man asked.

Casper had a hard time telling if her new acquaintance was just making small talk or if he was really interested in where she was going, so she kept her response general. "I'm flying to Boston, and judging by the way this security line is moving, I am wondering if I'll ever get there."

"What a coincidence—I'm going there, too," the man said, showing Casper his boarding pass. She noticed that the name on the boarding pass read Blaze Hazelwood and recognized it as belonging to an actor, although she couldn't remember seeing him in anything recently or even remember what she knew about him.

Blaze continued, "After we land in Boston, I'm taking a chartered flight to Chatham to spend some time with my father and sister."

Casper wondered what the chances were of two people from the greater Los Angeles region flying to a resort destination out east well before tourist season began. While she believed in serendipity, her guarded nature prevented her from revealing too much to a man she just met; even if he was a handsome actor. She decided not to tell him she was going to the same place.

They both watched as the woman in front of them finally removed her shoes and stepped into the body scanner. They looked on as she put her hands over her head and waited for the results of her scan.

"Next!" The TSA agent manning the body scanner indicated that it was time for Casper to go through the scanner.

She did as she was told and raised her hands up over her head. The entire time she could feel Blaze's eyes fixed on her.

"Please exit the scanner, ma'am," the TSA agent said after the scan was completed. "Are you wearing a prosthetic leg?" These words were spoken loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear, and Casper didn't appreciate the broadcast.

"Yes, my left leg is prosthetic." Casper lost her left leg from the knee down in a car accident when she was a newly licensed driver after she lost control of her car while going down a windy canyon on her way to Zuma Beach near Malibu in Southern California. She was fortunate, though, that she only lost her leg; her best friend, Emily, lost her life in the crash. Casper, who had been a promising young ice hockey player in those days, never picked up a stick again. Constantly self-conscious about her handicap, she always covered her prosthetic leg with long pants or a dress—even in the heat of the Southern California summer.

"Female assist!" the male agent called loudly. "Before we let you through security, we're going to need to check out your prosthetic device."

Casper was used to this and raised her sundress to show the female TSA agent who showed up, as well as everyone in the vicinity, her prosthetic leg. After a visual and physical inspection, the agent was satisfied and cleared Casper through security. She turned around to see if Blaze was still there, but he had already come and gone through security and didn't wait around for Casper's inspection to be finished.

In the years since her accident, Casper failed to maintain a long-term romantic relationship with anyone; while many men claimed to not care about her prosthesis, she couldn't bring herself to fully believe them. _Who could love a broken woman_? she asked herself. Whenever things got really serious, she would back away emotionally; while this allowed her to put all of her time and energy into building a career, it didn't change the fact that she was lonely.

_I guess the actor didn't want to stick around_ , Casper thought to herself. _What kind of name is Blaze Hazelwood anyway_? It sounds like the name a writer would give a character on a soap opera.

Casper walked to her gate and saw that her flight was on time and would be boarding in five minutes; this gave her enough time to grab a quick snack from a kiosk nearby.

Back at the gate, a voice came over the intercom. "Delta is pleased to announce the boarding of Flight 3827 to Boston's Logan Airport. At this time, we invite all first-class passengers to board Flight 3827 to Boston." _Fore!_ magazine's travel policy stated that employees could travel first-class on coast-to-coast flights, and Casper wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth; she got in line to board the plane.

After making her way down the jet bridge, she was greeted by Sam, the first-class flight attendant, who offered to help her with her bag. She then went to her seat, 4D, and was dismayed to see that her new friend from security was occupying the seat next to hers. She hadn't seen him in line and wondered if he received special treatment by the airline because of his profession.

"'Allo, luv," Blaze said when he realized who his seat mate would be for the next four and a half hours. Blaze often adopted a British affectation as a means of trying to stay relevant in the entertainment industry. He felt that if it worked for Madonna (whom he'd only met briefly at a party in the '80s but nevertheless considered a personal friend), it could work for him.

Blaze quickly launched into a one-sided conversation, filling Casper in on the twists and turns of his career in recent months. He told her all about the harrowing experience of being stabbed during an appearance on a morning talk show a year earlier, which helped his career to rebound. After listening to Blaze talk about himself for a full ninety minutes, Casper realized he was so self-absorbed that he most likely didn't even notice her prosthetic leg back in the security line at LAX. When she sensed he was exhausted by his own talking, Casper put on her headphones and decided to watch a movie.

The flight landed early due to strong tailwinds. Blaze offered to help Casper with her bags, but she declined his assistance. When the door to the plane opened, Blaze followed her out.

"Do you want to join me on my chartered flight to Chatham?"

This question caught Casper off guard. She hadn't told Blaze she was going to the Cape and thought he was being overly forward. Were all actors this conceited?

"I didn't say anything about going to Chatham."

"I know, but I saw the printout of your itinerary in your bag and noticed that you are staying at the Chatham Bars Inn. That's not too far from the house I'm renting. You are more than welcome to come with me. It's only twenty minutes by plane and about two hours by car—your choice."

Casper looked at her watch. Taking Blaze up on his offer would be much quicker and simpler. Plus, she reasoned, it was time for her to start living a little. "Alright," she agreed.

The two made their way to a commuter terminal and boarded a four-passenger Cessna. While the flight was bumpy, it took a quarter of the time than driving to go from Boston to Chatham Municipal Airport.

"Would you like to have a drink with me tonight?" Blaze asked casually.

Once again Casper felt cautious; it had been years since a man tried to pick her up, and she questioned Blaze's motivations. Still, having something to do in the evening wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and if she did start asking around about Trick, it would be less suspicious coming from a woman with a man in tow.

"Okay," she said smiling.

"Excellent. I'll pick you up at seven, but I'll have to leave by eight to meet my agent for dinner."

Casper was somewhat relieved that they would just meet for an hour. "It doesn't look like there are any cabs here. How do we get out of here?"

"I am going to pray to Our Lady of Uber," Blaze joked, pulling out his phone and requesting a ride. While it was off-season, there were a few Uber drivers around, and one was at the airstrip within five minutes. As they drove along Main Street, Blaze pointed out that during season the street would be littered with vacationers walking to and from the high-end stores and art galleries in town. "The madness won't start here until Memorial Day weekend," Blaze said. "For now, it's nice and quiet."

"This town is so quaint," Casper said, looking at the shops and churches that added character to Chatham's main street. "The town feels like it has a personality all its own."

"That's why people flock here from all over Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. The only problem is that the town does attract a snobby element, and that's a bit of a turnoff for the local residents."

"So are you part of the snobby element?" Casper asked.

"My father was a farmer in upstate New York, and I lived there until I was five. That's when my mother got tired of being a farmer's wife, took me to California, and got me started in acting. For years I believed my father left my mother for another woman, but last year I learned the truth."

"What happened?"

"That's a story for another time; it's a bit of a soap opera really."

The car pulled up in front of the main entrance to the Chatham Bars Inn and Casper spent a minute just staring at the hotel's magnificence. She was mesmerized by the large veranda that overlooked the beach, thinking it would be a great place to enjoy a coffee and watch the sunrise.

"I'll meet you in the hotel lobby at seven. From there it's just a quick walk over to the Bleeding Seal."

"Strange name for a bar," Casper observed.

"In the summertime, the seals who live in these waters attract sharks, and during the year a few bloody ones make it to shore. One of the locals decided to capitalize on the shark mania that envelops Chatham during the summer and named his bar the Bleeding Seal."

"I don't know if I should laugh or cry," Casper joked.

"Laugh, luv; life is too short. See you later."

Casper checked in at the front desk and received the keys to her cottage. She asked the woman behind the counter for directions to Our Lady of Healing Church.

"Oh, it's a lovely little church," the woman, who introduced herself as Amber, said. "Five-minute walk tops."

Casper looked at her watch and saw that it was only 4:30; she was relieved to know that she had enough time to unpack, take a shower, and head over to the church for Mass at 5:30 p.m. She called her father to let him know she arrived safely and promised to provide an update soon. Looking at the hotel grounds, she was amazed by the inn's opulence. _Not a bad place to spend a week_ , she thought, _even if it is a little chilly_.

As she walked toward her cottage, she saw signs for the Chatham Seaside Links Golf Course; she knew from her research that Trick Evans learned the game on that course. It would be an ideal place to hold their interview, she thought—if he would grant her one, that is. She made a mental note to stop by the pro shop tomorrow morning to pick up a scorecard and get a sense of the course's layout.

_If he agrees to an interview, I just might have to play this course_ , she thought. While she grew up playing ice hockey, being Don Quinlan's daughter meant that she had to learn the game of golf as well. While she preferred ice to grass, her disability prevented her from being able to skate well, but after the accident she learned how to adapt her swing accordingly and could still play golf competitively. In her mind, though, every drive off the tee was a one-timer and every cup was a goal.

## CHAPTER FIVE

THERE IS SOMETHING poignant about watching someone die; under certain circumstances, watching someone you love pass from this world into the next can be a looked upon as a beautiful moment.

While Casper was getting settled in her cottage and Trick was finishing up the day's work on the hatch, Robert McMullen, seventy-two, of New Canaan, Connecticut, was sitting by the side of his wife, Madeline, seventy-one, who was dying of cancer. With them was a hospice nurse named Angel as well as Angel's two dogs, Clemenza and Tessio—Clemmy and Tess for short. Now, Robert would never be mistaken for a dog lover, but these were no ordinary dogs; they were therapy dogs proven to bring comfort to the dying—which, of course, Madeline was in the process of doing. Besides, they were a package deal: If you wanted Angel, who was known as the best hospice nurse around, you had to take Clemmy and Tess, too; it was non-negotiable.

Last month the McMullens celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It was a very small affair; Madeline was too sick to leave the house, for one thing, and most of the people who were at their nuptials fifty years ago were either dead, almost dead, or spending their golden years 1,500 miles away in South Florida, otherwise known as God's waiting room. The McMullens' only daughter, Katie, died unexpectedly when she was nineteen.

The McMullens had been through a lot together. They were newlyweds when Robert went off to fight for his country in the Vietnam War. Back then, Madeline prayed every night—on her hands and knees—that her husband would not be on the list of the casualties read daily on the radio and announced at high school football games. During that period of time, she dreaded hearing the phone ring, and her heart would practically stop with any knock on the door. She didn't sleep well during the two years Robert was deployed; the first good night's sleep she had during that period was on a November evening in 1968 when Robert came home from war.

Unfortunately, these days, sleep wasn't a problem. It was now her Bobby's time to worry. That's what she called him: Bobby. Robert secretly hated that name, but he loved her so much that he never made a big deal about it. As a retired physician, he knew what was coming, and that it was coming quickly.

Madeline's story was not unlike the countless others who get diagnosed with cancer every year. At her husband's suggestion, she went to the doctor after she had been experiencing a shortness of breath for several weeks. This was odd for her since she was a very active woman; she walked at least three miles a day and managed to volunteer twenty hours a week at a soup kitchen. The doctor was concerned at the length of time she had been experiencing symptoms and ordered a series of tests, including a CAT scan of her lungs.

To say that the diagnosis of stage four lung cancer came as a shock to the McMullens was an understatement. Madeline never smoked a cigarette in her life, even when it was the fashionable thing to do. She ate well, didn't abuse alcohol, and had always gotten plenty of exercise. The doctor explained that sometimes there was no rhyme or reason as to why or how cancer develops. He gave her six months; that was nine months ago.

During that time, Robert saw the beautiful and vibrant woman he married decline gradually. She lost weight, and as her weight dropped, so did her strength. Robert played the role of her primary caretaker, driving her to all of her appointments, making sure she took the right medicines at the right times, and—most importantly—keeping her spirits up when she was depressed or afraid. He even took care of her hygiene needs when she wasn't able to care for herself in that regard any longer.

"I just need to close my eyes for a moment," Madeline said to both her husband and Angel.

"Okay, dear," Robert responded, stroking the top side of her hand.

Clemmy and Tess started to fuss. "Take a break, Bobby; I'm not going anywhere just yet. Go with Angel to let the dogs out. They seem like they need some exercise."

Robert looked at his wife hesitantly; he felt in his bones that her time was close, and he was afraid to leave her.

"It's okay, Mr. Mack; they will tell us when it is time," Angel said, referring to the dogs.

"I'll be fine, Bobby; I just want to think about the trip."

For the past few days, Madeline had been talking about going on a trip. Two days ago, Robert found her in their closet, standing on a step stool and attempting to get her suitcase off of the top shelf. He noticed that many of her clothes were laid out on the bed as if she was about to pack for an excursion. Although he asked her many times that day, he never got a straight answer as to where she thought she was going. He decided that the multiple medications must have started to wreak havoc with her mind, and let it go.

"Okay, then, I suppose I could use some fresh air."

Madeline closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. Robert followed Angel and her two dogs out of the room and into the hallway where his winter coat was hanging on a hook in the mudroom. Although the McMullens' master bedroom was located on the second floor of their traditional colonial home, Robert transformed his study into a bedroom once Madeline had a hard time handling stairs.

"Aren't you going to put on a coat, Angel?" Robert asked to the hospice nurse. It was unseasonably warm for early March, but it was still coat weather, and Robert was concerned that Angel would catch cold.

"Don't worry about me, Mr. Mack! I have seen real cold, and this isn't it." It bothered Robert at first that Angel had trouble pronouncing his last name, but now he was used to her abbreviated version.

"Where does she think she's going?" Robert asked Angel.

"Mr. Mack, it's not uncommon for those who are in the later stages of dying to feel as if they are going on a trip. It is almost as if the soul is beginning to plan its journey home, even if the body isn't in agreement. I've been watching people die for an eternity, and I can tell you that most of the people I have seen in Mrs. Mack's condition experience the same sensation. Have you ever found her talking to people who weren't there?"

"Yes, the other night I found her talking to our daughter in the hallway. She's been dead now for close to thirty years."

"That's not uncommon either; some people feel as if it's the mind slipping away, but many of us believe that dying happens in stages, not all at once. Those of us like me, who have been doing this for a long time, think that when patients start talking to people who aren't there, it's the beginning of crossing over to the next life."

These words were not so much a comfort to Robert as they were further proof that his beloved wife was close to passing. Plus, as a medical doctor he considered himself a scientist; there was no proof of any life after death, and he therefore struggled to believe in one.

Robert and Angel watched Clemmy and Tess play in the backyard when suddenly they stopped and looked in Robert and Angel's general direction. They glanced at each other as if they knew something that their human counterparts did not and began heading back toward the house. It was more of a trot than a run, but there was a sense of urgency in their steps.

"I think we'd better go inside," Angel said to Robert.

Robert turned around and opened the door for Angel. Clemmy and Tess walked in ahead of Robert as if they had someplace important to go—which, of course, they did. While Robert was busy trying to remove his coat, Clemmy pushed the door to Madeline's room open with his nose, and Tess followed. They both sat quietly at the foot of her bed patiently, their tails wagging slowly on the area rug.

In fact, the only sound being made at the time was coming from Madeline herself. Robert heard the unmistakable sound of her voice while he was struggling with the zipper to his coat. He gave up his fight with the zipper, deciding to simply pull the coat over his head in his hurry to get back to his wife's side. This caused his perfectly combed mane of white hair to become disheveled.

"Is it really you?" Madeline asked, looking toward the window. There was no one there, so Robert assumed she was talking to the dogs. "You look beautiful," Madeline continued. "I've thought of you every moment of every day since you left. I am so sorry for the way everything happened; I hope you can forgive me."

Robert now realized that his wife was not talking to the dogs but to someone who wasn't actually in the room. He chalked it up to the morphine drip.

"I don't know if that is possible—he's quite stubborn." Robert had the sense that Madeline was talking about him, because stubborn was a word she frequently used to describe him.

"If it's for his own good, then I'll do the best that I can. I'll think of some way to get him up there. After that, can I leave for my trip?"

Robert was mesmerized by this exchange; while his wife was clearly hallucinating, he was amazed at the clarity of her speech. She had not been this coherent in weeks. Even when he found her in the closet attempting to pull down her suitcase, she was mumbling and speaking more in short phrases versus complete sentences. He wondered if this sudden state of clarity might mean that she was getting better. He let himself become hopeful.

"Will you come back to take me? I always hoped you would." Madeline paused and listened for a response. After a moment she said, "Okay, I'll tell him."

Robert looked around for Angel, but she was nowhere to be found. He wanted her opinion on how Madeline was acting to confirm whether or not his feelings of hope could be justified.

Madeline stopped talking and suddenly sat up in bed. This startled Robert since she had not been able to sit up in bed without help for the past couple of days. But there she was, sitting upright, eyes open and seemingly lucid in spite of the heavy doses of morphine she was on.

"Bobby," Madeline said, motioning that he should come closer. Robert complied.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, sweetheart. But what I have to tell you now I must tell you quickly, because I don't have much time left."

Robert looked at his wife and started to tear up. "You can't go now. I need you more than ever. I can't bear the thought of being all alone after you go." His hands were now in hers, and they were massaging each other's gently, lovingly—the way two teenagers might do in the very early stages of their relationship before kissing, or more, came into the equation.

"Even after I am gone, dear, you will never be alone."

These words provided little comfort to Robert.

"Bobby, there's something I need you to do for me."

"Anything—what do you need?"

"I need you to go to Writer's Retreat and get something for me."

Robert sat in shocked silence. Writer's Retreat was the name of their summer house in Chatham, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. Robert and Madeline had purchased their place in the popular vacation destination, once a quaint fishing village, a few years after their daughter was born. They named it Writer's Retreat because Robert made the down payment with the advance from his second novel; in addition to being a medical doctor, Robert wrote medical thrillers, the success of which helped him to become a very wealthy man. What shocked Robert now, though, was that he and Madeline had stopped visiting their vacation home the year their daughter died and instead rented it out through a broker. He couldn't imagine what she might want from there.

"It's been so long since we've been up there—what could you possibly want?"

"I need my nicklass," Madeline stated firmly. Her request stunned Robert.

Madeline's "nicklass" was actually a necklace that their daughter, Katie, made for her for Mother's Day when she was in preschool. When Katie tried to say the word _necklace_ , it came out _nicklass_ , and that word was immortalized in the McMullens' vernacular ever since. Katie made the nicklass with yarn for a chain and multicolored dried pasta strung through the yarn for decoration. The McMullens left the nicklass, along with many of Katie's personal belongings, at Writer's Retreat because, while it was too painful to have reminders of their daughter sprinkled throughout their Connecticut home, they couldn't bear to part with them. As a result, they turned their vacation home into a museum of sorts full of artifacts memorializing the family that once was.

"It has been so long since we've been there," Robert said again.

"Please, it is very important to me—I would like to be buried with a little piece of our daughter."

As much as he didn't want to go to Chatham, how could Robert possibly deny this request? His dying wife was asking to be buried with something her daughter made for her, a daughter who predeceased both her mother and father.

"Of course I'll get it for you," Robert assured Madeline, who, after hearing those words, eased herself back into a prone position on the bed.

"I am so tired," Madeline said. Robert noticed a slight rattle in her voice. Caught up in the moment, he didn't notice Angel was now standing behind him. The two dogs positioned themselves on either side of Madeline, who was now transitioning into a deep sleep. She was breathing evenly, although the crackle in her breathing was becoming increasingly noticeable.

"Her time is soon, Mr. Mack," Angel said softly.

"I am happy that you are here for her, Angel."

"Oh, Mr. Mack," Angel said with a hint of her Jamaican accent, "I am not here for Mrs. Mack; I am here for you."

Robert didn't have time to respond because he noticed that his wife's breathing was becoming more and more shallow, the gargle becoming more and more pronounced. He was all too familiar with this sound; as a medic on the battlefield during the Vietnam War, he had witnessed the death of many people, and the rattle was the telltale sign that death was imminent. He instinctively went from sitting on the bed to lying down next to her and holding her in his arms, while her breathing became less frequent. Then, at 11:53 in the morning, his wife of fifty years took one last, deep breath and let it out. Robert waited for another one, but it didn't come. He began to weep.

Angel quietly left the room, but her dogs did not follow. Tess joined Clemmy next to Robert and waited patiently for Robert to move. For another thirty minutes, he remained at his wife's side and wept, and wept, and wept. When it seemed as if he had no more tears left, Clemmy nudged Robert with his nose as if to suggest it was time to get up. Robert rubbed both of his eyes with his hands, looked at the dogs, and then once more at his wife, whose color had changed dramatically in the past thirty minutes. He got out of bed, looked at his Madeline one last time, and left the room. He had never felt so alone in his life.

## CHAPTER SIX

TRICK REMOVED THE capo from his Takamine acoustic guitar, wiped down the neck and body of the instrument, and put it back in its hard-shell case. The guitar had been a gift from his father for his twenty-first birthday, and Trick played it every single day, even when he was on the PGA tour. In fact, on tour he was part of a band consisting of other players who called themselves The Fore Horsemen; they typically played a gig every Sunday after the conclusion of a tournament. The only reason they wouldn't play was if more than one member failed to make the weekend cut for the tournament; they could get by as a trio but couldn't do much as a duo. The band specialized in standard classic rock favorites, including "Sweet Home Alabama" by Skynyrd, "Rock and Roll" by Zeppelin, and '80s hair metal classics such as "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake and "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard.

Trick was closing the last clamp on his case when his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He hoped it wasn't another reporter or media outlet looking for his story and was partly relieved to see the number on his caller ID belonged to Fr. Paul Hewson from Our Lady of Healing Church. Fr. Paul, a native of Ireland, was known around town as the rock-and-roll priest—there was a rumor he played in a famous rock band in Ireland before answering the call to the priesthood.

Trick considered not answering; he assumed the priest would be trying once again to get him to come back to the church. Trick's faith died on the eighteenth green in Kohler, Wisconsin, last summer, and he hadn't stepped into a church since his father's funeral. However, Fr. Paul was a personal friend, and Trick's gut told him to answer the call.

"If you are trying to save my soul, it's too late."

"It's never too late, but that's not why I'm calling."

Trick looked at his watch and noticed it was approaching 5:20. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for Mass now?" While Trick hadn't attended Mass in months, he remembered it always started at 5:30 p.m. on Saturday evenings.

"I have plenty of time. Look, Trick, the confessional has seen better days, and I was wondering if you could take a look and give me an estimate for refurbishing it." Fr. Paul was hoping that the promise of the type of project his father would have taken on would motivate Trick to leave his house.

"Getting a lot of action evidently," Trick said sarcastically.

"'Tis true that the Lord our God is a forgiving God, and his absolution is not dependent on how well the confessional looks, but I do believe that penitents deserve a less 'holey' place to confess their sins."

"I get what you mean by the word play on _holy_ —good one."

"I bet if you leave your house right now, you can make it down here for 5:30 Mass, and afterward you can take a peek in the confessional. We can then walk over to the Bleeding Seal together."

"Sounds like you have this all figured out."

"Call it divine providence."

Trick looked at his watch and then at how he was dressed. "I'm not in my Sunday best."

"Makes no difference, it's Saturday night; besides, the Lord doesn't care what you wear. Just get your arse on down here."

Fr. Paul was oblivious to the group of parishioners standing just outside the sacristy who appeared somewhat shocked by his choice of language.

Trick thought it over and concluded it might be good to get out, which was something he did rarely. He acquiesced. "Fine. See you shortly."

"You're a good lad, you know that, Trick Evans?"

"You're buying the first round at the Seal—you know that, right, Fr. Paul?"

"Deal. By the way, I'm bringing Edge with me to the Seal tonight, any interest in making it a duo?" Edge was the name of Fr. Paul's beat-up acoustic guitar. The priest was an accomplished guitar player and sometimes surprised the crowd by playing acoustic versions of heavy metal classics; ironically, Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast" was one of his favorites. Seeing a Catholic priest cover a song about witnessing a human sacrifice to the devil was not something that occurred frequently.

"I'm not ready to jam just yet. See you soon." Trick terminated the call and wondered what kind of magic Fr. Paul just worked on him. He grabbed the keys to his old Jeep from the table and made his way to the church. He made millions of dollars on the PGA tour last year, not counting the millions he made in endorsements, yet he still insisted on driving his beat-up old Jeep Wrangler. This endeared him to the people in his hometown who were not nearly as well-to-do as the wealthy visitors who rented their homes each summer.

On the other side of town, in the sacristy of Our Lady of Healing Church, Fr. Paul placed his phone back in his pocket, which was tricky to do since he was wearing his celebrant's robes. He thought about the plan he just put into motion, inspired by a beautiful out-of-town visitor who entered his church five minutes earlier. _The boy needs a woman in his life_ , the priest thought to himself. He had known Trick since the day of his baptism and was worried that he needed a shove in the right direction to get his life back on track and lift him out of the fog he was in.

Fr. Paul knew from experience how painful it was to lose a loved one; his own wife and son had died in a terrorist attack in Northern Ireland back in the 1980s. At the time he was a working musician in an Irish rock band called Mothers of the Disappeared; they toured all over Ireland, England, and mainland Europe. And then, the greatest tragedy of Paul's life struck just a month before the start of their first US tour.

After the death of his wife and child, Fr. Paul cut himself off from the world; the band fell apart and he wound up homeless, sleeping on park benches and the occasional friend's couch here and there until a nun named Matilda Campbell helped him turn his life around. He couldn't imagine being with a woman other than his wife and, at the same time, felt a need to help others who were in need. Inspired by the kindness he received from Sr. Campbell, at age thirty-five he entered the novitiate program for the Paulist Fathers, a religious order of priests, and was ordained seven years later. After moving to New York City to live in the Paulist's motherhouse near Columbus Circle, he was offered the position of pastor of Our Lady of Healing Church in Chatham.

Suddenly a voice cut through the silence in the sacristy, interrupting his thoughts. "Father, it's time for Mass," Marie Nickerson, the lector for that evening's Mass, said.

The priest yanked up the sleeve of his robe, looked at his watch, and noted it was two minutes past five-thirty. "Right you are, Marie. Why don't you begin the opening announcements, and I'll line up in the vestibule with the Eucharistic Ministers."

"Yes, Father."

As Fr. Paul got into line, he heard the doors open behind him. He glanced around to see Trick Evans enter the church. "Good timing, Trick."

Trick was about to enter the main part of the church when he heard the booming voice of Marie Nickerson come across the speakers. "Welcome to Our Lady of Healing Parish. At this time we ask that you please turn off all cell phones and electronic devices." If there is one thing Fr. Paul hated, it was having a reading or homily interrupted by beeping or ringing, and, even though he was an easygoing kind of priest, he had been known to chastise those whose devices made noise during Mass.

"Plenty of room in the front, Trick," Fr. Paul said and winked at him.

Trick looked toward the front of the church and saw a woman with long blonde hair sitting in one of the first pews. She stuck out like a sore thumb, considering everyone else sported a mane of gray or blue hair—if they had any hair at all.

The priest followed his observation with, "I'll see you after Mass."

Trick walked in as the first bars of the opening hymn began to play from the organ. _I wonder what that little leprechaun of a priest has up his sleeve_ , Trick thought to himself as he genuflected and took a seat in the pew right behind the blonde.

## CHAPTER SEVEN

BLAZE HAZELWOOD WAS exiting the shower when the house phone began to ring. The sound was foreign to him—he couldn't remember the last time he heard a landline ring in the increasingly mobile world he lived in. It took him a while to locate the handset, and when he found it, Blaze was dismayed to see that it didn't come equipped with caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Blaze, it's me, Allison." He was relieved to hear his sister's voice on the phone. "What's the matter with your cell phone? Every time I call it goes right to voicemail."

Blaze remembered that he turned it off the moment he got to the rental house. "Sorry about that; I was trying to unplug. What's up?"

"Just wanted to confirm that Dad and I will see you tomorrow. I just landed in New York and am having dinner with him at Fresco's. We're going to rent a car and drive up first thing in the morning."

Like Blaze, Allison lived in Southern California. While he had a house in Malibu, she was farther south in Manhattan Beach. She worked for a conglomerate called the Universal Products Company, or UPC for short, and was responsible for creating reality TV shows formatted around her company's products. Until a year ago, Blaze never knew he had a half-sister. They met when Allison attempted to reunite the cast of Blaze's show _Casa Grande_ for a reality program to help launch a new product line. Things didn't go according to plan in more ways than one—but that is a story for another time.

"How is Dad feeling?"

"Good days and bad days, but he's happy to have us both together." Blaze had been estranged from his father for over forty years, and it was the false start of Allison's ill-fated show _Return to Casa Grand_ e that reunited Blaze and his dad.

"It will be good to see both of you. I have a month off before shooting begins for the second season of _Mike Slammer_ , and I needed a break from California."

_Mike Slammer_ was the show Blaze currently starred in. It aired on a popular cable network and Blaze played the lead role: a private detective hired by older women to investigate suspected infidelity on the part of their spouses. While the show was predictable—invariably Blaze became romantically involved with his client in each episode—it was work in front of the camera. Prior to that, he had spent most of his time doing voiceovers for animated series and video games; as an actor in his late forties, he had to take what he could get.

"Have you given any more thought to what we spoke about last month?" Allison was referring to the conversation they had about his possibly moving to New York to be closer to their aging father. "I can't do it because my job is based in L.A., but you could live anywhere. Hell, your show is filmed in Canada."

The producers of Blaze's show chose Canada as a shooting location because tax-wise and labor-wise, it's much cheaper to put on a production in Canada than in the US.

"I've lived in L.A. so long, it's hard to imagine living anywhere else. Can't he come out here and live with you?" Not wanting to leave L.A. was only part of the reason Blaze was hesitant to make a commitment to living in New York; the other part was rooted in fear—the fear of opening up his emotions and developing a relationship with his father.

"He doesn't want to move; he says he likes being able to walk wherever he goes, and I don't think he could handle the L.A. traffic."

"I'll give it some more thought," Blaze promised. He actually was giving it more than just thought; he asked his agent to try and find some local work for him in New York, but he didn't want to mention anything like that to his sister or father until he had something concrete to tell them.

Blaze heard a beep in his ear, indicating he had another call. "Hold on a second—there's a call on the other line."

"Just let it go to voicemail," Allison replied.

"I have no idea if this phone has voicemail. I'll just be a second." Blaze hit the flash button on the phone and heard heavy breathing on the other end. While some people would assume it was an obscene caller, Blaze knew exactly who it was.

"Why are you huffing and puffing, Stanley? Did you have to walk up a flight of steps to get to your room?"

The Stanley Blaze was talking to was his agent, Stanley Roth (although his real name was Reilly McMurphy). He would be the first to tell you that he changed his name for "professional reasons" when moving to Hollywood and becoming an agent. As far as agents go, Stanley was a dinosaur; he didn't have a smartphone, could barely use a computer, and always shouted when talking on the phone since he assumed everyone he spoke to was hard of hearing. While he was far from being a super-agent, he was partially responsible for the recent uptick in Blaze's career, and Blaze remained loyal to him.

"Blazey Boy, glad to hear you made it in okay. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

"Stanley, hold on a second, I have my sister on the other line; let me say good-bye to her."

Blaze hit the flash button and said, "Sis, I got The Rug on the line. Anything else we need to talk about?" Blaze, along with many other people, for that matter, referred to Stanley as The Rug in reference to the terrible toupee he wore on the top of his head.

"It's still me, Blaze," Stanley said, sounding upset.

"Sorry, Stanley," Blaze said, and then hit the flash button more forcefully this time. "Allison, is that you?"

"Yes," she replied. "Who was that?"

"Sorry—it's Stanley, and I need to talk to him."

"Does he still wear that thing on his head?"

"Sure does. Damn thing looks like a bear died on his head. Listen, I have to go; I'll see you and Dad tomorrow at the house, okay?"

"Quick question," Allison said. "What is the house like?"

"It's nice. It has four bedrooms, although one of them is locked."

"Locked?"

"Yeah. The realtor mentioned something about one of the bedrooms being off-limits; he pointed out that the rent was equivalent to a three-bedroom house rather than a four-bedroom house."

"Does it smell like mothballs?" Alison joked. "How is it decorated?" While Allison was a sweet woman, she could be a bit snobbish at times.

"There are lots of family pictures; the couple who owns it must have a granddaughter, because there are pictures of her everywhere. The place feels like a shrine to her."

"Weird. Whatever. See you tomorrow," Allison said and hung up. Blaze hit the flash button again and said, "How can I help you, Stanley?"

"Is there any way we can meet earlier than eight p.m.? I'm starving."

"Sorry, Stanley old chap, I'm meeting a new lady friend for a drink at seven."

Stanley wasn't in town to vacation; he had been doing some work on behalf of Blaze and another client in New York, and when he heard Blaze was going to be on the East Coast, Stanley insisted on meeting for a business dinner before he flew back to California.

"That was fast! Is this one even twenty?" Stanley knew Blaze's propensity for picking up younger women.

"According to the Blaze-o-meter, she's thirty-something."

"A little old for you," Stanley quipped. "You're not bringing her to dinner, are you? I only have one night with you and we have to talk business; I'm sure she would be bored to death."

"She and I are only having drinks; it will be just you and me for dinner."

"Yeah, but I know what having drinks with Blaze Hazelwood typically leads to."

"Sadly, I don't think you're right about tonight," Blaze said. "This one is far too smart to fall for any of my antics."

"When are you going to settle down, Blaze? You're forty-seven years old, you've never been married, and you still live like a teenager."

"Just haven't met the right girl yet." Blaze used this as an excuse—he had "met" thousands of potentially "right" girls in his life; it was commitment he had a hard time with.

"So where am I meeting you?" Stanley asked.

"I made reservations at a place called the Impudent Oyster; it's in walking distance from your inn." This wasn't a lie—it was technically in walking distance for someone in average physical condition. Stanley was easily seventy-five pounds overweight, though, and would be huffing and puffing by the time he got to the restaurant.

"See you then," Stanley said.

Blaze heard a dial tone and decided to get dressed; he was eager to get out of the house he had rented and meet Casper for a cocktail.

## CHAPTER EIGHT

ANGEL MADE ALL the calls Robert didn't have the strength to make. She called the funeral home that Madeline and Robert had decided to entrust with final arrangements, and she also called Madeline's oncologist to let her know that her patient had passed. Lastly, she called Fr. Bob Masone, the pastor of St. Gabriel Church, to let him know of Madeline's passing and check the church's availability for the funeral. The priest informed Angel that the church could perform a Mass of Christian Burial on either Tuesday or Wednesday morning. After conferring with Robert, she called Fr. Masone back and confirmed Tuesday morning for the funeral.

Tom Gallagher from Gallagher's Funeral Home came to take Madeline's body and begin preparing it for burial. Madeline made it clear that she did not want to have a wake; she felt it prolonged the mourning process unnecessarily. After the funeral her remains were to be laid to rest at St. John's Cemetery just down the road in nearby Darien, Connecticut, next to where her daughter's remains were interred.

"I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. McMullen," Tom said. He struggled to get the words out as he addressed Robert. "Mrs. McMullen was like a second mother to me; I still play the piano every day because of her." Madeline, a lover of music, had taught many of the kids in town to play the piano; it was her personal mission to teach kids to appreciate learning to play music as she strongly believed that studying music not only brought joy to one's life, but also discipline and an ability to think creatively.

"She always had a soft spot in her heart for you, Tom; you were a prize pupil," Robert said.

"I know this probably isn't a good time, but I need to confirm the dates and times for the final arrangements," Tom said.

"It's okay, I know we have to make sure we put the correct times in the obituary."

"Today is Saturday, and the obituary will run in tomorrow's paper. Angel tells me you decided to have the funeral Tuesday morning at ten a.m. at St. Gabriel's—is that right?"

Robert remained silent, staring vacantly into space.

"Does that work for you, Mr. McMullen?" Tom reiterated.

"Yes, that's fine."

"Mr. McMullen, there's really not that much else we need to discuss. I'll send you a revised version of the obituary later this evening—if it looks good, I'll make sure it gets into tomorrow's paper."

Madeline was a planner and couldn't bear the thought that her husband would have to pick out a casket, a dress for her to be buried in, or even draft an obituary after she died. She worked with Tom on all those decisions before she was too sick to do so. This came as a great relief to Robert; it was hard enough coming to terms over the death of his wife, let alone making the decisions about burial arrangements.

"The only thing you will need to do," Tom said, "is write a eulogy for Mrs. McMullen. She specifically asked that you read something at her funeral."

Robert felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. How could one summarize a lifetime spent with another person in a mere five or ten minutes? While he was a writer by profession, he excelled at crafting fiction—the thought of exposing his feelings for his wife in front of those who came to pay their respects made picking out a burial dress seem easy. But then Robert started to wonder how many people would actually show up—he pictured himself giving a eulogy to the priest and the handful of people who Madeline volunteered with.

"What's the matter, Mr. Mack?" Angel asked.

"I just don't think I can do that," Robert admitted. "Even if I could think of something to write, I don't think that I would be able to get through it."

"Oh, Mr. Mack," Angel said, "I have faith that you will find the strength to make everyone in that church feel how much you loved Mrs. Maddy."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Angel," Robert said in an insecure tone.

"Mr. Mack, I have met many a man in your situation. Have a little faith and you will do just fine."

_A little faith_ , Robert thought to himself. _If it were only that simple_.

After Tom Gallagher left the McMullen residence, a calmness settled over the house. The silence was short-lived, however; it was broken by Clemmy's and Tess' barking.

"Oh, I know what that barking means, Mr. Mack," Angel said. "Those two are hungry. They always get super hungry on the days when someone passes." Angel walked into the mudroom where the dog food was kept. She poured a bowl of food for each dog and watched in amazement as they ate with reckless abandon.

"Why do you suppose that is, Angel?" Robert wondered what connection there could be between someone dying and the voraciousness of the dogs' appetites.

"I am not sure that I understand it myself, Mr. Mack. All I can say is that every time a patient they have comforted passes from this life to the next, they can't get enough to eat."

Robert didn't give the dogs' appetite any more thought; he became preoccupied with how he was going to carry out his wife's final wishes. The thought of making the four-hour drive to Chatham alone made him nervous. His mental state was questionable, and his stamina wasn't what it once was. He then remembered something Angel had said to him earlier: she told him she was there for him. He decided to test that declaration.

"Angel, I have a favor to ask of you," Robert said. "Right before she died, Madeline asked me to go to our vacation home on Cape Cod and pick something of hers up. It's actually something our daughter made for her one Mother's Day, and she wanted to be buried with it."

"How can I help you with that, Mr. Mack?"

"I don't think I can make that drive alone," Robert admitted. "Would you mind going with me?"

Angel did not respond immediately, and Robert sensed that perhaps she was wondering whether or not it was the right thing to do. Actually, though, she was contemplating the request and considering the good that might come of it. Satisfied with the conclusion she reached, Angel said, "Yes, Mr. Mack, I can go with you to Cape Cod, but there are two conditions."

"What are they?" Robert asked.

"First, I don't have anywhere to board the dogs, so Clemenza and Tessio will have to join us."

"That's not a problem," Robert said. While he wasn't a dog person, over the past few days he had grown somewhat attached to Clemmy and Tess. "What's the other condition?"

"It is already late in the day, and I cannot drive at night. We'll have to leave tomorrow morning."

While this was a reasonable request, the prospect of staying in his home tonight was almost unbearable. He was hoping to stay anywhere else, even if it were a hotel. Tonight would mark the first of many firsts to follow this year: the first night alone after his wife's passing, which would then be followed by the first Christmas without his wife, the first New Year's Eve, and so on. Additionally, the prospect of going to Writer's Retreat weighed heavily on him. He hadn't been up there since his daughter's death twenty-nine years ago, and he questioned whether or not he would be able to go through with his wife's final wish. Next he made a mental note to see whether or not he could even get into the house this week; a local realtor in Chatham handled the rental of his home, and there were no blackout dates listed in the rental agreement since the McMullens never planned to visit. Although small given the time of year, there was a possibility that someone could be renting it out.

Angel read a look of concern on Robert's face. "What's the matter, Mr. Mack? You seem conflicted."

"I don't know that I can do this, Angel," he admitted. "It's all too much for me to handle right now."

"You are stronger than you think, Mr. Mack," Angel said. "The Man Upstairs wouldn't give you more than you can handle. Remember what I said when you told me you couldn't write a eulogy for your wife?"

"You told me to have a little faith," Robert replied.

"See, Mr. Mack, you are learning already," Angel said, flashing him a smile. "You look exhausted, Mr. Mack—I think it's time for you to get some rest. We have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow."

It took all the strength Robert had remaining to climb the ten steps leading up to the bedroom he had shared with his wife for the past half century. Fortunately, his weariness allowed him to fall into a deep sleep almost immediately.

## CHAPTER NINE

TRICK SAT PATIENTLY in the pew waiting for Fr. Paul to finish his homily. While he liked the priest very much, Trick knew that Fr. Paul sometimes took a long-winded approach to preaching, and his homilies often consisted of personal stories that seemingly went nowhere. Things could be worse, though; at least there was the beautiful golden-haired stranger in front of him.

He hadn't had a long-term relationship since turning pro—life on the PGA tour was not conducive to such things, and he had not even been on a casual date with a woman since before his father died. Freddie often joked that the longest relationship he had in the past eight years was with his three wood. While he studied the back of her head, Trick thought the fog of depression might be starting to lift as he allowed himself to imagine going on a date. _Baby steps_ , he told himself.

"And as I began to reflect on today's readings to prepare for this homily," Fr. Paul said to the congregation, "I found myself thinking about what John meant when he wrote in the Book of Revelation . . ."

"Land the plane already," Trick muttered under his breath. He was surprised when this comment, which no one else was meant to hear, led to a quiet snicker from the woman sitting in front of him. Making the woman laugh made Trick feel good, so he decided to try his luck again. He muttered, "We are not getting any younger here." This too was received with another giggle. Just as he was going to press his luck a third time, Fr. Hewson looked over toward Trick and said, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," which was his standard way of signaling that his homily was over.

The congregation stood for the profession of faith and then sat down again while the gifts of bread and wine were brought to the altar. Trick, not really wanting to be attending Mass to begin with, found himself lost in a daydream, remembering all the times he and his father attended a service at this church. Trick's father told him how, after his wife died, the parishioners of the church were always there for him when he needed help. He was a very young widower, and the members of the parish, realizing this, helped him raise his son. After he died, those same people were there for Trick, though he didn't get back into the habit of attending Mass.

Before he knew it, Trick was standing up and saying the Our Father. When it came time for the sign of peace, the woman in front of him turned around and offered him her hand. As he looked into her eyes and said, "Peace be with you," he noticed that she was even more beautiful than he imagined, having only seen the back of her head up to this point. Something in her eyes, though, gave him the impression of sadness and pain. A broken person can easily spot another broken person, and Trick wondered what her story was. He held on to her hand a second more than was necessary until the person sitting in his row extended his hand to offer Trick the sign of peace.

While in line to receive Communion, Trick's eyes were riveted on the blonde hair of the woman in front of him, and when he came back to his pew after receiving the host, he found himself unable to concentrate; he was too preoccupied with trying to come up a way of asking her out after Mass, a thought that would have been completely foreign to him less than an hour earlier.

Casper Quinlan could not believe her luck. Brandon Anderson spent a whole week in Chatham and couldn't track down Trick Evans, yet here she was at Mass after being in town for less than ninety minutes, and he was sitting right behind her.

She couldn't believe her luck when she turned around during the sign of peace and shook hands with the very person she was attempting to track down. As she shook his hand, Casper noticed that he stared into her eyes intently, almost as if he were searching for something. She had a problem, though; aware of how private Trick had been lately, she didn't want to come right out and say who she was and why she was in town—that would likely scare him off. She decided she would play hard to get and leave the church without talking to him. _Show a man a little mystery and you will be remembered in his mind forever_ was one of her grandmother's favorite expressions, and Casper decided to put it to the test.

As the lector announced the closing hymn and Fr. Paul proclaimed the final blessing, Casper stepped into the aisle, genuflected toward the tabernacle, and left the church before the priest, lector, and Eucharistic minister processed toward the vestibule. She took a left-hand turn out of the building and walked back to her hotel, where Blaze would meet her in thirty minutes.

She walked into the hotel lobby and was surprised to see Blaze waiting on the veranda, sipping on a glass of wine while staring out at the water.

"I didn't expect you to be early," Casper said.

"What can I say, luv, I'm an actor and I was well trained by my directors to arrive on the set early."

"I thought all actors were simply spoiled children who think rules don't apply to them."

"There are plenty of those, but I've been in the game long enough to know that a mindset like that doesn't make for a long career on the big or small screen." Blaze paused to take a sip of his wine. "You look even more lovely than you did this morning; where are you coming from?"

There was a time when Casper was hesitant to admit to anyone that she was a churchgoer, but over time she realized that if others had an issue with her faith, it was their problem and not hers. "I went to Mass at the church around the corner."

"Oh, a good Catholic girl, I see."

"Are you a bad Catholic boy?" Casper teased.

"I wasn't raised with any religion. My grandparents on my mother's side were Holocaust survivors, and my grandparents on my father's side were Anglicans. After my mother and I moved to California, she decided that the acting would be my religion, and aside from attending the funeral of one of my old co-stars a few months ago, I've managed to stay out of a house of worship for over forty years."

"Well, this good Catholic girl could use a glass of wine."

Casper took a seat next to Blaze and motioned the waitress over. While it was March, it was unseasonably warm and still sunny at six-thirty that Saturday evening, and Casper was enjoying the fresh air. She ordered a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand, which the waitress brought over almost immediately.

"Are you still planning to meet your agent for dinner tonight?"

"Yes. Stanley—my agent—was in New York this week. When he found out I was coming to the Cape, he insisted on our having dinner; apparently there are things he wants to talk to me about."

"A new role?"

"I've told him I wouldn't mind a show that shoots in New York so I could be closer to my father, and some of his meetings this week had to do with that. I don't have my hopes up, though—there aren't too many roles for an aging former soap opera star."

"Well, I hope you hear some good news tonight."

"Tell me more about this story you're chasing out here on Cape Cod. Must be a big one if you flew all the way from LA. In another twenty miles or so, you would be at the easternmost part of the United States; hard to get any farther from Los Angeles."

Casper paused for a minute, wondering whether or not she should share anything about the story she was hoping to write. She reasoned there was little harm in doing so; Blaze wasn't a local and therefore wouldn't have any reason to prevent her from getting the story.

"My family is in the golf business; many years ago, my father started a magazine called _Fore!_ and I just started working for him. Do you follow the game?"

"I can't say that I do. To me watching golf is like watching paint dry."

It was a sentiment Casper was familiar with. None of her friends were into the sport—they considered it elitist and rejected it on those grounds. "Well, last year there was a young player named Patrick Evans who won all four of golf's majors in the same calendar year; that hasn't been done in over eighty years."

"And he lives here in Chatham? I figured professional golfers would live in warm weather climates so they could play all year round."

"After winning the last major, his father—who was also his caddy—suddenly dropped dead on the eighteenth green. The golf community hasn't heard from Trick since, and I'm hoping to be the first to capture his story."

"Why did he distance himself from golf? Sounds like he was just starting out in his career and could have been one of the greats." Blaze knew from experience that an actor, like an athlete, only has a limited amount of time to shine before someone from the younger generation comes along and steals his or her thunder.

"That is precisely what I am trying to figure out."

Blaze noticed that both of their glasses were empty, and the temperature had dropped as the sun started to go down. "Since it's getting chilly, why don't we walk over to the Bleeding Seal for another drink?"

Casper agreed, and the two walked down the steps that led up to the veranda and took a right at the bottom. They made another right onto Seaview Avenue, passed the golf course, and headed for the center of town.

## CHAPTER TEN

TRICK WALKED OUT of the nave and saw Fr. Paul talking with some parishioners in the vestibule.

"That was a lovely homily, Father, so insightful!" said an elderly woman with a cane. Trick noticed her nodding off halfway through it but decided not to call her out on it.

"Thank you for those kind words, Mary Ann. Tell me, did you find anything humorous in my homily?"

"Not that I remember, Father."

"I'm only asking because I caught Mr. Evans here laughing during part of it, and I was wondering if anyone else found it funny."

"Guilty as charged, Padre," Trick said. "But I had my reasons."

"Oh, I bet you did," Fr. Paul said. "She must have liked you so much that she ran away right after my closing prayer. You should have followed after her, lad."

"I thought you needed me to look at the confessional."

"Trick, a woman like that doesn't come to this town that frequently in the month of March. I'd rather see you in that confessional under other circumstances, if you know what I mean."

"As long as I am here, do you still want me to look at it?"

"Don't put off tomorrow what you can do today, I suppose."

"My father used to say that to me all the time."

"Mark Twain."

"Excuse me?" Trick asked.

"That quote is commonly attributed to Samuel Clemens, who is more often known by his pseudonym, Mark Twain."

Fr. Paul and Trick walked over to the confessional. Upon entering, Trick could see that the paint was chipping and some of the wood needed to be replaced. "I could probably take care of this over the course of a couple of days," Trick said.

"Tell me something, Trick—your father taught you how to work with your hands and breathe new life into old things; do you think that works with people as well?"

"I am not sure I am following you, Father."

"I need to sit down for a minute," Fr. Paul said and took a seat in the sole chair of the confessional. It was located on the other side of a screen that separates the priest and the penitent. Feeling awkward standing while Fr. Paul sat, Trick opted to take advantage of the kneeler in the confessional.

"What I mean is that a material like wood needs to be sanded and protected every few years in order to maintain not only its appearance but its usefulness over time. Your father, who was a very talented carpenter, knew this and passed along his knowledge to you. But consider that people are also like wood in that regard; they can become damaged and in need of repair."

Trick started to feel uncomfortable, as if he were about to get a dose of therapy he didn't ask for.

Fr. Paul continued, "You've been through a lot in the past several months, Trick, and it is possible that you are in need of some healing."

Trick was quiet for a minute and then broke the silence. "I don't know what to say, Father; I'm just not ready to talk about it." He began to wonder if the priest really wanted an estimate to refurbish the confessional.

"Your father was a good man; he loved you so much and beamed with pride whenever I saw you with him. I'm sure you miss him beyond words."

Trick wasn't looking for an impromptu counseling session and wasn't prepared to engage in one. Instead, he decided to shut down and not betray the emotions he was feeling.

Sensing that too much silence had passed, Fr. Paul decided to break it. "Let me tell you a quick story, Trick. I promise it will be much shorter than my homily."

This admission caused Trick to smile.

"When I was your age in Ireland, I felt as if I were on top of the world. My band had a hit record that was climbing the charts in Europe, and we were just about to go on our first tour of the US; that was back in the early '80s. Then, all of a sudden, my wife and child were killed in a terrorist attack, and my world crumbled. I couldn't bring myself to sing or play guitar, so I quit the band. The little money I saved was spent foolishly, and I wound up homeless. I lived like a bum for a full year and almost died twice—once of an overdose and once in a fight."

"Then what happened?" Trick knew bits and pieces of this story, but he never imagined how difficult Fr. Paul's life was back in Ireland.

"I was recovering in a hospital when a nun came in to offer me Communion. I refused initially because I developed quite a disdain for religion after my wife and son died. I felt it was religion that killed my family, and I wanted nothing to do with it. She must have seen the pain in my eyes, because she didn't leave; she simply stayed and sat with me in silence. Every day she came back, and we went through the same motions; she would offer me Communion, I would yell at her, and she would sit quietly in my room for ten minutes or so."

"How long did this go on for?"

"Three days. On the third day I asked her why she was wasting her time on a lost cause like me, and do you know what she said to me in response?"

Trick shook his head no.

"She pulled out a piece of wood from her purse along with a hammer and a nail. What a nun was doing walking around with these things in her purse, I couldn't tell you, but she pulled her chair closer to my bed and put the wood on the table my food was placed on at mealtime. She then proceeded to hammer the nail into the wood, and I'll never forget what she said to me." Fr. Paul paused to see if he had Trick's attention.

"What did she say?" Trick asked.

"She told me that, like the wood, my soul had a nail in it. She then removed the nail with the hammer and explained that we cannot remove the nails in our soul on our own—we need help. She handed me the piece of wood and asked me what was different about it. I said that it now had a hole in it, and she smiled. She told me that the wood would never be quite the same as it was before, even though the nail was removed. And then she told me something I will never forget." Fr. Paul paused again for dramatic effect.

"Don't leave me in suspense, Padre."

"She told me that with God's help I could repair the hole in myself left by the death of my wife and kids. But here's the thing: I don't know how she knew about that; I never told her about them."

"Did you ever figure out how she knew?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, young Patrick. Hey, that's not a terrible name for a song— 'Mysterious Ways.' I have to write that down." While the priest was no longer a working musician, he still wrote a lot of songs and kept them all in a binder on his bookshelf.

"I think U2 beat you too it," Trick quipped. "Track 8 on _Achtung Baby_."

"Damn that Bono, he always beats me to it."

"Did you ever see her again? The nun?"

"Oh yes, we became quite close. She introduced me to the Paulist Fathers, a religious order with a small community in Ireland, and I joined their novitiate program. The rest is history."

"Father, you didn't really call me here to have me look at the confessional, did you?"

"You are a lot smarter than you look, my friend. Now, what do you say we go listen to some live music and get a beer? I just have to change into my street clothes and grab Edge because I'm going to play a few songs tonight at open mic."

While Trick wasn't too interested in socializing, he remembered how he felt when he offered the sign of peace to the beautiful woman sitting in front of him at Mass. He remembered how he felt as their hands touched and he saw her face for the first time. This encouraged him to accept Fr. Paul's invitation for a beer. "Works for me."

Trick followed him out of the confessional and waited for him outside the rectory. Fr. Paul came out moments later, looking more like a vacationer than a priest, having traded his clerical garb for a button-down shirt and an old pair of jeans. They walked toward the Bleeding Seal, passing the Chatham Bars Inn on the way.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHRISTOPHER ROBERTS LOOKED over the list of people who had signed up for open mic night and shook his head when he realized that Trick's name wasn't on it; he was hoping that tonight would be the night his longtime friend would play something for the small group of townies who were assembling in the bar. He recently took over The Bleeding Seal from his grandfather, who had owned it for over forty years. He promised his granddad that the funny (and borderline obscene) license plates that adorned the paneled walls would remain in place along with the numerous bras that hung from an invisible wire "clothesline" across the ceiling. The only changes Christopher made were a rotating list of specials on the menu and different theme nights for the town residents to enjoy in the off season; the Bleeding Seal was one of the only restaurants to remain open year-round; most of the other establishments were closed between Labor Day and Memorial Day.

"I thought you said you were going to try and get Trick to play tonight," Christopher said to Freddie, who waited tables on weekends and bartended on select weeknights. While she was too young to buy drinks at the bar, she wasn't too young to serve them.

"I did my best, but he keeps saying he's not ready yet. I'm really worried about him."

"Me too. What's he going to do when you go off to college in the fall? You're the last bit of family he's got left in town."

"I'm worried about the same thing. I hope he snaps out of the funk he's in and gets back on the PGA tour. I wish I knew the right thing to say to him, but nothing I've tried has worked."

"I'll try and talk to him if he shows up tonight." Just then, Christopher's attention was directed at a couple who had just walked into the bar. The man was older than the woman by about fifteen years and looked like Rob Lowe—if Rob Lowe had blond hair. The woman was a beautiful blonde who Christopher thought looked like Gwen Stefani. "A little early for tourist season, isn't it?"

"He _is_ fine!" Freddie exclaimed, looking him over. While the sign at the hostess station read "Seat yourself at your own risk," Freddie took it upon herself to help the couple find a good spot.

"Can I help you?" Freddie asked, glancing at him admiringly as he scanned the bar to get the lay of the land. She wasn't often attracted to older men, but she saw a charisma in Blaze that touched her.

"There's just two of us, luv. Can we sit anywhere?"

"Anywhere you like. My name is Freddie, and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Do you want to sit closer to the stage or farther away? It's our open mic night, and sometimes people don't like to sit too close to the speakers."

"What did you say your name was?" Casper asked. She remembered Brandon saying something about staying away from someone named Freddie, and she wondered if the person in front of her might be who he was referring to.

"Freddie," she replied, smiling at Blaze. "Follow me; I'll find you a good spot."

"I think someone has a crush on you," Casper whispered to Blaze.

"I'm old enough to be her father!" he replied.

"Blaze, you are almost old enough to be _my_ father," Casper retorted.

"Fair point, luv."

Freddie sat them at a table and took their drink order, and Casper excused herself to use the ladies' room. While she was gone, Freddie came back with the drinks.

"You look so familiar to me—where have I seen you before?"

"I'm an actor," Blaze said, winking at her. Over the years, he had mastered the art of seduction, and even though he wasn't looking for any other female accompaniment that particular evening, old habits die hard.

"Wait a minute—you're Blaze Hazelwood, aren't you? My grandmother and I have watched every episode of _Casa Grande_. You're much taller in person! Didn't you get stabbed last year?"

"That's a long story."

Freddie knew she had some other tables to wait, but she wanted to know more about the woman who he was with. "Is your date an actor as well?"

"Date? Oh no, Casper here is a friend I met on the plane out here. She's a writer looking to do a story on some golfer who lives in Chatham."

Freddie's senses were heightened now that she knew another reporter was in town; she would have to keep an eye on this Casper chick.

"Sorry to interrupt you two," Casper said, taking her seat.

"Not interrupting at all; Freddie here was just telling me how much she loved my old show, _Casa Grande_."

"Seen every episode," Freddie said somewhat coldly, looking at Casper. "Let me know if there's anything else I can get for you. I've got to grace some of these other tables with my presence."

Freddie left their immediate vicinity, and Casper turned to Blaze and said, "Is there suddenly a chill in the air, or is it just me?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, luv. Freddie seems delightful."

Casper and Blaze continued to chat until Christopher's voice came over the speakers and said, "Thank you all, ladies and gentlemen, for coming out tonight. This is one of the best events we have all week, and it's a true showcase of all the talent we have here in our Chatham community. We have a number of great performers for your enjoyment tonight, and I'd first like to call up onstage our very own Freddie Daniels, who will entertain us with some of her stand-up comedy."

"Thank you, Christopher! It's good to be here back in Chatham, or as I like to call it, the quaint little drinking village with a bit of a fishing problem..." Freddie continued to perform to the delight of the crowd for another fifteen minutes, while Christopher took over the table service in her absence. She was a big hit, and even made one customer laugh so hard that he snorted beer out of his nose.

"Next up we have Michael Josephs, who will tantalize you with some table magic."

The performer went from table to table doing magic tricks. After about ten minutes, he walked back to the stage and asked the crowd if anyone was missing his or her wallet. Blaze reached into his pocket and realized his wallet was no longer there.

"I am!" he announced.

"You will find it in your date's purse."

Sure enough, Casper opened her purse and saw Blaze's wallet inside. "How the hell did you do that?" Blaze asked.

"A good magician never reveals his secrets."

The audience erupted in applause, and Christopher called the next act to the stage. After seeing a ventriloquist and an impressionist, Blaze looked at his watch and was surprised to see how close to eight p.m. it was. "Sorry to do this to you, Casper, but I have to go meet my agent at a restaurant across the street. Will you be okay if I leave you here alone?"

"I don't know—it seems like a tough crowd, but I think I can manage."

"I'm going to spend the day tomorrow with my sister and my father, but let me know if you would like to get together again."

"Will do. There's only one problem—I don't have your number."

Blaze asked for her number and then sent her a text message. "Now you have it!" he said.

"I will only use it in case of emergency," Casper quipped.

"Maybe I'll come back after my meeting," Blaze said.

"Don't do that on my account. I'm exhausted and will probably head right to bed after I get a bite to eat."

"The thought of you eating all alone makes my heart break," Blaze said.

"I'm a big girl; I can handle it."

Blaze said, "I bet you can handle anything life throws your way," and then walked out the door.

_If only you knew how wrong you are_ , Casper thought.

## CHAPTER TWELVE

TRICK EVANS AND Fr. Paul walked toward the entrance of the Bleeding Seal. As they were about to walk in, Blaze Hazelwood, completely oblivious to their presence, came out, talking loudly into the phone stuck to his ear, nearly bumping into them.

"Stanley, you out-of-shape animal, a quarter of a mile is not too far to walk. Think of it this way—you have already burned off all the calories from the dinner you're about to buy me."

A moment later the man was far enough away from Trick and Fr. Paul that they could no longer hear his conversation. Both of them were curious about how the night was going to turn out for him.

"Too early for tourists," Fr. Hewson said.

"That guy looked familiar," replied Trick, "but I can't place him."

As they walked into the Bleeding Seal, they were greeted by Freddie.

"Fr. Paul!" Freddie said excitedly. "Christopher was getting nervous that you weren't here yet—you're up next."

Fr. Paul looked around the bar and noticed the young woman from Mass. "Say, Trick, why don't you go find someone to sit with? Might I recommend the blonde in the corner?"

Trick looked in the direction where Fr. Paul directed and smiled. "Don't mind if I do."

Freddie tried to intercept him. "Trick, listen, there's something you should know..."

"Now, now, young Freddie, don't get in the way of what could be true love," said Fr. Paul.

"Trick, no, really, it's just that..."

"I think I can handle myself, Freddie."

While she was relieved to see her friend with a spring in his step, Freddie couldn't hide her dismay. _Don't come cryin' to me when you find out for yourself_ , she thought to herself as she went to wait on another table.

Fr. Paul went to the side of the stage to tune his guitar, and Trick walked to the table where the woman was sitting.

"Is anyone sitting here?" he asked.

"No, my friend just left."

"Blond dude? Looked like he could be an actor?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Ran into him on the way out. He was shouting at someone named Stanley on the phone."

"Stanley is his agent; Blaze is having dinner with him across the street."

"That's who it is! Blaze Hazelwood. When I was in college, I used to watch reruns of _Casa Grande_ with my girlfriend. He looks taller in person."

"I thought the same thing."

"How long have you two known each other?"

"We just met this morning. He was on my flight out of LA; he's going to be spending some time with his father and sister out here and asked if I wanted to grab a drink with him when he found out I was coming to Chatham."

"Where are my manners? I didn't even introduce myself; my name is Patrick Evans, but everyone calls me Trick." It was the first time he had introduced himself to a woman in a long time, and Trick couldn't help but stumble over his words. This caused Casper to smile.

Casper knew she had to be very careful here; if she seemed to know too much about Trick, it could put him on the defensive, but if she didn't know anything about him, she might come across as disingenuous. "I know who you are; I enjoyed watching you play last year, and I'm sorry about the loss of your father."

"Golf and my father are two things that I don't talk about," Trick said in a tone that left absolutely no room for discussion. "Enough about me, though; tell me about you."

"My name is Casper, and I work in the Internet industry out in LA." It wasn't an outright lie exactly, just a lie of omission. "I'm here on a project to help my family's business."

"What could this little fishing village possibly have that could help your family business?"

Before Casper could answer Trick's question, their conversation was interrupted by Christopher, who announced that intermission was over and the next performer of the evening would be Fr. Paul Hewson. "What are you going to sing for us tonight, Father?" Christopher asked as the incognito priest took the stage.

Fr. Paul looked at the crowd and saw Trick looking intently into the eyes of the woman from church. He decided to shock the crowd with an old bar song written by Jimmy Buffet about getting drunk and finding some temporary company for the evening. When he got to the first chorus of "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw," the crowd erupted in laughter.

"Is he a real priest?" Casper asked Trick.

"You aren't the first person to ask that question."

When the song was over, Fr. Paul asked for a quick break to retune his guitar and have a beer before playing another song. This gave Casper and Trick the chance to get to know each other a little better.

"Where did you grow up?" Trick asked.

"I'm originally from Westchester County in New York, but I moved to California when I was thirteen, so for most of my life I grew up thirty miles north of Los Angeles in Westlake Village. How about you—have you always lived in Chatham?"

"Kind of. I was born here but went to college out in California. I turned pro after college and spent most of the next three years on tour. I came back after my father died."

Sensing she needed to change the subject, Casper said, "Top five movies of all time—go!"

"You want my top five movies of all time?"

"Don't think about it too much."

"That's too hard to do on the spot...I really love movies."

"Okay, just tell me the name of a movie you really love."

" _The Godfather_."

"Never heard of it."

"You've never heard of _The Godfather_? It's quite possibly the best movie ever made," Trick said in disbelief.

"Kidding! Of course I've heard of _The Godfather_. Some of Abe Vigoda's best work. Just trying to get your Irish up."

Somewhat relieved that the beautiful woman in front of him wasn't a complete dolt as far as movies went, Trick asked, "How did you know I was Irish?"

"Your name is Patrick Evans; if you're not Irish, then what are you?"

"Fair enough," Trick said, smiling—something new for him. He was happy to see that Casper was smiling back. He hadn't been on a date in over a year, and while this couldn't exactly classify as a date, Trick started to feel as if the fog he had been living in for the past seven months was starting to lift.

Casper herself felt something stir within her that she had not felt since her accident. She sensed that she could be herself with Trick, and for once she didn't let her disability get in the way of building a connection with a man. She actually felt guilty for wondering how she was going to get his story and help save her father's magazine.

No words had been spoken between them for over a minute; they had just been staring into each other's eyes. Both apparently realized this at the same time and quickly turned away from each other, both blushing.

Back onstage Fr. Paul said, "For my second and final song of the evening, I'm going to play a song I first heard while visiting Brooklyn, New York last summer. It's by a singer/songwriter named Glen Hansard, and the song is called 'Winning Streak.'"

The crowd in the bar grew silent as he started to pick the first few chords of the song. Fr. Paul didn't begin singing immediately, but instead gave a homily of sorts over the chords.

"All of us experience both joy and pain in our lives, and this song is a prayer of sorts. I envision it being sung by a loving father to his children; I have no way of knowing if that's what the writer intended, so you'll just have to make up your own minds."

As the priest sang the lyrics, Trick spontaneously reached his hand across the table and gently grasped Casper's; she offered no resistance. _What is coming over me_? Trick thought to himself. Smiling, engaging in a personal conversation with a beautiful woman he just met, holding her hand—these were all behaviors now out of character for him.

After he strummed the last chord, Fr. Paul put his guitar down, walked off stage, and went right over to Trick's table. He noticed that Trick had tears streaming down his face and said in his gentle Irish brogue, "That was for you, son."

Trick stood up, hugged the priest, and said, "Thank you, Padre."

The hug between Trick and his priest was interrupted by Freddie, who came over to hug the man she considered a brother.

"That was a beautiful song, Father."

"I thought so, too," said Casper.

Freddie turned to Trick and asked, "Trick, when did you decide to start doing interviews again?"

With these words, Casper felt a pit form in the bottom of her stomach. _How did she know?_

"Interview? What are you talking about, Freddie?"

"The woman you are with—she's a reporter for a magazine. I thought you knew."

"Reporter?" Trick asked, looking at Casper.

"Trick, look, I..."

"Don't lie to me—is it true?"

"I work for _Fore!_ magazine. I was going to tell you, but I just enjoyed getting to know you so much."

Trick was devastated. He felt a real connection to Casper, but now he questioned whether or not she was just playing him to get his story.

"I don't appreciate being lied to," Trick said, loudly enough for everyone in the bar to take notice. "I am not talking to any journalist about golf or my father. Why can't you leeches leave me alone?"

Casper was stunned into silence.

"Is there anything you want to say to me?" Trick demanded.

"I'm sorry," were the only words she could muster.

"Sorry won't bring my father back," Trick said and stormed out of the bar.

Freddie looked at Casper and could see she was upset about what just happened.

"I guess I'll just take the check, please," Casper said.

"Her tab is on me," Fr. Paul said, handing Freddie two twenty-dollar bills.

"Thank you," Casper said. Casper got up from her chair, feeling as if all eyes in the bar were on her—which, of course, they were. As she walked toward the door, her prosthetic leg—a new model she had been fitted with recently—gave out and she fell. She had been struggling with it for the past few days and planned to see her doctor about adjusting it when she got back to California. Freddie and the priest rushed over to help her.

"This night couldn't get any worse," Casper said as they helped her up. Casper sat down in the nearest chair and clicked her leg back onto her thigh.

"Let me walk you back to wherever you are staying," Fr. Paul said.

"No," Casper said. "I'm used to being alone; I'll manage just fine." She stood up and walked out the door into what had become a very cold night in Chatham.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BLAZE WALKED INTO the Impudent Oyster and was greeted by the hostess, a woman named Nicole who looked about twenty-seven years old. Her jet-black hair was accentuated by blue eyes the color of the Caribbean. _There's no way she's local_ , Blaze thought. It turned out he was right.

"Do you have resyurvation?" Nicole asked in an accent Blaze pegged as Eastern European, likely Russian or Ukrainian. Chatham's hospitality industry imported labor from Eastern European countries during the season as a way of utilizing cheap, short-term labor; most restaurants and inns were only open from May through September, and the people who lived in town needed to work year-round. Since there weren't enough local high school and college kids to fill the demand, Chatham, like many other resort towns, imported talent. That Nicole was still here in March meant that she was probably sleeping with the owner of the restaurant and he agreed to hire her full-time, thus allowing her to stay in the country—much to the chagrin of locals looking for full-time employment.

"My name is Hazelwood, Blaze Hazelwood, and I have a reservation for two at eight p.m."

"Your guest is not here yet, Mr. Blaze, but I can show you to your taybel." Blaze followed Nicole to a table located by the front window of the restaurant. He didn't expect Stanley to have beaten him to the restaurant; Stanley was not what you would call a fast mover.

"Can I get you drink?" Nicole asked.

"Do you have any Zima?" Blaze asked. Zima was an alcoholic beverage popular in the '90s, and Blaze frequently asked for one whenever he went to a bar.

"How you spell Zeema?"

"Z-I-M-A, luv."

"I go check one minutes with bartender."

Blaze laughed to himself at the way Nicole spoke; it was almost as if she were a character in one of the many low-budget movies he made in the '90s. With his spiky blond hair and crystal-blue eyes, he had often been cast as a KGB agent or a spy in movies such as _Day of the Red_ , _Red Army Uprising_ , or his personal favorite, _Dawn of the Dead Reds_ , which was actually a cross between a Cold War movie and a zombie flick. Given the zombie craze over the past five years in America, the movie was enjoying a resurgence as a cult classic.

Blaze heard the bartender say, "If that guy wants a Zima, he'd better get a time machine!" Under normal circumstances, this would have made Blaze laugh, although it brought up a memory he would rather forget. After _Casa Grande_ went off the air, Stanley convinced him to try his hand at the stage and booked him as the lead role as Marty McFly in _Back to the Future: The Musical_. The show closed after a week, and Blaze's career declined shortly thereafter.

"No Zima, Mr. Blaze. How about nice glass of vodka?"

Blaze had a love/hate relationship with vodka; you never knew which Blaze you'd encounter after he'd been drinking it. Sometimes you got happy Blaze, other times you got sad Blaze, and still other times you got angry Blaze. He decided to play it safe and asked for a glass of white wine instead. As Nicole returned with his drink, there was a commotion at the door. Stanley, with his toupee askew, had entered the restaurant and was causing a scene.

"I...need...water," he said, wheezing uncontrollably.

"I'll be back," Nicole said. A montage of Arnold Schwarzenegger saying that line in his various movies played through Blaze's head. He suddenly remembered that Arnold also made a Cold War movie called _Red Heat_. In Blaze's mind, that made them peers.

Nicole came back a moment later with Stanley in tow. "Here is taybel. I'll be back to take drink order."

"What's the matter, Stanley? You seem a little upset."

"There is no way in hell that was only a quarter mile from my hotel!" Stanley protested.

"I was never good at math. Listen, look on the bright side—you didn't have to pay for valet parking."

Blaze knew that one of Stanley's pet peeves about living in LA was constantly having to pay someone to park his car whenever he went out for a business lunch or dinner. While he could easily expense the cost of the valet, it was the principle of it all that upset him.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you that dinner is on me tonight?"

"That's the least you could do. Throw in a cab, and I'll forget this ever happened."

Nicole came back. "What would big Kover like to drink?"

"What did you call me?"

"Big Kover," Nicole said, winking at Blaze. "It means 'big rug' in Russian."

"Stanley, I think she is referring to..."

"I get it, Blaze. Since he's buying, I'll start with a Macallan 25-year-old, neat."

"Good choice. I'll be back."

"She's charming," Stanley remarked, starting to relax.

"Not too much to see this time of year here, Stanley old boy. She's pretty much all the eye candy around until the end of May."

"What are you doing here in March, anyway? You and your sister could have met your father anywhere in the country—anywhere in the world even. Why here?"

"Our father likes this place. It's special for him. Plus, I like the fact that it is deserted; I can actually think."

"You seem to have matured since the last time I saw you."

It was true—the last time Blaze and Stanley had seen each other was a year ago when Stanley convinced Blaze to do the _Return to Casa Grande_ reality show. The idea was to unite the cast of the prime-time soap opera that made them all stars in the '80s. Blaze held out for a while, given his disdain for reality TV, but finally agreed to do the show after meeting the show's creator; in a plot twist that could only be true in a soap opera, she turned out to be the biological twin sister he never knew existed. The show unfortunately came to a screeching halt during a morning show appearance when Murphy's Law was proven true: Anything that could go wrong _did_ go wrong—and then some.

"You might say I have a new perspective on what is important in life, Stanley. I'm in my late forties, I live alone, and I am trying to establish a relationship with my father. To that end, how did your meetings in New York go?"

"Here is drink," Nicole said, interrupting their conversation. "You want to order food now or later?"

Blaze flashed her his blue eyes and said somewhat apologetically, "We're going to need some more time, luv."

"No problem, I come back in minute."

"You may want to make that ten minutes," Blaze said.

"Okay-dokey, as you Americans say. I'll be back."

"First off," Stanley said, "I have some bad news. You won't be going back to work next month as planned; the network canceled _Mike Slammer_."

Some actors may have been heartbroken over the news of a show's cancellation, but Blaze was actually relieved. While he loved being on the small screen again, he secretly hated everything about the show itself. The writing was terrible, the director had a Napoleon complex, and Blaze frequently was required to do love scenes with actresses long past their prime.

"They are going to pay out the rest of your contract, but the network wants to know if you would be willing to do the voice of Christian Clay in the sequel to _Fifty Shades of Clay._ "

Last year Blaze lent his voice to a claymation spoof of one of the year's most anticipated movies. Ironically enough, the reviews for his version were more positive than the reviews for the actual film.

"When do they want to start recording?"

"Next month, and the good news is you can do it in a studio of your choosing. The voice director is willing to work virtual; you could do it from New York if you wanted."

"What do the numbers look like?"

"Same as last year plus 10 percent. This one will also be available for streaming, and they're willing to give you a piece of every paid download."

"How much studio time will be required?"

"They say three hours a day for two weeks. No weekends."

Blaze thought it sounded like a good enough deal and said, "Okay, I'll do it. Anything else?"

"How serious are you about the move to New York?"

"I spoke with my sister about it again earlier today," Blaze said. "Our father isn't getting any younger, and he wouldn't consider a move to California."

"The only reason I ask is that I do have something for you there. It's steady work, but you may not like it."

"Stanley, if the words reality TV come out of your mouth, I am going to stick a fork directly into your heart."

"Relax, Blaze—do I look like the kind of guy that makes the same mistake twice?"

Blaze looked at Stanley without blinking.

"It's not a reality show," Stanley reassured him. "But it is a format you are familiar with. One of the major networks wants to launch a new daytime soap opera and is looking for a leading man."

"I thought they all went off the air."

"They did. Nothing on daytime now except talk shows. This one would be streamed online."

"Online?" Blaze asked.

"I didn't understand it at first, but once they explained it to me I thought it was genius."

Stanley's admission didn't surprise Blaze at all; the guy still used AOL dial-up to access the Internet. Still, he was intrigued.

"What do the numbers look like?" Blaze asked.

"Does that mean you will consider it?"

"I'll want to talk to Allison about it to understand how the business side of things works, but yes, I'm open to it if it makes sense financially and means that I can be closer to my father."

Allison was in the business of e-entertainment; she had created some of the world's first streaming programs and made the sponsors—brands from her parent company, UPC—a lot of money. Blaze knew there must be something to the streaming thing and decided he would confer with her when he saw her tomorrow.

"The best part is the name of the show."

"Which is?"

" _The Sun Is Ablaze_."

"Catchy title," Blaze admitted.

"And you can see why they need you."

"You want food now?" Nicole asked, returning to their table.

Blaze and Stanley quickly looked at the menus in front of them, ordered their meals, and enjoyed reminiscing for the rest of the evening.

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ROBERT MCMULLEN WOKE up three times during the night, each time thinking he heard his wife calling to him. Each time he went downstairs, only to realize she was gone and the room where she'd spent her last few weeks was empty. At six a.m., on his way out of the downstairs bedroom, he was intercepted by Clemmy and Tess, who clearly needed to relieve themselves. They headed straight for the door leading out to the back porch and stared outside.

"I don't like dogs," Robert said as he opened the door to let them out, "but dogs like me." The dogs walked side by side into the backyard and the woods behind the house. Within minutes they walked back toward the deck where Robert had taken a seat. He was so lost in thought he didn't notice that Angel had come onto the deck and taken a seat right next to him. It was a mild morning and Robert thought it was a pleasure to be outside.

"How did you sleep last night, Mr. Mack?" Angel asked.

Somewhat startled, Robert replied, "I didn't hear you come out."

"I pride myself on being quiet," Angel said. "My father once told me I would make a great cat burglar."

"I feel like I didn't sleep at all."

"Hearing things, were you?" Angel asked.

Robert was hesitant to admit that he heard his wife's voice, but since she brought it up, he wondered if what he heard hadn't been his imagination after all. "Did you hear it, too?"

"Mr. Mack, I have been doing this job a long time and people often hear the voice of their loved ones after they pass. What you heard was normal. Tell me, what was she saying?"

Robert figured he had nothing to lose. "I heard her calling my name. She sounded far away, and I assumed the voice was coming from the room where she passed, so each time I went downstairs to check. The voice never got any louder and it was hard to make out what she was saying."

"Try to remember," Angel said.

Robert closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and searched his memory for the message he heard the voice of his late wife give him. "I think she said, 'Find him and bring him home,' but I don't know who she was referring to or why she would say something like that."

"Did you notice anything else that was different when you heard the voice?"

Again, Robert was hesitant to reply, but there was something about Angel that made him comfortable. "I smelled her perfume," Robert said, suddenly recalling what woke him up each time. It was only after first smelling his late wife's perfume that he heard her voice.

"That too is normal, Mr. Mack," Angel reassured him in her soft voice with its Jamaican accent. "There will be times over the course of your life when you will experience signs that Mrs. Maddy is still with you; sometimes it will be a scent, other times it will be a voice, and still other times it will be the sensation that she is near to you or watching over you. Pay attention to these times; these are God's way of reminding you that there is life after this one ends."

Having lost his faith after the death of his daughter, he had a hard time believing that Angel was right. He kept these thoughts to himself, though; he didn't have the strength, or the desire, for that matter, to argue.

"So when are we starting our road trip?"

Robert paused as if he didn't understand what Angel was referring to.

"To Cape Cod," Angel reminded him.

"I have to check to see if I can even get into the house; it may be rented for all I know. The real estate agent won't be in yet, so I can't even call him for several hours."

"Today being a Sunday in March, Mr. Mack, I bet we can make it up there in under four hours. Shouldn't be too much traffic. If we leave now we can be up there before ten."

"But how will I know if I can get into the house? It could be a wasted trip."

"Live a little, Mr. Mack. Besides, even if there are renters in your house, who's to say they won't let you in? Have a little faith."

There was that word again, _faith_. It was something Robert felt he would never have again.

"Come now, I'll help you pack your bag, Mr. Mack. Just enough clothes for one night."

"One night? I'm not staying over."

"Nonsense, Mr. Mack. Of course you are. It's a long drive up there and a long drive back. We'd be fools to do that in one day."

"What are we going to do for an entire day up there?" Robert asked. The thought of spending a day in Chatham was distasteful to him—too many painful memories of summers past when his family was whole. Broken man that he was, the last thing he wanted to do was surround himself with more pain.

"I don't have an answer for you, Mr. Mack," Angel replied. "But what's the worst that could happen?"

Robert didn't have a response, so he acquiesced. He went upstairs, took a quick shower, and got dressed and then joined Angel downstairs. Moments later, Robert, Angel, Clemmy, and Tess were in Angel's classic Oldsmobile driving toward the Merritt Parkway on their way to Chatham, Massachusetts.

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CASPER WOKE UP before sunrise. She was determined to experience seeing the sun come up over the water. Taking advantage of the free coffee in the lobby of the main inn, she went out to the veranda and looked to the east as the sun began to rise. While she sipped her coffee, she thought about what had transpired the night before and wondered if she had any chance of completing an interview with Trick Evans.

Casper did not have a set plan for the day, but she didn't think she should try to smooth things over with Trick yet and was afraid that being too forward might close him off completely. At the same time, Casper Quinlan wasn't a quitter; she was intent on capturing the interview and wasn't going to let last night's setback cause her to fly the white flag of surrender.

It was an unseasonably warm morning for March, so after she finished her coffee, Casper decided to take a walk into town. Since she was still on West Coast time, Casper wasn't hungry enough for breakfast and thought a walk might increase her appetite.

She took the same route that she and Blaze walked last night, making a right onto Seaside Avenue and walking past the golf course. In season there would be a line of golfers out the door of the pro shop looking to put their name on the waiting list at the first come, first served public course. This morning, however, there were only two people at the first tee. Casper thought they looked like a father and son; if it were twenty years earlier, it could have been Trick and his father, Dave. She decided to stop in at the pro shop, where the attendant was busy opening a case of golf balls.

"I can get you out right after the twosome on the tee," he said without looking up. "It's fifteen dollars for the round; just be sure they hit their second shot before you tee off."

"I'm not here for a starting time," Casper said.

The man took his attention away from what he was doing and looked at Casper. "Oh, it's you. Don't expect any help from me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me. I can spot you reporter types a mile away; just because I'm a simple course pro from a small town doesn't mean I am an idiot like all you big-city types would like to believe."

Casper was dumbfounded. Why was this man, whom she had never met, being so rude to her?

"I just came to get a scorecard, that's all."

"You think I was born yesterday? There was a guy here last week—he started bribing people with hundred-dollar bills if they would tell him how to get in touch with Trick Evans. I just might know that boy better than anyone else in this town, but you won't get anything out of me."

"I didn't mean to trouble you," Casper said, after taking a scorecard from the stack that was on the desk.

"Leave the kid alone; when he wants to talk to you people, he will."

Casper left the pro shop and continued walking. She walked through the main shopping district and kept going until she came across the Shop Ahoy shopping center which housed a shaved-ice stand, a small hardware store, and a diner called Larry's PX. Given how busy it was so early on a Sunday morning, Casper thought it must serve the best food in town. Finally hungry after her long walk, Casper headed inside to see if there was a table available. She soon realized that every table was occupied—the only seat available was at the counter.

The hostess looked at Casper as if she was a pariah and said tersely, "Seat yourself back there," and pointed to the back of the restaurant at the counter. The woman, whose name tag said Alice, was a stocky woman with thick glasses and gray hair that rested like a helmet on her head. Casper found a seat at the corner of the rectangle shaped counter, directly in front of a large window looking out toward the sidewalk on Main Street.

"Anything to drink?" a waitress asked. Casper wasn't sure, but she thought she heard an unfriendly tone in her voice. She looked for a name tag and saw that the waitress' name was also Alice. Casper assumed the waitress must be the daughter of the hostess—they looked like twins born approximately thirty years apart. In her mind, Casper quickly labeled the two as Alice the Greater and Alice the Lesser, respectively.

"Just an ice water please, Alice."

"We're out of ice," Alice responded. "Larry has to fill the hopper."

As if on cue, an older man with a hunched back and thinning gray hair emerged from the kitchen with a bucketful of ice. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and thanks for coming into the PX today. My name is Larry, and I need you to help me fill the hopper. When I say 'heave,' you say..." Larry waited as the patrons said, "Ho" on cue.

"Heave," Larry shouted.

"Ho," the patrons yelled back.

"Heave," Larry shouted, even louder this time.

"Ho," the diners replied, louder still; this time Casper joined in.

After the next round, Larry lifted the bucket over his head and filled the hopper with ice.

"Your ice water will be out shortly. Do you need a menu, or do you know what you want?" Casper was now certain she detected an edge to Alice's voice.

"I'll take some scrambled eggs, wheat toast, breakfast potatoes, and a side of bacon."

"I pegged you for an egg-white omelet with spinach," Alice replied sarcastically. "The last reporter that came to town made our lives a living hell."

"Why do you assume I am a reporter?" Casper asked.

"It's obvious you're not from here, and the tourist season is still two months away. Plus, I heard about what happened at the Bleeding Seal last night. I'm pretty good at putting puzzles together, so I figured you were the reporter trying to sweet-talk Trick. You must have some magic in you because it has been a long time since he talked to a woman the way I hear he was talking to you last night."

"Excuse me, can I get some hot sauce?" a man called out.

"Calm your jets, Charlie," Alice said. "I'm talking over here."

Alice went behind the counter to grab some hot sauce, delivered it the patron who asked for it, and then went to the kitchen to drop off Casper's order.

Enjoying a minute of silence, Casper turned and looked outside. She saw someone jogging up Main Street—it was Freddie, the waitress from the Bleeding Seal who told Trick that Casper was a reporter. Their eyes met and, to Casper's surprise, Freddie entered the restaurant and took the open seat next to her.

After several moments of silence, Casper decided to make the first move. "Look, I'm not here to hurt Trick or manipulate him in any way. I was genuinely having a good time last night."

"I've seen a lot of people who come to this town hoping to meet him and get his story, but he's not ready to talk to any of you. Why can't anyone understand that?"

"Trick did something that no other golfer has done since 1930 and then walked away from the game completely. His fans merely want to understand why."

"His father died! Don't you get it? It was just the two of them his whole life. He's still grieving. Let him grieve in peace."

Casper had to admit that perhaps she was being selfish. She did, after all, fly over three thousand miles to try and interview a reclusive golfer who made it clear he had no interest in talking to the press in order to save her father's magazine. She felt a twinge of guilt that her rivalry with Brandon Anderson also fueled her desire to meet Trick.

This time it was Freddie who broke the silence. "The thing is, I watched him last night and he seemed genuinely happy. I saw him reach out to grab your hand during Fr. Paul's song. Best of all, I saw him smiling and laughing—something I haven't seen him do in a long time. I figured he knew you were a reporter, which is why I said what I did. I really wasn't trying to upset him, that's actually the last thing I wanted because he looked so happy with you."

"How did you know I was a reporter?"

"When you were in the ladies' room, the actor you were with mentioned it."

Casper instantly regretted saying as much to Blaze last night. "I don't know what to say," were the only words she could muster.

The younger Alice interrupted their conversation with the delivery of Casper's breakfast. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

Casper turned to Freddie. "Can I buy you breakfast?" she asked.

Freddie smiled at Casper's generosity. "Sure. I'll have an egg-white omelet with feta cheese and mushrooms," she said.

"Be right back, Freddie," Alice the Lesser said.

"Eat before it gets cold," Freddie said. "Nothing's worse than cold eggs."

Casper grabbed a triangle of toast and used her fork to scoop some eggs on it and then placed a piece of bacon on top. She folded over the bread and took a bite.

"You know, we have something here called an egg sandwich," Freddie said.

"I know," Casper said, with a laugh, "but this is the way my father taught me how to eat them."

"So what magazine do you work for anyway?"

" _Fore!_ I'm Casper—Casper Quinlan."

"Wait a minute! Are you Don Quinlan's daughter?"

"Guilty as charged. You've heard of my father?"

"I never miss an issue."

"Golfer?"

"Hell, yeah!" Freddie replied.

"Well, we need a few more million readers like you and our problems will be solved."

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad," Casper replied, and took a sip of her coffee.

Alice the Lesser returned with Freddie's omelet. "Thanks, Alice," Freddie said. "How's your dad, by the way?"

"You just missed him do the old heave-ho by about five minutes."

"I'll try to see him before I leave," Freddie said, as Alice set the check in front of Casper.

"You don't seem like a bad person, Casper, and I'm truly sorry about last night. You have to understand, though—we all look out for Trick; we're the only family he has left, so we all try to protect him. But I don't get the sense that your intentions are bad, so I'm going to do you a favor. Every Sunday Trick visits his father's grave. He brings his coffee and his guitar and spends some time reflecting on life. He hasn't missed a Sunday since his father was buried. The cemetery is on Depot Road, right behind the baseball field. I'd say you have about twenty minutes before he heads back to his house."

"Thank you, Freddie; I truly mean that."

As Casper stood up and walked toward the register, Freddie noticed she had a slight limp. She remembered that Casper had a prosthetic leg and said, "Do you want me to give you a ride there?"

"I thought I saw you jogging," Casper replied.

"I parked my car down by the beach—it's less than a mile from here. I can run down and get it and come back to pick you up."

"Under the circumstances," Casper said, knocking on her leg, "I would appreciate that.

"It's the least I can do."

Freddie left the restaurant, and Casper paid the tab and then walked back to the counter to leave a tip for Alice the Lesser. While she waited for Freddie to come back, she wondered what in the hell she would say to Trick Evans—assuming, of course, that he would give her the opportunity to say anything at all.

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TRICK EVANS ARRIVED at the cemetery a little later than usual that morning; he decided to go for a jog first and then wanted to go home and shower before spending time at his father's grave. Although Trick had made millions of dollars in winnings and endorsements on the PGA tour last year, and even though as his caddie, his father made 10 percent of his earnings, David Evans was buried in a modest grave at Chatham's Seaside Cemetery.

Freddie and her mother had purchased a bench in memory of Trick's dad, and it was located directly in front of David's headstone. The inscription read: _In loving memory of David Evans, 1967–2016_. Trick thought it was a beautiful gesture, and it was on this bench that he currently sat, his guitar on his lap. If there was one thing that upset Trick about his father's final resting place, it was that it wasn't next to that of his mother. After she died, Trick's maternal grandparents insisted that their daughter be buried in the family plot in Connecticut. Trick's father tried to fight them, but they threatened legal action and, well, they had a lot more money than he did at the time.

"Hi Dad, it's Sunday again, and I still miss you." Of course there wasn't a reply, but as Trick felt the wind rush against his face, he could have sworn he smelled his father's aftershave. He'd had that experience before, but he always chalked it up to his mind playing tricks on him.

Trick picked up the neck of his guitar with his right hand while balancing the body on his left thigh. He reached into his pocket for his capo and put it on the third fret. "I've been working on something new, and I thought I would play it for you." Trick wasn't the kind of guy that would just sit for hours and have a conversation with a headstone; he had seen many people doing that in the cemetery, but it just didn't work for him. Instead, he played his guitar softly and remembered his father while he did so. In fact, the cemetery was the only place he ever played his guitar outside of his home. Saying, "This one is for you, Dad," he started fingerpicking the chords to _Landslide_ by Fleetwood Mac.

As he picked the last note of the song, a tear ran down his cheek. He was so lost in the moment that he didn't realize an audience of two had gathered behind him.

"That was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard," Casper said.

Startled, Trick turned around. "Oh, you just don't give up, do you? I told you last night I'm not ready to talk to anybody, and here you are invading my privacy; I should call the police—and don't think they won't arrest you. How did you find me here anyway?"

"I brought her here," Freddie said, somewhat apprehensively.

"You? Of all people I figured you would help run her out of town. Why, Freddie?"

"I understand you being angry, Trick, but when I saw the two of you last night, I saw something in you I hadn't seen in a long time."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"You looked happy. You smiled. It was like the old you coming back to us."

Trick sat there in silence, still angry at both Freddie and Casper. "That was before I knew I was talking to a reporter," Trick argued.

"I understand how you feel..."

Trick cut her off before Casper could complete her sentence. "Understand how I feel? Understand how I feel? How could you possibly understand how I feel?"

Casper wasn't sure what she could say to combat Trick's cynicism, so she decided to go all the way with her argument. She sat down on the bench beside him, took his right hand, and put it on her left leg, just below the knee.

"Touch it," she said.

"What are you trying to..."

This time it was Casper who cut Trick off. "Go ahead, knock on it."

"Why would you want me to..."

Trick was once again cut off as Casper picked his hand up and then proceeded to knock on her own leg with it. "Tell me, what does that feel like to you?"

Trick observed quietly, "It feels...artificial."

Due to the mild weather, Casper was wearing a long dress instead of a pair of pants. She lifted up the hem of her dress to expose her prosthetic leg.

"You don't think I know anything about loss?"

"Losing a leg is one thing, but losing a person is totally different."

"True. Now ask me about Emily Watson."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, ask me about Emily Watson."

"Who is Emily Watson?"

"Who _was_ Emily Watson?" Casper corrected him.

Exasperated, Trick asked, "Okay, who was Emily Watson?"

"Emily was my best friend. When I was sixteen, we were in a car accident on a windy canyon road near my home in Southern California. I was driving and took a turn too fast; the road was wet and slippery, and my car flipped. I lost my leg; she lost her life."

Trick and Freddie were both silent.

"So don't sit there and tell me I don't understand about loss!" Casper said.

Trick didn't know what to do. His demeanor changed, and he sat there silently; the fight had gone out of him.

"I'm sorry," Trick said.

"I'm sorry, too," Casper replied. "I should have told you last night that I was a reporter, but I was having such a nice time that I didn't want to ruin it. The truth is, ever since my accident, I haven't been able to fully relax in front of a man, but you made me feel something I haven't felt in ten years."

"What's that?"

"Comfortable. I was comfortable in front of you. Of course, that's before you knew I was a reporter or a cripple."

"A cripple? Is that how you see yourself?"

"It's what I am, isn't it?"

"No!" Trick said emphatically. "You may be many things, but crippled isn't one of them."

This was certainly a big departure from his attitude just moments earlier. Gone was the angry professional golfer who believed his privacy had been violated, and in his place was the compassionate young man Casper had glimpsed the prior evening.

"I really don't know what to say," Casper replied. "Aside from my father and therapist, you are the first person I've ever shared that story with."

"Tell me, why did you fly all the way out here from California to interview me when you knew I didn't want to talk to reporters?" Trick asked.

"I was hoping I could help you tell your story; the world wants to hear it. But as I got to know you ever so briefly last night, I came to understand that I really wanted to hear it. And that maybe, if I heard it, I could help you through the pain you are experiencing because I have experienced pain, too."

Trick then remembered the story about Fr. Paul and what the nun showed him in the hospital with the nail, the wood, and the hole that was left behind. He remembered the lesson that no one can heal themselves without help from someone else. "Sometimes you can't make it on your own," he said out loud.

"Excuse me?" Casper said.

"Sometimes you can't make it on your own," Trick said a bit louder. "It's the name of a song on a U2 album. It was one of my father's favorites; it's a song Bono wrote about his own father's declining health. Whenever my father heard it, he envisioned my mother singing it to him."

"You don't have to go it alone, Trick," Freddie said. "We're all here to help you, but you've got to talk about it."

"I'm not the kind of guy who would be comfortable lying on a couch and spilling his guts to some shrink," Trick said.

Casper spoke up. "What if you didn't have to lie on a couch—or even sit in a chair?"

"Isn't that where therapy happens?"

"Sure, sometimes. But what if, for you, it happened in a more familiar place?"

"I am not sure I follow you," Trick said.

"Mark Twain is rumored to have said, 'Golf is a good walk spoiled,' but I tend to disagree. What if you and me just have a chat over a round of golf? No tape recorders, no pens or papers; just you, me, some clubs, and a walk through the course. This won't be about me writing an article; it will be about two people getting to know each other while doing something they both enjoy."

Trick looked at Casper. He felt as if she was being sincere, but there was a wall inside him that wasn't ready to come down yet. "I'm sorry, I'm just not ready." He started to tremble. "I think you better go now."

Casper felt as if she had made some progress and didn't want to push her luck. She remembered her mother telling her once that great sculptures are not made overnight; they often required the artist to chip away at the stone a little bit at a time until what was left resembled the artist's vision.

"Come on, Trick, this would be good for you," Freddie pleaded.

"No, he's right," Casper said. "When you're ready—if you're ready—I'm staying at the Chatham Bars Inn."

Trick just nodded and watched as Freddie and Casper walked out of the cemetery. Once they were gone, he sat down on the memorial bench in front of his father's headstone, deep in thought. Not feeling inspired to play another song, he packed up his guitar and went home.

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FREDDIE DROVE CASPER back to the Chatham Bars Inn. By this time, Freddie had decided that she liked Casper, and she felt sorry for Trick's behavior. "So what are you going to do today?" Freddie asked as she pulled up in front of the Inn.

"I heard there's an old lighthouse here in town," Casper replied. "I think I'm going to check it out."

Ever since she was a little girl, Casper had been fascinated with lighthouses. Her grandfather on her mother's side was in the Coast Guard, and he took her to visit different lighthouses every summer. She remembered him telling her that lighthouses were lifesavers to ships looking for shelter in a storm, and his stories of daring rescues had captivated her imagination as a child.

Chatham was often one of the foggiest places on the Cape and, given the amount of fishing traffic off its shores, was a natural site for a second lighthouse on Cape Cod, the first being in Truro. To distinguish Chatham's lighthouse from Truro's, it was decided that Chatham Light would have two fixed lights instead of one—although now only one remained. Casper found it interesting that one of the early keepers of Chatham Light was a local fisherman named Collins Howe who, like Casper, had lost a leg in an accident.

"The Chatham lighthouse isn't too far from here—just make a right onto Shore Road and follow it for a mile. The lighthouse will be on your right. It's part of an active Coast Guard station now, and they only give tours on Wednesdays between May and September, so you won't be able to see much."

Freddie suddenly had an idea. The expression on her face changed as if she were up to some mischief, but Casper, who had only known Freddie for a short time, didn't detect anything impish about her demeanor. "Hey, if you really want to see a great lighthouse, there's one off Harding's Beach, near where you just had breakfast. It's not as popular of a tourist attraction, but you can get up close to it, and the views are spectacular."

"Is it easy to get to? I don't have a car."

"I can drop you off at the beach now if you like, but you'll have to walk a mile on a sandy trail in order to get to the lighthouse. Once you're there, just knock on the door. The new owner is a bit reclusive, but he's generally friendly."

"Can I just go back to my room and get a sweatshirt? It is a little colder now than it was this morning."

"Good idea. They say the weather is going to change today; winds are coming from the east and we can say good-bye to the mild weather after today. The forecast calls for rain later on."

Casper went to her room and grabbed a sweatshirt from her bag and went back to the parking lot to meet Freddie. As they drove down Main Street, Casper remarked how picturesque the town was.

"What was it like growing up here?"

"Well, I moved here when I was eight. Before that, my mom and I lived in LA. She was trying to be an actress, but aside from a few small parts here and there, she didn't have much luck."

Casper sensed there was more of a story there. "Where did you guys live in LA?"

"We had an apartment in Culver City. I hated it there; so many fake people, and if you didn't work in the business, you were pretty much shunned. The fact that I wasn't going on auditions regularly meant that I didn't get invited to birthday parties, sleepovers, you name it."

"I know what you mean. I moved to Westlake Village from New York when I was in middle school, and I found it very hard adjusting to life out there. But it was far enough from LA that people weren't as affected by 'Hollywood,'" Casper said, putting air quotes around the word _Hollywood_ and causing Freddie to chuckle. "Do you miss it at all? California, that is."

"This is home now. Trick's father was very good to me and my mom, and I feel at home here." Dave Evans actually was the first man in her life Freddie felt she could trust. He was genuinely kind and didn't expect any favors in return for his generosity; he was entirely different than the men she remembered in LA.

Freddie made a left onto Barn Hill Road where the Sou'Wester restaurant once stood. The dive, now long gone, had been a raucous place that, on any given night, was filled with boisterous and unruly patrons looking to blow off some steam. Ten years ago the building was razed and now a national donut chain stood in its place.

Freddie then made a right onto Harding's Beach Road and followed it until the end, where a view of Nantucket Sound awaited them.

"It's breathtaking," Casper said.

"If this were high season, we'd have trouble getting a spot in this parking lot," Freddie replied. She stopped the car next to a roped-off trail with a sign reading "Mt. Pleasant Street. Private property." In the distance, an old lighthouse could be seen.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Casper asked.

"Have a little faith," Freddie replied. "The lighthouse is just a mile down the trail. I'd walk there with you, but I have to get back home and get some homework done. Let me give you my phone number—you can call me when you need a ride back." Freddie gave Casper her number, thinking to herself, I _f things go according to plan, she won't need it._

"Thank you, Freddie," Casper said sincerely. She began walking down the trail toward the lighthouse.

After leaving the cemetery, Trick went back home to work on the hatch he had been working on with Freddie the day before. He was looking forward to spending some time in his workshop without any distractions from the outside world, and the next forty-five minutes he was engrossed in staining the hatch. Once it was covered, he knew it needed time to dry before applying another coat, so Trick took a break, poured himself a cup of coffee, and decided to climb the stairs inside the lighthouse so he could gaze out at Nantucket Sound. Aside from spending time in his workshop, he loved to spend time alone at the top of the lighthouse, tuning out everything else.

While sipping on his coffee, Trick saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and detected someone walking up the trail to his house. _I've got to word that sign a bit more strongly_ , he thought. The trespasser was far enough away so Trick couldn't make out who it was, but he decided to go back downstairs, anticipating the inevitable knock at his door. While he wanted desperately to live the life of a recluse, he had enough of his father's generosity in him to always open the door for strangers wanting to see the lighthouse. As he was about to start climbing back down the ladder, he looked toward the approaching visitor again and saw the person fall; whoever it was seemed to be having a hard time getting back up. Trick decided to see if he or she needed his help.

The sand on the trail made it difficult for Casper to maneuver. While it was packed down in some places, in others it was thick and loose, and this slowed her down. When she was about 300 yards away, she paused to catch her breath. As she looked up at the lighthouse, she was surprised to see movement in the top of the tower. She wondered what someone was doing up there, since it was a nonworking lighthouse.

As she started walking again, she stepped over a rock and her prosthetic leg gave out; once down, she struggled to get back up. After a few minutes, Casper finally was able to sit upright, but she had trouble reattaching her leg. Knowing she would not make it very far hopping on one leg, she decided to call Freddie for help. When she looked at the screen, her phone's display said "no service." _Crap_ , she thought to herself. While she was considering her options, Casper heard someone approaching and prayed that whoever it was would be friendly enough to give her a hand even though she was technically trespassing.

"Hello," she heard a man's voice call out. It sounded familiar, but she was too preoccupied with a combination of fear and embarrassment to place it.

"Over here," she replied. The footsteps came closer, and she looked up from where she was sitting only to see the face of Trick Evans staring back at her. Once their eyes met, he appeared as startled as she was. He stared at her in disbelief.

"Look, I had no idea you lived here. If you could just help me up, I'll make my way back to the parking lot," Casper said quickly.

Trick, still stunned, didn't know what to think. Could she be telling the truth? Was it really only a coincidence that this reporter, who had come all the way from California just to get his story, was on the trail to his house by accident? He didn't know the answer to these questions, but he knew she needed help—and right now he was her only option. He chose to set his cynicism aside.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Just grab me underneath my arms and help me up—I need some leverage to get my leg back on and can't do it the way I am sitting right now."

As Tick lifted her up, he looked into Casper's eyes and saw that she was honestly embarrassed about the situation. As he continued to look into her eyes, he felt his heart began to soften.

"I just need to get this under me and then put my weight on it so it clicks in."

As Casper positioned her prosthesis, Trick gently reduced the pressure he was placing under her arms; he heard a click and watched Casper take a step to make sure it was in.

Casper walked a few steps to make sure it was in securely. "Thank you," she said. "I should get going back to the lot."

Trick watched as she took a few steps away from his house and saw that she almost lost her balance again.

"Hey," he called to her, "you came all this way to see the lighthouse—you're not going to leave now, are you?"

Casper turned around to see Trick Evans holding his hand out to her. "I may be a recluse, but I don't bite."

She took his hand and followed him toward his home. Once there, he told her the history of the lighthouse while giving her a quick tour.

"This lighthouse was built in 1880 and is the youngest lighthouse on the Cape. It was built to help guide ships seeking refuge into Old Stage Harbor. Back in the 1930s it was automated, and this place was abandoned. It was owned by family members of the last lighthouse keeper until five years ago when they decided to put it up for sale. Not wanting to see more multimillion dollar homes line the beach, I decided to purchase it and restore it. I've been living here full time since last August."

Looking over the structures on the property, Casper remarked how beautiful and peaceful it seemed.

"My father taught me that just because something is old and rundown, it doesn't mean it's worthless. He believed that sometimes all something needs is a little tender loving care to bring back its former shine. I think he would be proud knowing that I helped restore this place."

"Do you think that's true for people, too?" Casper asked.

"What?"

"That no matter how bruised and battered someone is, some tender loving care can heal them?"

Trick paused to think about this, remembering again the story that Fr. Paul told him the day before. "I'm not sure," he replied.

"Me either," she agreed.

Once the tour was finished, Trick turned to Casper and said, "I always enjoyed your father's interviews in _Fore!_ He seemed to capture each player's true essence. Is that a family trait?"

Casper didn't know what to say, mainly because she had never interviewed a golfer before; her specialty was bringing the lives of everyday people to life, and she told him as much.

Trick closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and considered the offer Casper made earlier in the day: to play a round of golf with her. "Can you play?" he asked.

"Play what?"

"Golf."

"Patrick Evans, let me tell you something, one leg or not, the daughter of Donald Quinlan couldn't get away with not playing the game of golf."

"I will play with you today on one condition only—it will not be a one-way conversation. I will share things about myself so long as you promise to do the same. If I feel good about our conversation, I will give you permission to write my story for _Fore!_ "

Casper was stunned. _Was this really happening_? "Wait—I don't have any clubs with me."

"Not a problem—Peter in the pro shop has a bunch of rental clubs; I'm sure we can find a set in there that will work for you."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Casper asked.

"No," Trick said. "But I'm going to take a chance on you." Trick then went inside, grabbed the keys to his Jeep, and drove with Casper to the course where he learned the game. While leaving the lighthouse that was constructed to help keep those who take to the sea safe in times of poor visibility, the fog that had surrounded Trick Evans for the past seven months began to lift.

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ROBERT AND ANGEL made their way north on I-195; they had just passed Providence, Rhode Island, and Robert estimated that they were only about two and a half hours away from Chatham.

"You are awfully quiet, Mr. Mack. I thought you would be more talkative after breakfast. Since it is past nine, you may want to be thinking about calling that realtor."

"Thanks for the reminder." Robert reached into his pocket for his phone and looked up the number for the Higgins Real Estate Company in Chatham. "I'm not even sure who my agent is—Madeline always handled the rental agreements," he said to Angel.

"Don't you be worried about that, Mr. Mack," Angel said. "Just tell the person who answers the phone who you are, and they will take care of it."

Robert tapped the number shown on the screen of his phone.

"Higgins Real Estate, this is Mia speaking. How can I help you?"

"Mia, my name is Robert McMullen, and I own a house located at 22 Acacia Avenue in Chatham, right near the golf course."

"Hi, Mr. McMullen, it's nice to hear from you. I usually deal with Mrs. McMullen—how is she doing?"

Robert realized this would be the first of many occasions that he would have to break the news of his wife's passing. "She passed away recently."

"Oh my goodness, I am so sorry to hear that. How can I help you, Mr. McMullen?"

"Mia, I'm wondering if anyone is renting my house this week. I know it's not a busy time of year for rentals, but there's something I need from my house and I don't want to surprise anyone who might be there."

"Hold on a second; let me have a look in the system." Mia placed him on a brief hold and came back on the line a moment later. "Yes, it looks like the house is rented out for this week, but after that you won't have any renters until Memorial Day weekend."

"Mia, could do me a huge favor? Could you give me the name and number of the people renting the house so I can call them and let them know I'll be stopping by at some point today?"

"Mr. McMullen, I am sorry, but I cannot do that for confidentiality reasons."

"I figured as much, but I thought I'd try."

"But I would be happy to call them for you and let them know that you might be stopping by. I'll give them a call right now and call you back as soon as I hear anything."

"I would appreciate that, Mia."

"It's my pleasure, Mr. McMullen, and once again I am very sorry to hear about your wife."

"Thank you," Robert said and ended the call. He turned to Angel and filled her in. "Someone is renting the house, but Mia is going to call to see if I can stop by later today and pick up what Madeline asked me to bring back."

"Are you sure it will be there?"

"Where else would it be?"

"I don't know, but you haven't been to that house for years. Maybe someone threw it away."

This thought had crossed his mind already, but he knew deep down that what he needed to find would be at the house in Chatham. "It will be there."

"Mr. Mack, why haven't you been to that house for almost thirty years?"

Robert paused a minute and rubbed his temples as if to try to ease the pain of a stress headache. "Too many painful memories, I suppose."

"I thought it was a happy place," Angel said.

Robert let out a deep sigh. "It was for a long time, but after our daughter died, I couldn't bring myself to go back."

"Tell me about her."

"My daughter? She was the most beautiful little girl you could imagine; the two of us were very close. Two peas in a pod, Madeline called us." Robert realized he had never opened up to anyone about the loss of his daughter, but something about Angel made him feel comfortable. As he continued talking, he started to feel better.

"Like all previous summers, the summer she turned nineteen was spent in Chatham. She was about to begin her sophomore year at Boston College, and she wanted to follow in my footsteps."

"She wanted to become a doctor?" Angel asked.

"No," Robert replied, "a writer. She had a true gift for fiction; ever since she was a little girl, she wrote stories the way many kids draw pictures. I kept all of them in a box at the Chatham house."

"Did she ever publish anything?"

"Some of the work she did in high school was published in an anthology of short stories; that actually helped her earn a scholarship for the Fine Arts program at BC."

"What was so different about that summer?"

"Katie fell in love with a local kid. His parents ran an antique shop in town, and my wife furnished most of our Cape house with furniture from that shop. One day Katie went shopping there with her mother and it was all over. She and that boy were inseparable that entire summer. Madeline and I thought it was just a summer fling and she would forget all about him when she went back to school, but that wasn't the case."

"What happened when she went back to college?"

"Katie came home to New Canaan unexpectedly one weekend. The year before she did not come home until Thanksgiving, and she was not one to be homesick. It was only the middle of October, and we knew something was the matter. She went straight to her room and didn't come out."

"Was she sick?"

"That's what we thought at first, but no, she wasn't sick. It all came together for me after the doorbell rang and I saw her summer fling standing on my front porch looking like he was about to throw up. Katie ran down the stairs and hugged him; by that point Madeline came into the foyer to see who was at the door, and when she looked at our daughter, she knew."

"Knew what?" Angel asked.

"Knew she was pregnant," Robert replied. "A mother's instinct, I suppose."

"How did you react?" Angel asked. They were now passing through the town of Fall River, Massachusetts, and were only an hour or so away from Chatham.

"Regretfully," Robert said. "Angel, I don't want to talk about this anymore; it is too painful."

"Okay," Angel said, "I guess I will turn on some music." Angel reached for the dial, but Robert swatted her hand away.

He continued, "It was the early 1990s and our daughter had her whole life ahead of her. I thought that an unplanned pregnancy would ruin it all."

"So what did you do?"

"After the initial shock wore off, I asked her to consider terminating the pregnancy." Robert shivered as he spoke these words. He was raised a Catholic and understood the Church's teachings on the matter, but the fact that it was his child made morality relative. In addition, he was a medical doctor and started to think about it as a surgical procedure.

"I am ashamed of this now because I know how precious life is, but I also didn't want to see my only child throw her life away for some summer fling."

"Who am I to judge you, Mr. Mack?" Angel asked. "How did Katie react?"

"She left."

"She moved out?"

"Yes," Robert said sadly. "She claimed that she was in love with that boy and would never consider what I was asking her to do. She called me a hypocrite."

"Did you ever try and convince her to come back home?"

"That was a very rough period of time for us. She talked to Madeline every now and then, but I was not supportive of her choice to marry; I regret that so much now."

"What happened?"

"She died while giving birth to my grandson," Robert said, starting to cry uncontrollably. He wasn't present at her birth, but even if he had been, the circumstances of her delivery would not have been any different. Even so, he had never forgiven himself for not being there for his daughter in her time of need.

"Have you ever met your grandson?"

"Only once. His father held him during my daughter's funeral, but I couldn't bring myself to look at the two people who I believed were the cause of my daughter's death."

"Do they still live up in Chatham?"

_One of them does_ , Robert thought to himself, but his words contradicted his thoughts. "I'm not sure." He didn't want to get into it with Angel.

Eventually Robert switched on the radio and found a station that played old radio serials. For the rest of the ride, he and Angel listened to a rerun of the _Red Skelton Show_ —and every now and then, Robert would permit himself to laugh.

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

TRICK AND CASPER stood in front of the pro shop of the Chatham Seaside Links golf course. A nine-hole track wasn't particularly challenging for a golfer of Trick's caliber—as far as anyone knew, Trick was the only professional golfer to have ever played the course. Many of the eighteen-hole courses in nearby towns were much more challenging and spectacular, but this course was the only one his father could afford when he was younger. And while he had played some of the greatest courses in the country, including Pebble Beach, Torrey Pines, and Bethpage Black, Trick had to admit that this one was his favorite for the simple reason that it was where he learned the game.

"Shall we go in?" Casper asked.

"Ladies first," Trick replied.

Casper entered the pro shop where the manager, Peter, was busy playing a game of solitaire on his computer. "I can get you out now if you like; you'll have the course all to your lonesome," he said without looking up.

"There will be two of us," Casper said.

Recognizing the voice from earlier that morning, Peter said, "I figured you would have left town by now."

"What's the matter, Peter?" Trick asked. "Was my new friend bothering you earlier?"

Peter was utterly shocked to see Trick Evans standing in the pro shop, but there he was, in the flesh. "You know she's a reporter, right?"

"Although it seems you have already met, Casper Quinlan meet Peter James. Peter gave me my first golf lesson as a kid."

"Did you say Quinlan?" Peter asked. "Any relation to Don Quinlan?"

"He's my father," Casper replied.

"I've read every issue of your father's magazine—his interview with Jack Nicklaus in 1986 was amazing. Why didn't you tell me who you were this morning?"

"Would that have made any difference?'

"I suppose not," Peter admitted, and then turned his attention toward Trick. "Are you going to play today?"

"Isn't there room?" Trick said jokingly.

"For you, there is always room." Peter grabbed two scorecards and two small pencils and handed them to Trick.

"Can you grab my clubs from the back and a set for Casper?" Trick kept a set of clubs in the pro shop's storage closet so he could just play whenever he felt like it.

"Not a problem—we've got plenty of clubs." Peter went into a storage closet and brought out a set of women's clubs and handed them to Casper. He then found Trick's and brought them out. "We're getting all new carts for the season, so I don't have any electric ones for you today, but I can give you two pushcarts."

"Will that be okay for you?" Trick asked Casper.

"How hilly is the course?" she asked. Her prosthetic leg normally didn't give her any problems on flat land, but steep hills would be an issue.

"It's relatively flat," Peter and Trick said in unison.

"I'll be fine walking."

"Peter," Trick said, "this being my first round of golf in some time, I would like to keep our little match here between the three of us. No need to broadcast the fact that I am here."

"I won't tell a soul," Peter promised as Casper and Trick walked to the tee box.

"Would you rather play from the reds?" Trick asked Casper. The red tees were reserved for women and located a few yards ahead of the men's tees.

Casper considered it for a moment. She thought it might be wise to play from the reds considering she had never played with a professional before; however, then she would miss a key opportunity to chat with Trick because they would hit from different locations. She knew they would wind up in different spots off the tee, so she at least wanted to be together on the tee. She suggested that they split the difference and play from the white tees, where amateurs played from, and Trick agreed.

"Ladies first," Trick said.

The prospect of going first scared the hell out of Casper; never in her life had she had to tee off with someone of Trick's caliber. Trick noticed that the confident woman he met the evening before seemed to have disappeared.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm nervous," she whispered.

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? I am playing with the number one player in the world."

"This is nothing—try teeing off with thousands of people surrounding you. _That's_ pressure."

"It may be nothing for you, but it is a big something for me!" Casper protested.

"When I was a kid, I always flubbed the ball off the first tee. I used to complain about this to my father, because no matter how well I did at the range, I would always mess up that first tee shot. You know what my dad told me?"

"What?" Casper asked.

"He told me to forget what I did at the range, because what I did at the range didn't matter. Do you know why he said that?"

Casper shook her head while looking into Trick's eyes.

"Because the only thing that counts is how you perform when things matter! My father was a simple man who didn't have a college education, but he had these truisms he would tell me throughout my life. He instilled this particular lesson in me one day after I hit my first, second, and third shots into those woods over there." Trick pointed to the woods that lined the left side of the fairway. "I was tempted to just drop my ball where his landed, which happened to be in the center of the fairway, but he wouldn't let me."

"What did he say?"

"Well, when I told him I was nervous because so many people were watching me, he reminded me that if I ever wanted to make a living playing this game, I would have to get over that. Then he taught me a powerful way to overcome my anxiety. He had me to close my eyes and envision that I was all alone on the tee box and take three deep breaths. Next he told me to envision myself taking the best swing I had ever taken in my life and imagine my ball going right where I wanted it in the fairway. Finally, he told me to repeat that visualization three more times before addressing the ball."

"Did it work?"

"You tell me! That's exactly what I want you to do. Close your eyes and pretend I'm not here. Now imagine yourself swinging the club and hitting a perfect drive. Do that three times, and then hit the ball."

While Casper was going through this mental exercise, Trick bent down and put a tee into the grass and placed a ball on top of it. She opened her eyes to see a ball on a tee, lined herself up to where she wanted the ball to go, and swung the club. The ball landed in the middle of the fairway.

Casper looked over at Trick after watching her ball land and smiled at him. Trick placed another ball on a tee and repeated the same exercise in his mind. He opened his eyes, addressed the ball, and swung a club for the first time since the prior August. Straight as an arrow, the ball went down the center of the fairway and outdrove Casper by about a hundred yards. "The lesson my father taught me that day is twofold: it's what you do when it matters that counts most of all, and the way to boost your confidence is by believing that you can accomplish what you want to accomplish."

"Not bad for a guy without a college education," Casper observed.

"What he taught me cannot be taught in schools, but they are lessons I will never forget." The two then walked down the fairway to take their second shots. As they did, Trick reflected on the advice his father gave him as he was learning the game, that visualizing what you want to accomplish is the first step in achieving what you want. As he walked toward his ball, he questioned whether or not that advice would hold true for his life off the course. Could visualizing himself being happy once again be the first step to freeing himself from the funk he was in? Could it be that simple?

## CHAPTER TWENTY

TRICK AND CASPER finished the first hole; Trick easily made a birdie, and Casper made a par. Trick actually had a twenty-foot putt for eagle but misread the break in the green and had to "settle" for a birdie. Casper's third shot was a chip shot from just off the green, and she was able to put the ball within five feet of the hole and then easily made her putt for par. They did not speak between their second shots and their putts as a way of keeping their heads in the game. This pattern would continue for the rest of the holes they played; they would talk on the tee box and then pause their conversation until after they finished the hole.

"I was thinking about how your father helped you get over your anxiety on the first tee, and I wanted to share a story about my father," Casper said as they walked toward the second tee box.

"I would love to hear it," replied Trick.

"After my accident, I had to adjust to life with one leg. There were really only a few options: I could spend the rest of my life confined to a wheelchair, I could walk with the help of crutches, or I could get fitted for a prosthetic leg and learn how to walk again."

"Clearly you chose the latter," Trick observed.

"Clearly," Casper said trying hard not to sound sarcastic but failing. "However, I underestimated how hard it would be to walk again. It took weeks of trial and error just to take a few steps; I was constantly falling down, and every time I fell, it was that much harder to get back up."

"Did you ever want to give up?" Trick asked.

"All the time, although he wouldn't let me."

"Who wouldn't let you?"

"My father. He was there the first time I tried to walk after being fitted with my leg, and he saw me fall down hard. The occupational therapist who was there was trying her best to get me to try again, but I wasn't having any of it. My father knelt down beside me and told me that I had no choice but to get up. So I reached up and grabbed the parallel bars and stood up again. I put my good leg forward and then tried with my new leg—he wouldn't let me call it my fake leg—and then fell again. This went on at least five more times. On the sixth time, I stayed up and took a few steps before falling down again."

"How long before you could walk without falling?"

"That took a long time, but with each fall I learned some things about myself."

"Such as?"

"Such as you can accomplish anything you will yourself to accomplish. I also learned that sometimes a little tough love will help you get there."

"I wonder if it hurt your father to see you like that."

"If it did, he didn't show it, but the lesson he taught me lasted longer than any pain I felt."

"And what was that lesson?"

"That it doesn't matter how many times you fall down, it only matters that you get back up each time."

Trick and Casper were now standing in front of the second tee box overlooking the second fairway. It was a par-four hole, with an almost ninety-degree turn to the right about halfway down the fairway; in golf parlance, this is known as a "dogleg" right. Just to the right of the turn, there were a number of tall trees, some thirty feet high. Many golfers attempt to take a shortcut over those trees in order to set themselves up for a short second shot onto the green and a better chance at a birdie or eagle.

"What are you thinking as you look at this hole?" Casper asked Trick.

Trick responded, "When I was younger, I used to always try and take the shortcut to clear the trees."

"And how did that work out for you?"

"I lost a lot of balls in those trees," Trick replied while laughing. "My father always told me not to try and go over the trees because it was too risky. He always played it straight down the fairway and then took a longer shot to the green."

"Did you take his advice?"

"Not initially, but when I continued to make bogey on this hole, I started to rethink my strategy," Trick said with a slight smile, thinking about the time he spent on the golf course with his father. "He was never one for trying to take the easy way out."

"What do you mean?"

"I was the result of an unplanned pregnancy; my mother was nineteen, and he was barely twenty. From what my father told me, they had the kind of summer romance that is sentimentalized in movies; they were inseparable, and one evening they were particularly inseparable if you know what I mean. Nine months later I was born. He and my mother had options in 1987 on how to deal with an unplanned pregnancy, but they chose to keep me. Then after he lost my mother, my dad could have given me up for adoption and gotten on with his life, but he chose to raise me."

"That could not have been easy for someone so young. Think about it, Trick—he was nine years younger than you are right now. Can you imagine having a nine-year-old?"

Trick closed his eyes and considered his reply. "No way. That was precisely why my father was very open with me about such things. When he first talked to me about sex, he chose his words very carefully; not because he was nervous, but because he didn't want to send me the message that I was a mistake. Instead, he stressed that I should hold off on physical intimacy until I found someone I could see myself spending the rest of my life with."

"Did you take his advice?"

Trick blushed. "I had a few serious girlfriends here and there."

_Of course he did_ , Casper thought. Trick was incredibly handsome, but he was also humble and kind. While she knew many women were attracted to the bad boy persona, she always found herself attracted to men who were kind to others and not full of themselves—a very rare type in Southern California, almost extinct.

"Have you ever met your mother's parents?"

"No. They could never accept that their daughter married a working-class carpenter—at least that's what my father told me. They never tried to contact me; deep down inside, I feel as if they blamed me for their daughter's death. As far as I'm concerned, they don't exist."

"What about your father's parents?"

"My grandmother lived with us for a while, but my grandfather died before I was born. He had a heart attack in the antique shop he and my grandmother owned."

Trick wanted to get on with the game, "What do you say we tackle this hole?"

"Let's see what you've got," Casper replied.

Trick looked out toward the trees and for a minute considered the prospect of going over them. At that moment a breeze hit him in the face, and he could have sworn he smelled his father's aftershave.

"Did you smell that?" Trick couldn't help asking.

"Smell what?" Casper replied.

"Never mind—it's nothing." Trick took his hybrid club out of his bag and hit a shot straight down the middle of the fairway. Casper took an eight-iron out of her bag, aimed her shot toward the tree line, and sent the ball high up over the trees and onto the fairway on the other side. By the looks of it, she likely had a chip shot to the green.

"Did you not hear anything I said earlier? There's no easy way out."

"My father started a magazine out of his parents' basement after leaving a very secure job with a newspaper," Casper said, looking him directly in the eyes. "Another thing he taught me was no risk, no reward."

Trick laughed, and they walked toward their second shots. Trick thought about Casper's persistence in learning to walk again after her accident. He wondered whether or not he could learn something from her experience. Certainly his father's death had knocked him down, but the difference between him and Casper was that he had yet to get back up. Was it time for him to make an attempt to get back on his feet?

## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TRICK MADE A six-foot putt to save his par on the second hole; his second shot landed in a sand trap to the left of the green, and his shot out of the trap was about six feet away from the hole. Casper, on the other hand, birdied the hole after her second shot landed just two feet from the cup.

"I may have misjudged you," Trick said.

"You wouldn't be the first person," Casper replied.

"I bet I wouldn't be," Trick said. He paused for a minute, remembering Chris Morganti, one of his oldest friends.

"What are you thinking about?" Casper asked.

"The truth is, you aren't the first person I ever misjudged. When I was thirteen years old, my father took me to our local movie theater. It was nothing fancy; in fact, it was quite dirty, and because of that, my father always referred to it as The Itch instead of its real name, The State. Anyway, my father was a penny-pincher. If you graduated from the David Evans school of economics, it meant that you purchased all of your soda and candy from the convenience store across the street instead of paying the inflated prices the theater's concession stand charged. It also meant that you always tried to get your son admitted at the reduced children's rate, even when he was taller than you and shaving on a semi-regular basis."

"He sounds like quite the character," Casper said.

"Quite," Trick agreed. "Anyway, the night I'm thinking of he actually let me buy popcorn from the concession stand because I begged him to let me. While I was waiting in line, he went to the men's room, and a boy about my age started picking on me for being a daddy's boy. I tried to ignore him, but he just wouldn't let up. I was angry and embarrassed and told him to shut the hell up."

"Big words from a thirteen-year-old."

"Fighting words, one might say. Anyway, the kid yelled at me again, and a moment later an old man came out from behind the ticket window and asked what the argument was about. This other kid pointed at me and said that _I_ was picking on _him_. I remember my father coming out of the bathroom and asking if everything was okay and the old man yelling at him for picking on his grandson."

"You must have been furious."

"I was livid!" Trick said. "But at the time I didn't know who I was more upset with—the kid for picking on me and lying about it, the old man for believing the kid, or my father for doing nothing about it."

"He didn't give you a chance to defend yourself?"

"No, for reasons that wouldn't become clear to me until a few weeks later."

"What do you mean?"

"Fast-forward three weeks. Some of my friends and I were playing whiffle ball in the park where the Chatham A's, our summer league baseball team, play. We saw the same kid—I learned his name was Chris from some of my friends who had similar run-ins with him—just watching us but not playing. As a matter of fact, he was just heckling most of us when we were up to bat and making fun of anyone who messed up a play. He was being a real jerk! Anyway, when it was my turn to bat, he started in on me, even worse than he did at the movie theater."

"So what did you do?"

"I called a time out, walked up to him, and handed him the bat."

"I thought you were about to tell me that you hit him with it."

"I'm a lover, not a fighter," Trick said with a small smile. "I basically told him to put up or shut up. He took the bat, maybe out of peer pressure, and went to the plate. Three pitches, three strikes—he never came close to hitting the ball. I don't think anyone had ever taught him how to swing a bat before."

"So you won, kind of?"

"Not really, but I'm getting to the point. After he swung the third time, you would have expected all the other kids to throw the grief he had been throwing at us right back to him, but there was no time for that because the sky opened up and it started to pour. We all darted for our bikes, but this kid just started walking."

"He didn't have a bike?"

"No, and he was getting soaked; we all were, but it was going to be worse for him because he had to walk home in it."

"That's life, I suppose," Casper said.

"I could have taken that point of view as well, but I felt bad for the kid, so I offered him a ride on my bike. I had pegs that stuck out of my rear axles and he could stand on them and rest his hands on my shoulders while I pedaled."

"Did he say yes?"

"Not at first, but I convinced him and took him to my house. When we got there—and I will never forget this—I walked in and my grandmother, who was living with us at the time, was making a sauce, which smelled absolutely heavenly. When my grandmother saw two drenched boys, she immediately sent us upstairs to change. I offered Chris a change of clothes and I let him change in my room while I went to change in the bathroom to give him some privacy. But then I realized that I forgot to grab a T-shirt for myself, so I went back into my room—and that's when I saw Chris's body, which was covered with bruises."

"Oh my God!" Casper said.

"He yelled at me and accused me of trying to spy on him, but I explained it was an honest mistake. Anyway, I came to learn from my father that Chris was a victim of domestic violence and was now living with his grandparents while his mother 'sorted things out' with her life. That explained why his grandfather was so defensive weeks earlier in the movie theater. Also, my father being somewhat of the unofficial mayor of Chatham, knew about Chris's background, and that's why he didn't put up a fight on my behalf that day at the theater."

"Whatever happened to Chris?"

"He's my best friend now. You saw him last night at open mic night at the Bleeding Seal; he runs that place. Anyway, the whole point of this rambling story is to say that very early in life I learned it's always best to give other people the benefit of the doubt; it's another one of those lessons you can't learn in school. In my case I learned it in the lobby of a beat-up old movie theater."

The third hole on the course was a par-three; Trick took out his nine-iron while Casper opted for a seven. His ball landed pin high, just to the left of the cup, while Casper's sailed over the green. "Looks like I should have gone with an eight-iron," she said.

"I guess you misjudged that one."

Casper looked at him and shook her head. "I see what you did there."

She put her club back in her bag and they walked toward the green together.

As Trick walked, he thought about how he almost certainly had misjudged Casper when he found out she was a reporter. However, he was coming to realize that perhaps the person he misjudged the most was actually himself. He began to question his deeply held belief that he could not successfully play the game, or even enjoy his life, without his father by his side.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CASPER'S PAR ON the third hole was saved by a chip shot that almost went in the hole but rolled past it by about three feet. It was a miraculous shot considering she did not have a clear view of the hole from where her ball landed. Trick easily made his short putt and walked away with another birdie. They walked toward the fourth tee box, and while they walked, Casper said, "Your story reminded me of when we moved to California from New York."

"Before you go any further, I have to ask you something."

"Shoot," Casper said.

"When you told me you were Don Quinlan's daughter, I almost didn't believe you because I know he's in his eighties—and you look like you couldn't be much younger than me."

"I'm thirty-one, and he's eighty-two."

"So is your mother much younger?"

Having older parents was something that Casper had some difficulty dealing with when she was younger. It used to embarrass her when she would bring friends home and they assumed that her parents were really her grandparents. It didn't bother her so much anymore, though.

"Actually, my parents adopted me when they were in their fifties; they had always wanted kids but had a hard time conceiving. It's actually amazing that I'm even here right now."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, adoption is not a simple process, and the agency gave my parents a difficult time because of their age. And then, after finding out the adoption was approved, my mother, who was in her early fifties, discovered she was actually pregnant. As a condition of the adoption, she had to notify the agency right away, and the baby they were going to adopt was given to the next couple on the list. A few weeks later, though, my mother miscarried, probably as a result of her age, and they had to start back at square one—which was fortunate for me because I wound up with the two greatest parents you could ask for."

"That is an amazing story."

"I agree, but it's not the one I intended to share just now!" Casper said.

"That's right—you were going to tell me about your move to California from New York."

"Now _that_ was traumatic!"

"Why? I thought California is supposed to be a little piece of heaven on earth."

"Not when you are plucked out of your entire social life at the age of thirteen and whisked three thousand miles away where you don't know a soul, it isn't. Also, the entire reason we moved to California in the first place is because my mother got sick."

"How sick?" Trick asked.

"For a year before our move, she started to have issues with balance and nerve pain. After a never-ending series of tests, she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. While there was no cure for it, the doctors were able to give her medication that helped her symptoms when they flared up. They also told her that living in a warm and dry climate would be better for her; she had become supersensitive to the cold, and the New York winters were becoming unbearable. One summer we took a family trip and toured Arizona, New Mexico, and California. My parents fell in love with Southern California and that's when we moved to Westlake Village; we've been there ever since."

"So it was hard to adjust to a new town at thirteen?"

"Hard doesn't even begin to describe it. The only thing that got me through was George Harrison."

"George Harrison the Beatle?"

"No, George Harrison the dog."

Trick looked at her with one raised eyebrow; it was one of the many "tricks" that helped him earn his nickname.

"My father agreed to get me a dog as a consolation for moving so far away from my friends. I insisted on a rescue and picked out a Labrador retriever named Murphy. At the time I was going through a big Beatles phase, so I renamed him George Harrison. The two of us were inseparable."

"Is he still around?"

"No, he's been gone for a few years now. Cancer."

"Tell me more about this dog," Trick said.

"He loved to play hockey."

Once again Trick looked at Casper with a raised eyebrow. "Hockey?"

"You have to remember that I moved to California from the Northeast, where hockey is huge. I started playing when I was five and was on an exclusive girls' travel team until I moved. But hockey wasn't big then in Southern California, and girls' hockey was almost nonexistent."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I set up a net in my driveway and shot pucks into it all day long. Let me tell you something, being the new kid in town is tough enough, but being the new kid in town who played a sport that no one else played is even tougher. I got a lot of stares from the other kids in the neighborhood, but George Harrison changed all that."

"How so?"

"He was a natural retriever and would chase after anything I threw—or shot with my stick. Every time I shot a puck into the net, he ran into the net and brought it back to me. We spent hours doing this, and other kids would come to watch George run back and forth."

"Wait—how did you shoot pucks into the net? I assume your dad had some money, but not the kind of money to create an ice rink in a southern California driveway."

"They make these things called shooting pads—they use a specialized kind of smooth plastic that mimics ice. Kind of like a golf mat, but for hockey."

"So did you ever get a chance to play hockey again?"

"One day I was shooting pucks in my driveway with George Harrison—the other kids in my neighborhood nicknamed him The Hockey Dog—when a car pulled up and stopped."

"Sounds creepy," Trick said.

"I thought so too until the driver rolled down his window and called out to me in a very thick Massachusetts accent. He asked me, 'Do you play hawkey?' I told him that I did when I lived in New York but couldn't find a rink here. He asked me to take a few slap shots from different angles, and I obliged. He then asked if my father or mother was home."

"Sounds pretty random."

"Maybe, but if there is one thing my mother always taught me, it's that the Lord works in mysterious ways. I told him my mother was home and he asked if I could get her to come outside. By this point, she had to walk with the assistance of a cane, so it took her a while to come out. When she did, the man introduced himself as Pat Sheridan and told us that everybody called him Coach Pat. I remember he had a very long beard—almost like those guys in that band..."

"ZZ Top?"

"Right, like those guys in ZZ Top."

"The funny thing about that band is that the drummer is the only guy in the band without a beard, but his name is Frank Beard," Trick remarked.

"That piece of knowledge should come in very handy someday, Trick Evans, but do you mind if I finish telling my story?"

"Sorry, please continue."

"Anyway, he told my mother that a new ice rink was about to open a little north of us in Simi Valley, and they were desperately looking for hockey players to help start a house league and eventually a travel team. I felt as if it were the single greatest piece of news I had ever heard! He told us to come by the following day and gave us the address to the rink. Suddenly, life in Southern California just got better."

"Just like that?"

"Yes, just like that. I played in that league until my accident, but I haven't been back to the rink since."

"Why not?"

Casper had to think a minute. It was true that she couldn't skate anymore, at least not the way she used to, but the real reason was that she closed the door on that part of her life—much the way Trick did on golf after his father died.

"You know what? When I get back home to California, I am going to take a ride up to Simi Valley and visit Coach Pat; it would be good for me." Casper looked at Trick, who was smiling. "Why are you smiling?"

"I'm just thinking that I would like to be with you the first time you enter the rink. I'd love to see the expression on your face—and on the face of your old coach."

This gave Casper an idea. "I heard you made a few bucks last year on the tour. Why don't you buy a ticket and come out? It is beautiful this time of year. There's just one condition."

"Oh yeah," Trick said, "what's that?"

"I get to be there the first time you walk back onto a golf course in a PGA event."

The smile on Trick's face went away as quickly as it appeared moments before. "I'm not sure that will ever happen; I may never be able to compete again."

"Trick, why?"

"I don't think I can win without my father."

Casper realized they had been standing in the fourth tee box for over ten minutes. She decided it was time to change the subject. "Why don't you tell me about this hole?"

The fourth hole on this course was a long par-five with a wide fairway, although players looking to make a birdie had to aim their shot a bit to the right and land it on the top of a hill in order to have a direct approach to the green. Missing to the left meant a possible sand trap and a definite obstructed view of the hole.

"Let me show you where you want your ball to go off the tee." Trick put a ball down on a tee, took out his driver, and swung at the ball. It went exactly where he wanted it to. "You want to be over on the right-hand side just on top of that hill so you have a clear shot at the green."

"I may have to play this one from the reds," Casper said. "There's no way I will get anywhere near your ball from back here." While Casper's skill was good enough to golf with Trick on such a short course, this hole was asking for more than she could give from the white tees.

"I'll follow you to the reds," Trick said.

They reached the red tees, and Casper lined up her shot. She swung at the ball, but for some reason she lost her balance and fell. "Shoot!" she said.

"Let me help you up," Trick offered his hand and helped pull her back up.

"Thanks for the lift. Let me try that again," Casper said.

She lined up her shot and closed her eyes, envisioning herself swinging gracefully at the ball and having it land in close proximity to Trick's. She opened her eyes, swung at the ball, and watched it sail toward the right side of the fairway and land about thirty yards behind his.

"It doesn't only work on the first hole," Trick said.

"Thanks for the tip!" she replied.

They played the rest of the hole like the others—not talking again until after making their putts. During this period of silence, Trick reflected on how Casper's choice to quit hockey after her accident was not unlike his own choice to walk away from the game of golf after his father's death. He also thought of her openness to go back to the ice rink after returning to California; if she was willing to go back to the rink, perhaps he should reconsider his decision to quit professional golf.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TRICK WOUND UP making an eagle after his second shot landed fifteen feet from the hole and he made an amazing putt. Casper, on the other hand, had a bit more trouble; her second shot found a bunker, her third shot wound up on the fringe of the green, and she wound up three-putting to make a bogey. She was disappointed with her performance, but she realized it was her first round of golf for the season and she was playing remarkably well, given she had a prosthetic leg and was playing with the golfer currently ranked number one in the world.

The two of them walked to the fifth hole.

"This hole is always a difficult one for me to play well," Trick said.

Casper looked over the hole from the fifth tee box; it looked like a short par-four with a wide fairway and no hazards. "Why?" she asked.

"I was playing this hole when I found out my grandmother had slipped into a coma."

"Oh," she said, at a loss for words.

"When I was seventeen, I was playing a round here with my friends, and I was playing exceptionally well. When a course ranger came up to us on this hole, I thought we must have done something wrong or weren't playing fast enough, but as it turned out neither were the case. The ranger came over to tell me that I needed to come home because my grandmother was sick."

"What happened?"

"Before I tell you that, let me tell you the greatest lesson my grandmother ever taught me: how to make an Italian gravy. My father's father was Irish, but my father's mother was 100 percent Italian, and man, could that woman cook!"

Trick then recounted for Casper the day his grandmother taught him how to make her signature dish. As he did, he saw the entire scene unfold in his head like a flashback.

_Trick was twelve years old and had just come home from school. As was his custom, he went into the family room to kiss his grandmother, who was busy watching her "stories," which was what she called the daytime soap operas she was addicted to. When he walked into the room, she immediately turned the television off._

_"I'm not interested in these today," she said after Trick kissed her on the cheek. "I am going to teach you something very important today, Patrick."_

_"What's that?" he asked._

_"How to make my sauce. I'm not getting any younger, and God bless your father, but the man can't cook, so you are the only hope I have of passing this recipe down."_

_The two walked into the kitchen. "I am an old lady now, and my muscles are like mashed potatoes. Help me get the pots and pans down from the cabinet."_

_Patrick did as his grandmother asked._

_"There are a few things you need to know in order to make my gravy, Patrick. First, you need to have the right music. Turn the radio on and tune it to 93.5. They play the Italian American program on weekday afternoons."_

_Patrick did as she suggested and found the station. The host was speaking in Italian, and moments later their ears were treated to the sounds of an Italian opera._

_"That's Puccini," Grandma said. "There is no better music to cook by."_

_He shrugged his shoulders and simply had to take her word for it._

_"The next thing I need is the big saucepan. Then get the olive oil out of the pantry and the garlic out of the refrigerator."_

_While Trick was following her directions, his grandmother went to the drawer where they kept miscellaneous items and took out something he was not familiar with. She saw him staring at it and decided to educate her grandson._

_"This is a garlic press; I'll show you how it works in a minute. I need you to pour some olive oil in the saucepan, just enough to cover the bottom of the pan." His grandmother watched as he carefully poured the oil. "That's perfect. Now take three cans of tomatoes out of the pantry and open them with the can opener."_

_While he did this, Patrick's grandmother searched the cabinets for something. When she found what she was looking for and handed it to him, Trick thought it looked like some sort of medieval torture device._

_"This is a tomato strainer. Grab a big bowl and the cans of tomatoes."_

_Grandma took the tomato strainer and placed it on top of the bowl that Patrick handed her._

_"I need your strength here, Patrick. Take a can of tomatoes and pour it into the tomato strainer. Once they are all in, turn the handle. Do you see how that motion crushes the tomatoes? See how the screen catches all the skins? This is the secret to a nice, smooth sauce."_

_He repeated this exercise until he had strained all three cans of tomatoes. In the meantime, his grandmother peeled the garlic._

_"Now, let me show you what to do with the garlic. Put it in the garlic press and squeeze it over the saucepan with your hands. The garlic will now mix with the olive oil."_

_Patrick did this until all of the garlic was crushed._

_"Now turn the stove on to a medium heat and wait a minute."_

_As the oil heated up and mixed with the garlic, a heavenly scent filled the kitchen._

_"Once you hear the garlic start to sizzle, you know it's time to add the tomatoes. You don't want the garlic to cook too long, or the sauce won't taste right."_

_When he heard the garlic sizzling, Patrick poured the strained tomatoes into the saucepan. His grandmother added a peeled onion, some black and red pepper, some oregano, and some basil._

_"Now we wait for the sauce to come to a boil, and then we turn it down to a low heat. We'll let it cook uncovered; this allows the sauce to thicken as the water starts to evaporate. And that, my grandson, is how you make my tomato sauce."_

_"Now what?" Patrick asked._

_"To turn the sauce into a gravy, we have to add the meat."_

_The two spent the next thirty minutes turning ground meat into meatballs and frying them in a pan. This was followed by sausage, pork, and braciola; all were poured directly into the sauce where they would continue to cook on a low heat for hours._

_Trick's grandmother was exhausted from the effort. "Your father won't like this mess when he comes home. Let's clean up these dishes—you wash; I'll dry."_

Trick's trip down memory lane was broken when Casper asked, "So what happened to your grandmother?"

"When I got home my father met me at the door and hugged me; it was the first time I could remember seeing him cry. I asked him whether or not I was too late, and he said no, but not to expect much when I went upstairs. Let me tell you, that walk up the stairs was one of the longest walks of my life." Trick recounted what happened next, as the event played in his mind like a movie.

_Kneeling beside her bed, Patrick placed one of his hands on top of hers and placed the other on her forehead. At that moment, her eyes opened and she smiled at her grandson._

_"I was waiting for you, Patrick. I have to go now."_

_With tears forming in his eyes, Patrick asked her, "Why do you have to go? Can't you stay a little while longer?"_

_"It's my time. While I was sleeping, I had a dream that I was standing on a street corner, and your grandfather pulled up in an old car he used to drive. He asked me to get in, but I told him I couldn't until I said good-bye to you. During this dream, I felt at peace; I was not in any pain, and I am going to a better place. It's my time to go home, Patrick. Even though I am gone, please know that I will be watching you and I'll always be with you."_

_"I love you, Grandma," Patrick said._

_After speaking those words, his grandmother closed her eyes, and he realized that she had stopped breathing._

"After her wake," Trick said to Casper, "I got into the car to go home, and the minute I stepped into it, I had the sense that she was with me."

"Maybe she was," Casper said. "I believe that even though someone is gone from the world physically, a bit of their soul lives on in the people they were closest to. As long as they are remembered, they live on."

"How can you be so sure?" Trick asked.

"I'll tell you after we play this hole."

Truth be told, Trick desperately wanted to believe in a life after death. He wanted to believe that his father was somewhere watching over him, but his faith died on the golf course last summer. He doubted that whatever Casper was about to tell him would change his mind.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

TRICK HAD TROUBLE on the fifth hole as his first shot landed in a bunker about 100 yards away from the hole. His shot out of the bunker went over the green, and his chip shot onto the green landed well short of the hole. He wound up bogeying the hole after two-putting. Casper, on the other hand, hit a drive down the center of the fairway and then knocked the ball onto the center of the green with her five-iron. She made an outstanding eight-foot putt to earn herself a birdie.

"I want to hear your thoughts on life after death, but first I want to know how you learned to play golf after your accident."

"Well, like I told you before, I'm a hockey player at heart, and when I couldn't play hockey anymore, my father thought it was time I become more familiar with the family business. He set me up with some private lessons at our municipal course in Westlake Village, and I took to the game immediately."

"I suppose golf and hockey are similar in that you have to hit something smaller with something larger, and that smaller thing eventually has to wind up somewhere in order to score."

"Yes, that's true, but in golf you don't have people coming up behind you and slamming you into a wall."

"Good point," Trick said, returning the flag to the hole and walking with Casper to the sixth hole, the only other par-five on the course. The hole had a narrow fairway, and a shot off the tee had to be precise due to the water hazards on either side of the fairway where it doglegged to the left. In fact, the best approach to the green was over the water hazard on the right. Perfect placement off the tee was necessary for any hope at making a birdie.

"I told you that we moved to California because the doctors said that the warm climate and dry air would be better for my mother since she was diagnosed with MS. Well, there are a few different forms of MS; one kind can be managed well with medication and lifestyle adjustments, and the life expectancy is longer than for someone with a more progressive form."

"Let me guess—your mother had a more progressive form."

"Bingo," Casper said. "She went downhill fast, faster than most. It was so hard for me to watch her fail so quickly right in front of my eyes. When she first had trouble walking, she managed with a cane, but eventually she was confined to a wheelchair. Slowly her neurological system attacked itself until one day..." Casper paused to regain her composure.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," Trick said, putting his arm on her shoulder.

"No, it's okay," Casper said. "I want to. One day, she called me and my father into her room and told us she felt as if this was it. We both tried to convince her that it wasn't true, but she was very calm. She asked if I would give her and my father some privacy, and when my father came out of the room about ten minutes later, he was in tears and told me my mom wanted to see me next."

"I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you."

"I felt as if time stood still when I walked into the room. My mother looked so frail lying there, almost like a child. She told me to be strong and help my father with things around the house like cooking and doing the laundry. What I treasured most, though, was that she told me she loved me and was so proud of the woman I was becoming. When she was done talking, she asked me to bring my father back into the room. We both got in bed with her...and then, all of a sudden, she was gone."

"How long ago was that?"

"Right when I turned sixteen."

"Before your accident?"

"Yes, about six months before. It was my accident that made me believe that there really is life after death."

"Why?" Trick asked.

"I've never told this to anyone," Casper said, "but during the accident, time seemed to slow down; it was as though everything was happening in slow motion. I don't remember feeling any pain, and I must have blacked out when my car overturned. What I remember vividly, though, was walking in a beautiful field with my friend Emily. We were both wearing these bright white dresses, and I remember feeling as if I did not have any pain or fear at all in my body."

"Where were you going?"

"I don't even know, but it wasn't some all-encompassing bright light in the distance like everyone says. I remember Emily saying that she heard singing and wanted to walk toward where the singing was coming from; she went on without me, but I don't remember feeling sadness; I just remember watching her walk away and fade into the distance. When she was gone, I found myself skating, although I wasn't the least bit cold. I looked down and saw that I had skates on and I noticed that I was wearing my hockey gear. Crazy right?" Trick nodded, and Casper continued. "As I was skating, key events of my life flashed before my eyes: my mother's funeral, my first kiss, my first day of school, even my own birth."

"And you never told anyone about this?"

"Who would believe me? I don't even know why I am telling you, but for some reason I feel compelled to share it with you."

"Do you want to sit down?" Trick asked. He noticed that Casper started to shift her weight a bit and thought she might be fatigued from all the walking. She took a seat on a bench beside the sixth tee box.

"My legs _are_ tired, thanks. Anyway, next I felt a tap on my shoulder—it was my mother. I was no longer skating; I was in the neighborhood park we used to visit when I was a kid. We sat down on our favorite park bench, and she told me it wasn't my time yet—that I had more to do in life. She told me she would continue to watch over me and would always be with me as long as I remembered her in my heart. She hugged me good-bye, and then it felt as if I were being dragged in reverse through the park, the rink, the field. And then I was back at the accident scene being pulled out of the car. I have a vague recollection of the paramedics talking about my leg and I heard the word _casualty_ , referring, of course, to Emily. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital with my father asleep in the chair next to my bed."

"That is one of the most amazing things I have ever heard."

"I know some people might think it was a lack of oxygen to my brain or a release of neurotransmitters that caused me to hallucinate after the accident, but I truly believe that what I just described really happened. I honestly believe that my mother is still watching out for me from wherever she is. Sometimes I'll think of her for no apparent reason and sense that she is with me; every so often, I get a whiff of something that reminds me of her."

"What did you say?" Trick asked. Since his father died, he smelled his father's aftershave periodically; it happened more than once during the round he was playing today.

"I know it sounds crazy, but it's true."

"Like being caught between the moon and New York City," Trick replied.

"Huh?" Casper asked.

"It's a line from a song by Christopher Cross from the old movie _Arthur_. It was one of my father's favorite movies, and I watched it with him multiple times—although when I was younger, the humor went way over my head."

"Whatever," Casper said. "Anyway, that's why I believe in life after death and am convinced that those who leave before us are still with us in some way, even if we can't see them."

Trick was moved by Casper's story, but he was still not ready to embrace a belief in the afterlife. Still, what stayed with him was how she was able to accept her mother's death. While fifteen years had passed since Casper lost her mother, and not even twelve months had passed since Trick's father died, he started to feel hopeful that he could adjust to the new normal of being fatherless.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE SIXTH HOLE at Chatham Seaside Links was the second and final par-three hole on the course. While it was a short hole and looked easy, one had to be careful to aim for the left side of the green since there was a sharp downhill on the right, and balls that landed on that side tended to slide off, leaving the player with a challenging second shot.

"One day, when I was thirteen, I was playing this course by myself because none of my friends were available and my father was working. I hit a hole in one right here, and I was so excited that I started screaming and jumping up and down. I looked for a course ranger or someone—anyone—to share my ace, but no one else was out there that day; it was overcast for one thing, and the tourist season hadn't begun yet."

"Well, that must have been frustrating!"

"It was! I quit my round and headed to the clubhouse. The first person I ran into was a bad-tempered old-timer named Thomas. When I told him about the hole in one, he told me I was full of soup; he said he would never believe it because he didn't see it with his own eyes."

"Oh, wow!" Casper said sympathetically.

"I was so angry!" Trick said. "I told him that just because he didn't see it didn't mean it hadn't happened. He didn't believe me because I was just a boy in his eyes."

"So what did you do?

"I went home and told my father, who didn't doubt me for a second. He even offered to take me to Larry's PX, my favorite restaurant, for a celebratory lunch."

"I had breakfast there this morning!" Casper broke in. "What's up with the whole heave-ho business?"

"Tradition!" Trick said. "We have a lot of them here in Chatham: summer concerts in the park, Tie-Dye Wednesdays at the Congregational church, and Larry's old heave-ho."

"I think I'll have to come back here in the summer," Casper said, putting her ball on a tee.

"I hope you do," Trick replied, and then watched her hit her shot. The ball landed just shy of the green, and the odds were against her that the long chip shot she had ahead of her would make it into the hole. "Should have used a different club."

Casper made a face at him. "Why don't you stop worrying about my club selection and tell me the rest of your story," she said.

"I'm done with my story," Trick said.

"That was it? Your father taking you out to lunch after hitting a hole in one?"

"I didn't say all of my stories would be particularly great or insightful," Trick said as he placed his ball on a tee. He closed his eyes and imagined history repeating itself; he saw himself hitting another hole in one, this time with Casper Quinlan as his witness. He took his shot, and his heart skipped a beat when it landed just in back of the flag; the backspin he put on the ball caused it to roll backward toward the hole. Both Trick and Casper held their breath as they watched it fall just inches short of the hole.

The two walked in silence toward their shots. Casper chipped her second shot, and it landed about four feet from the hole. They walked up to the green, and Trick pulled the flag out and allowed her to putt first since she was farther away than he was. She tapped it in to save par, and he easily made his putt for birdie.

"You know, there may be something to your hole-in-one story after all," Casper said.

"Really? This should be good."

"Well, you said that just because the old cantankerous golfer..."

"Thomas," Trick said. "I nicknamed him Doubting Thomas, since he doubted my hole in one."

"Right, just because old Doubting Thomas didn't see you make a hole in one doesn't mean that it didn't happen, right?"

"Yes...so?"

"So just because you don't see your father anymore doesn't mean that he isn't still looking out for you."

Trick considered this; he wanted to believe, but he just wasn't there yet. "Interesting theory."

"My leg is really bothering me, and I don't think I have any more holes left in me," Casper said. While she was feeling some discomfort in her leg, she partly said this to test Trick. Would he be disappointed to cut his round short?

Trick looked at her a bit sadly, but Casper couldn't tell whether it was out of sympathy for her or because he didn't want to stop playing.

"I don't want you to push yourself, but there is one more thing I wanted to tell you about my life. If we end the round here, I'd be happy to share it with you on the walk back to the clubhouse."

"That sounds fair," Casper said. "But tell me one thing first—how did it feel coming out here and playing today?"

"It felt..." Trick stopped to reflect on the day. It took him a minute to pick the right word. "Magnificent," he said.

"So you enjoyed playing with me today?"

Trick didn't respond immediately. Instead, he thought about his reflections on the previous five holes and the insights into his own life that had been in front of him the whole time. The obvious, it seemed, wasn't always apparent. "Playing with you today has been..." Trick struggled to find the right word to use and finally said, "illuminating."

Casper spontaneously walked toward Trick, put her arms around him, and kissed him. Trick was resistant at first, but then gave in, his mouth opening up to hers. He pulled her close with a sense of urgency that neither of them had felt in a long time. When the moment was over, they both looked at each other, one more surprised than the other.

"Why did you stop?" she asked.

"It's been a while," he admitted.

"For me, too," she said.

"My father always told me that practice makes perfect," Trick said and moved in closer for another kiss.

"Smart man," Casper said between kisses.

Later they would be unable to recall just how long they spent passionately kissing at the seventh tee box. They only stopped when they realized it had started to rain. Not wanting them to be completely drenched, Trick grabbed both sets of clubs, and they headed toward the pro shop.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BLAZE HAZELWOOD WAS napping on the couch in the house he rented when the sound of rain falling on the window air-conditioning unit woke him up. A copy of _Variety_ was spread out on his chest; before he nodded off he had been reading an article about the success of a reality show starring his former co-stars Danny Boy and Vanessa Crestwood. _I could get used to this kind of life_ , he thought. He couldn't remember the last time he spent a lazy Sunday on the couch.

The sound of a car pulling up the steep driveway motivated him to get up. It might be his sister and father, but the call he took from the real estate agent this morning meant that it could also be the owner of the house coming to pick up something he needed. When Blaze saw an old white Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera parked in the driveway, he knew that it wasn't his sister and father.

Blaze watched as an older African American woman got out of the car and opened the driver's side rear door. Not one but two big dogs jumped out. He then watched as an elderly man with white hair exited from the passenger side. _He must be the owner_ , Blaze thought to himself. The dogs ran around to the backyard while the woman and man went to the front door and rang the doorbell.

"You must be Mr. McMullen," Blaze said, opening the door. "I hope you didn't have too much traffic on your way up here."

"While I live and breathe," said the woman, "you're that fellow from TV, aren't you?"

Robert thought Blaze looked more like a bum than a TV star, although no one could blame him for thinking such a thing since Blaze was still in his pajamas at two o'clock in the afternoon.

"I'm always happy to meet a fan," Blaze said.

Robert looked quizzically at Angel. "Oh Mr. Mack, this guy was on a show that I used to watch all the time called _Casa Grande_."

"Oh, Madeline used to watch that show incessantly!" Robert said, shaking his head. "Now I won't be able to get that old theme song out of my head." Robert's demeanor had changed since coming into the house; he became bad tempered as if the guilt he clung onto was manifesting itself as some kind of "cranky old man syndrome."

"Your wife must have good taste in programming," Blaze observed. "Is she with you—I would love to meet her."

"She's dead!" Robert blurted out. "She died yesterday. Cancer."

"Shit!" Blaze said. "I'm so sorry." He had a way of sticking his foot in his mouth, and unbeknownst to him, it was about to go deeper. "Is that your lovely daughter I've been seeing in all these pictures?"

"Yes," Robert said. "She's dead, too."

There was an awkward pause. "Can I offer you something to drink, maybe some coffee?" Blaze finally said.

"Mr. Mack and I just had a nice lunch at a restaurant in town. What was that place called again, Mr. Mack?"

"Pates," Robert said brusquely, feeling more cantankerous by the minute.

"Oh, you should have seen the look on the owner's face when Mr. Mack walked in for the first time in almost thirty years. You'd think it was the prodigal son returning."

"I'm not thirsty," Robert broke in. "I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes—I just need to find something that belonged to my wife."

Do you need any help?" Blaze asked.

"No, I'll be fine. You don't have a naked broad in the bedroom, do you?"

Blaze thought that Robert's gruff persona would make a great character, and he filed Robert's mannerisms in the hard drive of his mind. "No one here but me," he said. "I'm waiting for my father and sister to come up from New York."

"You know, I might like a cup of tea," Angel said. "Why don't you show me to the kitchen, Mr. Blaze, and we will leave Mr. Mack to his work."

Blaze and Angel went off to the kitchen. Robert stood in the foyer, unable to move as emotions came rushing back after being away for so long. Everywhere he turned he saw something to remind him of the family he once had. There were pictures of Madeline and Katie down at various Chatham landmarks—the Coast Guard station, the dunes on Harding's Beach, Veterans Field where Chatham's baseball team, the Anglers, played. What really stopped Robert in his tracks, though, were the framed drawings of Katie's that she made during the Vacation Bible School she attended every year at St. Christopher's Episcopal Church in town.

"She was so talented," Robert said out loud while looking at one of her drawings.

Robert walked up the stairs slowly, as if he were a teenager coming home after curfew and trying his best not to make a sound. With each step he took, Robert experienced visions that he could not explain: his wife's passing, his fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, his retirement party, Katie's funeral, the publication of his first novel, his graduation from medical school, the day Katie was born, his wedding day, his honorable discharge from the Army, and his high school graduation. While these flashbacks gave him the sensation that he was walking up a stairway to heaven, he chalked them up to being caught up in the emotions he had been experiencing after walking into the house. In this way, he was very much like Ebenezer Scrooge after he saw Marley's ghost for the first time—both of them refusing to believe there could be otherworldly forces at work.

Once he got to the top of the stairs, he turned to his right and stood in front of the door to his daughter's room. He knew the door was locked but tried the handle anyway. He then reached above the door and ran his fingers along the molding until they touched the key that was resting on it. He grabbed the key, which was covered in dust, took a deep breath, inserted it into the lock, and turned the doorknob to the right.

He noticed that Katie's room was well-preserved; the bed was made, clothes hung neatly in her closet, and her desk was in order. He walked over to the desk and saw the jewelry box he and Madeline gave Katie for her sixteenth birthday. He opened it up and heard the sound of Ludwig van Beethoven's "Für Elise"—and that's when the tears he had been holding back since stepping foot into the house started to flow.

"Für Elise" was his daughter's favorite piece of classical music. Robert remembered the hours upon hours that Madeline spent teaching Katie how to play it on the piano. Once perfected, she played the piece at her grammar school's talent show. Robert remembered how graceful her hands looked as they went up and down the piano's keyboard—almost as if the keys were an extension of her fingers.

The music coming out of the jewelry box suddenly stopped, as did the tiny ballerina who was spinning around clockwise moments earlier. Robert removed the top compartment of the box, revealing the cavity holding her necklaces, including the "nicklass," the very item Robert had come for. Placing the keepsake in his pocket, he thought, _mission accomplished_. He was wrong, though; he'd soon find out that retrieving the necklace was not the only reason his wife had asked him to go to Chatham.

Robert suddenly heard the sound of Angel's dogs barking frantically at something outside. Taking one more long look around his late daughter's room, he decided to see what the fuss was about.

"Mr. Mack," Angel yelled upstairs. "I be needing your help to get Clemmy and Tess back in the house. Mr. Blaze cannot do it alone because those dogs, they don't know him like they know you."

Robert looked out the window and saw Clemmy dart across the front lawn into the road. A beat-up old Jeep was driving straight toward the dog, and Robert banged on the window to try and get Clemmy's attention, but to no avail. The car came within inches of hitting the animal, and then, just when he thought the worst was over, Tess, ran into the road and was almost hit herself. Robert hurried downstairs, opened the front door, and headed down the driveway. He noticed Blaze frantically running toward the road, leashes in hand, trying in vain to get the dogs' attention.

Seeing that Blaze was struggling with the dogs, Robert chose to put the past aside for a moment and went downstairs to lend a hand.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

TRICK AND CASPER'S intimate moment interrupted, the rain showed no signs of letting up. At the pro shop Trick returned both sets of golf clubs to the storage closet and then ran to the parking lot to get his car while Casper waited inside.

"I apologize for how I acted toward you this morning, Ms. Quinlan," Peter, who was still playing solitaire, said. "It's just that Chatham is a small town, and we take care of our own."

"No need to apologize," Casper said, shivering a little bit. "I understand."

"You must have had a good time out there," Peter remarked. "That boy has got a spring in his step like I haven't seen in almost a year."

Casper smiled as she recalled their kiss at the seventh tee box, but the moment was broken by the unmistakable sound of a car honking.

"Your chariot awaits, Ms. Quinlan."

"Do you have a business card? I can put you on the complimentary mailing list for _Fore!_ magazine."

Peter grabbed a business card from the small card holder in front of the register and handed it to Casper. "Thank you!" he said.

As she climbed into Trick's battered old Jeep, Casper couldn't resist asking, "Didn't you make over ten million dollars last year?"

"Between winnings and my endorsements, a bit more than that," Trick observed. "Why?"

"Why are you still driving a beat-up two-door Jeep that's older than both of us?"

"Don't you dare talk about Trudy that way!" Trick retorted, with his pointer finger in the air for emphasis.

Trick obviously could have any automobile he wanted, but he loved his Jeep the way a young child loves a well-worn teddy bear. It was actually quite worn when his father bought it for him as a sixteenth birthday present, and Trick and his dad spent all summer working on it to get it running. In truth, he never planned to get rid of it.

"You named your Jeep _Trudy_?"

"If you prefer walking..."

"Shut up and take me to my fancy hotel, Trick Evans."

"Your wish is my command," he replied. He put the car in first gear, gently pushed his right foot on the accelerator and slowly removed his left foot from the clutch; the Jeep started rolling forward.

"I don't know anyone in California who knows how to drive a manual transmission," Casper commented

"It's the only way to go, if you ask me—especially for a fine vehicle like this one." As if on cue, the Jeep stalled.

"You were saying?"

Trick started the engine again and pulled out of the parking lot, this time taking his foot off the clutch more gently.

While the hotel was located next to the course, to get there by car, one had to go around the block to access the main driveway. While it was inconvenient, it did provide a view of some of the more opulent houses in the north part of town, which was situated right on the water. "Are you in any rush to get back?" Trick asked.

"Well, I wouldn't mind getting out of these wet clothes," Casper said, "but as long as you don't mind turning the heat on, I'll survive."

"I want to show you our fishing pier. Every afternoon the boats start coming in, and you can watch them unload their payload from an observation deck. Plus, the market at the pier has the best clam chowder on the Cape." Trick made a left onto Shore Road, heading away from the hotel. "What time do you have?"

Casper looked at her watch and replied, "Two o'clock."

"Wow, I didn't realize we were on the course for so long. I may have to show you the pier another day; most of the boats have already come in by now."

"Trick, look out!" Casper yelled, as a dog ran directly in front of the car.

Trick let out a few creative expletives but was relieved to see that the animal wasn't injured. Just as he was putting his right foot back on the gas pedal and easing his left foot off the clutch, Casper screamed again. "Trick! Stop!"

Another dog ran across the road in front of their car and, for the second time in the course of thirty seconds, Trick slammed on the brakes. He decided to turn the engine off, get out, and try and encourage the dogs to get in his Jeep so he could take them back to their owners; assuming of course they had identification tags with their owner's name on them. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a middle-aged man with blond hair, wearing pajamas, walking down the driveway toward the car.

"Blaze!" Casper said from inside the Jeep.

"I don't smoke," Trick joked.

She leaned over to the driver's side and cranked the window open. "Blaze," she called again.

"Casper! So good to see you, luv," Blaze said, and then looked over at Trick. "Would you mind giving me a hand with these dogs?"

"That's what I was just about to do," Trick replied. He recognized him as the man he had seen exiting the Bleeding Seal the night before.

"These bloody dogs won't listen to me." Then, directing his attention to the older man coming down the driveway, he said, "Robert, it would be helpful to know the names of your dogs."

"They are _not_ my dogs!" Robert said emphatically. "But their names are Clemmy and Tess." That's when he saw the man who got out of the Jeep; he was almost paralyzed with emotion and had to sit down. He gasped—the resemblance was unmistakable.

"Can I help?" Trick asked, not knowing what a loaded question this was.

"Oh, my goodness," Robert replied, once he could find the words. While he had not seen Trick since he was a baby, Robert followed his grandson's professional career and recognized him immediately. "You have your mother's eyes."

As Robert muttered these words, the sky opened up once again; this time with a loud clap of thunder. Trick, confused as to what the old man meant, got back into the Jeep and attempted to start the engine so he could get the car out of the center of the road. To his surprise, the engine refused to turn over.

"Trick, it's pouring out and no one is going to see us in the middle of the road here. We've got to get the Jeep to the side of the road," Casper said.

Trick was still stupefied as he considered the old man's words: _You have your mother's eyes_. It took a punch in the arm from Casper to bring him back to the present moment.

"Blaze," Casper called out. "Can you and Trick push this Jeep while I work the wheel?"

"No worries, luv," Blaze replied.

"Trick, get out and push with Blaze; I'll steer."

Trick, suddenly realizing the precarious situation they were in, jumped out of the car. Casper took his place behind the wheel, put the Jeep in neutral, and disengaged the parking brake. It took all their strength to move the Jeep, but Trick and Blaze were able to get it to the side of the road safely.

Trick noticed that the older man was walking up the hill with the two dogs and ran to catch up with him. Blaze and Casper followed behind.

"Excuse me," Trick called out. "What did you mean when you said that?"

The old man turned around and looked into Trick's eyes. "I think you'd better come inside. We should have a talk."

The rain came down harder and harder, and all four adults were thoroughly drenched. Angel stood in the doorway, where she had been watching it all unfold.

"You come inside now before you be catching your death," she said in her Jamaican accent. "I know plenty of people who want to meet Jesus, but ain't no one want to meet him now."

The dogs ran in first, followed by Robert and Trick. Blaze and Casper were a minute behind as Casper's leg was giving her trouble on the steep driveway.

"What's this all about?" Trick asked the old man, looking around. He noticed several pictures of a little girl who somehow looked familiar. He started to experience an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach and wondered why.

Robert walked into the family room, picked a picture off of the mantle, and walked back to the foyer where Trick was standing. "My name is Robert McMullen, and this is me right here," he said, pointing to a much younger man in the picture. "The woman to my right is my late wife, Madeline, and this is our daughter, Katie. She was your mother."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TRICK WAS STUNNED. Was this guy claiming to be his grandfather? The room started to spin, and for a moment Trick thought he was going to faint. Equally stunned was Casper Quinlan, who, although she had only known Trick for a very short time, worried that this sudden admission would overwhelm him.

"I think I need to sit down," Trick said.

"Come into the family room," Robert said. _Family room_ : an interesting choice of words considering that neither Robert nor Trick believed they had families anymore.

Sensing that Robert and Trick needed some time alone, Angel suggested that Blaze go upstairs and change into some dry clothes. "And let's see if we can't find you something up there as well," she said, turning to Casper.

"If you are who you say you are," Trick said to Robert, "then what are you doing here?"

"My wife—your grandmother—died yesterday, and just before she passed, she asked me to come here and bring something back for her. It was something your mother made for her one Mother's Day over forty years ago, and she wanted to be buried with it."

As Robert said these words, he remembered the conversation Madeline had right as he came back into her bedroom:

_"Is it really you? You look beautiful... I've thought of you every moment of every day since you left. I'm so sorry for the way everything happened... I hope you can forgive me."_

And then Robert remembered that his wife paused before speaking again.

_"I don't know if that is possible; he's quite stubborn... If it's for his own good, then I'll do the best that I can. I'll think of some way to get him up there. After that, I can leave for my trip?"_

That was right before Madeline asked him to go up to the Cape and get the necklace that Katie made for her. He then remembered something that Angel said to him earlier that day; that dying happens in a series of stages and that when someone who is dying sees and speaks with someone who's passed on, not to discount that. Robert started to believe that his wife was actually talking to their daughter right before she died. The skeptic in him had started to die as he allowed himself to believe in the possibility that Madeline sent him to Chatham in order to find their grandson, and his cranky demeanor started to fade.

"Trick, this may be hard to believe, but I don't think your grandmother was really asking me to come to the Cape to find a necklace. I think she had me come here to find you."

If the prospect of talking to a reporter was hard to handle, the idea of sitting down with the man who abandoned his mother when she needed him most was unbearable.

"I'm not sure what you're looking for from me," Trick said coldly, "but I have nothing to say to you. I never knew my mother, and now my father is gone. I have no one left in this world that I can call family, and now you waltz into my life; sorry, I'm not interested." Trick seemed to have adopted the cantankerous demeanor Robert successfully shed.

As Trick finished talking, Casper and Angel came back downstairs; the two had gone into Katie's room, not knowing how sacred it was to Robert, and found some clothes that fit Casper perfectly. Blaze wisely decided to take a shower and remain upstairs to stay out of what he considered family business.

"What's all the noise down here?" Angel asked. She heard Trick raise his voice and wondered if it was in protest to something that Robert said.

"I had no intention of waltzing into your life, Patrick," Robert said. "But you have to admit, it is more than a coincidence that we met this afternoon."

"No more of a coincidence than reporters showing up here every month since my father died!" he said, pointing accusingly to Casper.

"Hey!" she protested, feeling more than slightly offended at his tone.

"Sorry," Trick said quickly. "This is all a bit too overwhelming. First I start opening myself up to a reporter, and now I meet my mother's father. It's almost too much to handle."

"Patrick, yesterday I lost the woman I was married to for over fifty years, and now I'm standing face-to-face with the grandson I have only seen once before, as a baby at my daughter's funeral. I can honestly say that the feeling of being overwhelmed is mutual."

Just then the storm outside started to increase in intensity; the wind picked up, the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled. Inside the house the lights flickered, and suddenly the power went out. The phone began ringing, and Blaze, who had just come back downstairs, answered it. It was his sister—she and his father had decided to pull off the highway in New Bedford, Massachusetts to wait for the storm to pass. He hung up and looked at Robert.

"Do you have a generator?" Blaze asked him.

"At my house in Connecticut? Yes. At my vacation house on the Cape? No."

"I should really get going," Trick said.

"And where are you going to go?" said Casper. "Your Jeep won't start, and you can't walk home in this weather."

As much as he hated to admit it, Trick knew Casper was right. "Look, I've had a pretty emotional day and just need some time alone right now."

"Come on," Blaze said to Casper. "Why don't you help me build a fire; it's cold and wet outside, and a fire will take the chill out of the air."

Casper agreed, but she knew in her heart something more than a fire would be necessary to remove the chill in the room.

"I'm going to go make myself a cup of tea," Robert said, and walked into the kitchen.

"Mr. Trick," Angel said, "there's a room on the other side of the house with a couch in it. Why don't you go lie down there? Let me show you where it is."

Trick followed Angel to a small room on the other side of the house. It had a comfortable leather couch in it and a mahogany desk with an old typewriter sitting on it. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with hundreds of books, and any remaining wall space was adorned by framed book covers by an author named R. J. Donahue. Trick thought some looked familiar and remembered his father reading books by this author.

The room wasn't empty, however; Clemmy and Tess were relaxing on the couch and jumped off it immediately when they saw Trick and Angel. Trick stretched out on the couch and was surprised when Angel remained in the room.

"Do you think you could give me a little privacy?" Trick asked.

"Oh, Mr. Trick, you've been living alone for months—a few minutes with me won't kill you."

"Suit yourself," he said in reply. "But don't count on me to do much talking."

"I don't want you to be talking," Angel said in reply. "I want you to be doin' some listening."

Trick let out a sigh in reply.

"I've been watching people die for a long, long time—and you know what separates those who die with a smile from those who die in fear?" Angel paused to see if Trick would respond to her question. When he remained silent, she continued. "Regret. For whatever reason, those who die with regret in their hearts are often scared to cross over into the next life. Mr. Mack has a lot of regret in his life..."

"As well he should!" Trick spoke up. "He abandoned his daughter when she needed him most."

"You are not wrong, Mr. Trick, but people are only human, imperfect and full of flaws. Your grandfather is no different, and neither are you."

"He turned his back on his own daughter."

"And you haven't turned your back on anybody? Where have you been for the past seven months?"

"I've been grieving the loss of my father!" Trick protested.

"What about your sponsors—didn't you turn your back on them? Or your agent, or the sports writers who praised you in their publications—didn't you turn your back on them?"

"That's different; that was business, but what my grandfather did was personal."

"It's all personal!" Angel protested. "Let me ask you a question, how did you feel after your father died?"

Trick remembered the metaphor Fr. Paul had shared with him the evening before. "As if someone hammered a nail into my heart," he said.

"And is that nail still there?" Angel asked.

Trick closed his eyes for a moment. "No."

"When did you notice the nail was gone?"

Trick was silent for a moment and then replied, "It was only earlier today, when I shared my story with Casper—that's when I realized it was gone."

"The nail might be gone," Angel said, "but is there still a wound?"

"Yes," Trick said.

"And it may take the rest of your life for that wound to heal," Angel said. "But if you open yourself up to it, if you don't keep your pain bottled up inside, it will heal."

"What does this have to do with the man who calls himself my grandfather?"

"The nails that were hammered into his heart after his daughter died are stuck in there pretty good. He lost your mother when she was still a teenager, and the decisions he made when he learned she intended to raise a family with a man he didn't approve of were the hammer that drove those nails deeper into his heart."

Angel paused for a moment to make sure her words were sinking in. "Well, consider this, Trick," Angel said in her soft Jamaican accent. "Mr. Mack doesn't have a Casper in his life. His wife of over fifty years died yesterday, and most of his friends are gone. He's got no family left at all. Maybe you are the one who can help him remove those nails—nails he drove into his own heart."

"And why should I help him? A man who was never there for his own daughter or his own grandson?"

"Mr. Trick, this may be hard to believe, but consider the alternative. You have within you the power to help turn another man's life around and give him the same gift you received today after speaking with Casper. So the issue isn't why you should help him, but rather why _shouldn't_ you help him."

"I've had a very draining couple of days," Trick said. "Would you mind leaving me alone now?"

"Not a problem, Mr. Trick. Tessio, Clemenza, come here."

"Wait—Tess and Clemmy are short for Tessio and Clemenza?"

"Yes, why?"

" _The Godfather_ is one of my favorite movies," Trick said, recognizing the character names of Don Corleone's two underbosses.

"And do you remember what the theme of that movie is?" Angel asked.

"That some things aren't personal—they are just business."

"No, Mr. Trick. The main theme of that movie is the importance of family and being there for each other when necessary."

It was an alternative take on the film, but Trick saw her point. "Maybe so," he replied, too tired to argue the finer points of the movie's theme. Instead he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and quickly fell asleep.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WHILE TRICK AND Angel were talking in the den, Casper left Blaze to the fire they just built and joined Robert in the kitchen. While it would have been unthinkable to him yesterday, Robert couldn't let go of the notion that, before she died, his wife asked him to go to Chatham because she had an encounter with their late daughter.

"Do you believe that people who have passed on can communicate with those of us who are left behind?" he asked Casper.

"Personally, yes, I do," Casper said, and for the second time that day, she recounted the story of losing her leg and spending time with her late mother somewhere between heaven and earth.

"If you would have told me that story two days ago," Robert said, "I wouldn't have believed it. I was a well-respected medical doctor, a man of science; if I couldn't see it, smell it, hear it, or touch it, it did not exist."

"Are you saying you are not a person of faith?"

"Faith?" Robert said, looking down. "I guess you could say I lost my faith when I buried my daughter twenty-nine years ago."

"I can't imagine what losing a child is like," Casper said.

"I hope you never have to experience it," Robert replied. "I lost my wife yesterday, and I'm devastated by her passing, but she led a long life and it was her time. She was so sick toward the end that part of me was relieved when she died." Robert felt ashamed admitting this, but it was the truth. "My daughter, on the other hand, had her entire life ahead of her."

Casper paused and thought about how her father's life would have been different if she had died in the accident along with, or instead of, her friend Emily. "You have been around a lot longer than I have," Casper said, "so maybe you know the answer to this question. Where does it say anywhere that life is fair?"

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"When were any of us promised that we would lead a pain-free life? I lost my leg and my closest friend just a few months after losing my mother. You lost your daughter, and now your wife. Hell, even Trick Evans, who was on top of the world last summer, lost his own father too soon. Why do any of us expect life to be fair?"

Robert paused, and then said thoughtfully, "In medical school I learned many things about anatomy and how organs worked. I learned how to diagnose patients based on their symptoms and medical histories, as well as how to treat them with different types of drug therapies, but the one thing they didn't teach me in the classroom, the one thing I had to learn on my own, was how to counsel patients and their families."

"Bedside manner?" Casper asked.

"Exactly. Let me tell you a quick story. When I was a kid in elementary school, I was nuts about baseball. It was the only sport I ever wanted to play; in fact, part of the reason we chose to buy a vacation home in Chatham was because the town had a baseball team. Anyway, I could hit any pitch thrown at me except a curveball. One day I was standing at home plate, facing a full count—do you know what that is?"

"I may be a woman," Casper said, "but I know what a full count is."

"On a full count you get to swing at anything that looks remotely good, so I gripped the bat and got into position. I saw the ball coming over the plate, and then suddenly I felt a tremendous pain on my left hip. I got hit by the damn ball!"

"Why didn't you get out of the way?"

"If you think you are the first person to ask me that, you'd be wrong! After the pain wore off, I took first base. The first-base coach looked at me and asked, 'McMullen, why didn't you get out the way?"'

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth—I never saw the ball break. I never did with curveballs; I couldn't hit them. He looked me in the eye and said, 'Boy, I'm going to have your momma get your eyes checked.' Eventually, my batting coach worked with me so that I could hit a curveball, but it took a few more black-and-blue marks on my body before I could hit them well."

"I'm sorry—why all this talk about baseball?"

"Because when I was a new doctor, I lost a patient. Regardless of what people say—that everyone loses a patient at some point—there is nothing anyone can say to reduce the anger and disappointment a doctor feels after losing his or her first. To make matters worse, in my case the patient was a kid."

"How old?"

"Nine. He came in with a high fever and chills. I thought he had a viral infection and agreed to keep him overnight just to be on the safe side. I ordered a blood culture to see if the fever was due to an infection, but it would take forty-eight hours to get the results. I didn't notice the rash on his leg because it was the wintertime and neither he nor his parents mentioned it. Overnight his blood pressure dropped dangerously low, and by morning he was dead."

"Oh my goodness, what happened?"

"The blood culture came back positive for a strep infection in his bloodstream, and the rash on his leg was due to cellulitis. My guess is that he scratched his leg as a result of the itchiness of the rash and that introduced bacteria that naturally lives on the skin into his bloodstream. It was a tragedy that could have easily been prevented."

"I'm still not getting the connection to curveballs..."

"He was my first curveball as a doctor, but I learned a valuable lesson from him: to not assume anything when making a diagnosis and to be as thorough as possible when interviewing patients or their caregivers. That boy's death made me a better doctor."

"That's quite a story," Casper said.

"But as good a doctor as I was, I couldn't save my own daughter's life."

"If you don't mind me asking," Casper said, "how did she die? I know it was in childbirth, but what was the reason?"

"Trick's birth was traumatic; he was positioned feet first instead of head first, and the doctor couldn't change his position. This went on for a while, and his heartbeat became irregular. The doctor had to do an emergency C-section in order to save him."

"But that was only twenty-nine years ago," Casper observed. "Hadn't they perfected C-sections by then?"

"Yes, of course," Robert answered. "However, my daughter was a hemophiliac; her blood didn't coagulate like yours or mine. Cesarean sections can lead to a postpartum hemorrhage, which is dangerous for hemophiliacs. This would normally be handled by transfusions, but my daughter also had a very rare blood type: Type O-negative. While this is a universal blood type, people with O-negative blood can only receive O-negative blood transfusions, and when my daughter was giving birth, the small hospital on Cape Cod was experiencing a shortage."

"So she was forced to make a decision between saving her baby and potentially saving herself?"

"Yes," Robert replied. "And that is exactly what happened. She delivered the baby, but while she was in the recovery room, she hemorrhaged. There was nothing they could do to save her, and her young husband had to watch her die."

"They had gotten married?"

"Yes, another regret of mine. They had a small wedding here on Chatham when Katie was in her second trimester. They must have worked some magic because they found a priest to preside over their wedding even though she was pregnant."

"Was it Fr. Paul, by any chance?"

"Yes, do you know him?"

"I went to Mass at his parish last night. He's unlike any priest I have ever met."

"My wife and I were invited to the wedding, but we refused to go. If I could do it all over again, I would do things so differently, but at the time I was so angry."

"Why?"

"When you have kids you envision a certain life for them. When they do things to contradict what you have planned, anger sometimes results. I was mad at Katie for what she did, and I never forgave her for it. But things change! Right now I'm the one seeking forgiveness. I wish I could do it all over."

"Not a day goes by when I don't wish I could go back in time and prevent the accident that took my best friend's life from happening. I would have done anything to prevent it, but in my heart I've come to understand that bad things happen and we have to adjust accordingly."

Robert thought that the young woman in front of him was wise well beyond her years. "Right now I am being presented with a choice, and I don't know what to do about it," he confided.

"What are your options?"

"Go back home with what I came here for, or stay and try to develop a relationship with my grandson."

Casper recognized that Trick was still in a fragile state; while he had become more and more open and comfortable during their round of golf, she saw him quickly regress. "I can tell you that he's very vulnerable right now; a lot has been thrown at him, and I'm not sure how he will handle any attempts you make to develop a relationship with him."

Robert sat in silence for a minute, remembering the exchange he had with Angel earlier that morning. "Find him and bring him home," he said out loud.

"Excuse me?" Casper asked.

"This morning I thought I heard my wife's voice calling to me. I couldn't understand what she was saying at first, but after listening more closely, I heard her say, 'Find him and bring him home.' At first I thought it was my grief talking, but Angel said it's not uncommon for our deceased loved ones to send a message to us. What if she meant bring Trick when she said 'him'?"

"I think you know the answer to that question already, Mr. Mack," Angel said as she walked into the kitchen. "It's been a long day, and it's still raining—why don't you go lie down on one of the beds upstairs and get some rest? I want to spend some time talking to Ms. Casper here. You've got decisions to make, and no one ever made a great decision while they be tired."

Robert thought Angel's advice made sense and went upstairs. He chose the bedroom at the top of the stairs—he found it fitting that he should seek comfort in his late daughter's room.

## CHAPTER THIRTY

ANGEL FILLED THE teakettle with fresh water, placed it on the stove, and turned on the gas. "Tea always suits me on a rainy day," she said to Casper.

"My father grew up in an Irish household; we always drank tea when I was growing up."

"Casper doesn't sound like an Irish name; it sounds like the name of a—"

"A ghost!" Casper finished the sentence.

"Yes," Angel said. "I remember that cartoon, _Casper the Friendly Ghost_ —was your father a fan?"

"No," Casper replied with a smile. "I was named after his good friend Billy Casper. He was a famous golfer; he won sixty-nine tournaments, including the Masters and the U.S. Open, which he won twice. He died a year ago, and my father was devastated—partly because he lost a good friend and partly because he felt Billy never got the accolades he deserved. He died of a heart attack, but my father believed he died of a broken heart."

"Why?"

"There are all sorts of theories why Billy, who was every bit as good as the 'big three'—Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and Gary Player, his contemporaries in the '50s, '60s, and '70s—but didn't receive the same attention as they did. Some think it's because he fired the agent he shared with those guys, while others believe it had to do with the fact that he became a Mormon at the height of his career."

"Yes, I heard he converted," Angel said.

Casper wondered how a hospice nurse knew so much about a professional golfer, especially one of the less flashy players on the tour. She continued, "As you might imagine, golfers are a hard-partying crowd; a bunch of successful and entitled men on tour, traveling all around the world, leads to all sorts of crazy behavior. Billy Casper didn't drink, he didn't cheat on his wife, and he always remained humble and kind. After having five kids, Billy and his wife adopted six more, and it was this act of kindness that inspired my parents to look into adoption themselves. My theory is that because he wasn't one to seek the spotlight, he didn't get the recognition the others got."

"Ain't nothing wrong with being humble and kind, Ms. Casper."

"Not at all."

"Mr. Trick is kind of like that, isn't he?"

Casper hadn't given it much thought, but she had to agree. "Yes—I mean, he made millions of dollars on tour last year and still lives in the same small town he grew up in, drives the same Jeep he's had forever, and keeps a very low profile."

Angel replied, "I have this feeling, though, that he shouldn't be here; this is not where his destiny is."

While Casper was surprised Angel could come to this conclusion after only having met Trick an hour ago, she agreed with her. In her mind, Trick was still on the front nine of his life and still had many holes ahead of him; this was actually the theme she was considering using as she thought of her article. "He feels as if he can't play without his father beside him."

"And what do you think?"

"From what he told me, his father will always be with him. The lessons his father taught him are stored in his heart, but I'm not sure Trick realizes that."

The whistle of the teakettle interrupted them. Angel poured them each a cup and then asked, "Tell me, Ms. Casper, what is holding you back in life?"

Casper was taken aback. While she felt comfortable talking about Trick, she was unprepared to focus on herself. "Me?"

"I'm in the business of death, and people share some big regrets with me right before they pass on. One is wishing they had lived a fuller life and done something more valuable with their time. Another is wishing they had forgiven someone, and a third is offering forgiveness to themselves. When death comes knocking, no one has ever told me they wished they had earned more money or worked harder at their jobs or even had more sexy time. Instead they tell me they wished they had done more positive things with their lives and brought more joy to others. I don't sense a lot of joy coming from you, Ms. Casper."

Casper didn't appreciate this woman, someone she barely knew, reading so much into her personality. Even though she knew Angel's words were true, she wasn't about to engage in such a conversation with a stranger. But then she thought, _Isn't that exactly what I asked Trick to do_?

"The past fifteen years haven't been easy for me," Casper finally said. "My mother died, and I lost my best friend in the same accident that took my leg."

"There is no greater pain on this earth that compares to the pain of losing one's mother, except maybe losing a child."

"People have told me that the pain will ease with time, but it never gets any easier for me. Every birthday that goes by, both hers and mine, every holiday, every Mother's Day, I can't help but break down and cry when I think of her."

"No one loves you like a mother can," Angel said, nodding.

"If I ever have children one day, and that will likely never happen, I'll feel that they'll never get to meet her and she'll never get to meet them."

"Why you be sayin' that you having children won't happen?"

Casper found Angel's soft voice and Jamaican accent comforting; they had an almost hypnotic effect on her. "I'm thirty-one years old, and I haven't had a serious romantic relationship in fifteen years. No one wants to be with a one-legged woman."

"And you know that for a fact, do you?"

Casper paused; many men she dated said they didn't care about her leg, but she never believed them. "No one has said so in as many words, but it's just a feeling I get. The truth is, I don't feel whole anymore."

"You don't feel whole—that's an interesting way to put it."

"What's so interesting about that?"

"Have you ever read a really good book? The kind of book so good you don't want to put it down?"

Casper laughed. "One time, when I was in New York, I was going back to my downtown hotel from midtown and missed my subway stop because I was so engrossed in the book I was reading. I wound up in the middle of Brooklyn before I realized it. It didn't bother me, though, since it gave me an opportunity to keep reading on my return trip."

"Tell me, was that book more than just a collection of words on a page?"

"Of course!" Casper replied. "It wasn't just a collection of words, but the right words put together in the right sequences."

"In other words, the whole of the book was greater than the sum of its individual parts."

"Exactly. I remember learning that in a psychology class I took in college—Gestalt psychology, I think it was called."

"Just like a book is more than the sum of the words or chapters in it, we as people be so much more than the sum of our parts. Just because you be missin' a leg doesn't mean you are any less whole than anyone else. Believe me, I have seen many a person with ten fingers and ten toes who were a lot less whole than you, Ms. Casper."

These words, and the soft manner in which they were delivered, did provide some comfort to Casper, but she still had reservations. "If what you are saying is true, then how come I can't maintain a relationship past the second or third date?"

"Maybe that has less to do with the men you are dating and more to do with your own beliefs about yourself."

Immediately after Angel spoke these words, the lights came on in the house; power had been restored.

"Maybe I should go check on Trick," Casper said.

"I think that's a fine idea you have there, Ms. Casper. A fine idea indeed."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

TRICK EVANS WAS enjoying a deep, dreamless sleep when he had the sensation of something wet brushing against his cheek, something not unlike a piece of wet sandpaper against his skin. He opened first one eye and then the other, and was surprised to see one of the dogs panting in front of him; he didn't know if it was Clemmy or Tess, but he knew he wanted the dog to stop what it was doing.

"Get out of here," he said groggily.

"If you want to be alone, I can leave," Casper said.

"Oh, no!" Trick replied, "I didn't hear you come in—I was talking to the dog."

"Phew! I thought I might have overstayed my welcome in your life."

"Casper, I'm glad you're here, because there's something I want to talk to you about." Trick considered how fast things were moving between them; he worried that perhaps things were moving a bit too fast. "I had an amazing day today, and what happened with us on the course I wouldn't change in a million years..."

_Oh no, here it comes_ , Casper thought. _This is where he tells me he just wants to be friends or that he needs time to sort things out_.

"...but I haven't been in a relationship for years, and you and I live on different sides of the country..."

On the one hand Casper was flattered Trick was thinking of a relationship, but on the other hand, she was tempted to believe this was his way of letting her down easy.

"I just want to take some time before I rush into anything," Trick continued.

These words were not unfamiliar to Casper; although if she were being really honest with herself, typically she was the one saying them. Regardless, she refused to believe this wasn't somehow related to her disability, and her instinctive defense mechanism kicked in.

"I came in here to tell you that it stopped raining and I'm going back to my hotel. I'm going to try and catch an evening flight out of Boston tonight." Casper had no idea what the flight schedules were, but she didn't care. After what Trick just said, she wanted to get out of Chatham and away from Trick Evans as soon as possible.

"Hey," Trick said, springing up from the couch, "I don't understand—what's the rush? I thought we could have dinner tonight."

_Dinner? Didn't this guy just tell me he wasn't interested? Why are men so confusing?_ "I really should be getting back," she said, turning around quickly so he didn't see her tears.

"What's this all about? I'm not saying I'm not interested in you; I've just had a lot thrown at me today."

"I get it," Casper said. "You need space. It's fine. I have to get back to LA anyway."

"I don't understand..."

Before Trick could finish, Casper turned and walked out the door. The next thing he knew, he heard the front door slam. It was loud enough that Robert McMullen, resting in his daughter's room, was startled by the sound and went downstairs to check things out.

"What was that about?" he said to Trick when they met at the bottom of the staircase.

"I have no idea."

Robert saw how stunned Trick looked. "How long have you two been a thing?" he asked.

_A thing?_ Trick thought to himself. W _ho does this guy think he is, swooping into my life out of nowhere?_ "We aren't 'a thing'! I met her for the first time last night."

"Oh," Robert said. "It's just that the way she looks at you, and the way you look at her, I thought you were a couple. You seem like two people who have known each other for a long time."

As Robert spoke these words, Trick had to admit that there was some truth in them; he felt a connection with Casper, a connection he hadn't felt with any of the women he had known over the years.

"Where are the others?" Robert asked.

"I'm not sure," Trick said. "I just woke up from a nap."

"We're in the kitchen, Mr. Mack," called Angel.

Robert and Trick walked into the kitchen, where Blaze and Angel were sitting at the table drinking tea. "Would you like some tea, Mr. Mack?"

"No, thank you, Angel," Robert said, and then turned to Blaze. "I am sorry to interrupt your vacation. The weather seems to have cleared up, and I have what I came for; Angel, we should be going."

"Are you sure you be havin' everything you came for, Mr. Mack?"

Robert turned to Trick. "I know I have no business asking you this, but would you consider coming back to New Canaan with me? My wife's funeral will be on Tuesday morning, and you're the only family I have left."

At that moment, Trick's heart felt as if it turned to stone. He thought about how the man in front of him abandoned his own daughter when she needed him most and then never bothered to seek out the only grandchild he would ever have. He thought about Angel saying he might be the only person left who could help Robert remove the nails hammered deep within his heart. And then thoughts of Casper flooded his mind, how she made him feel, and he started to get upset that she just walked out on him. Whatever sympathy he may have started to feel for the man who called himself his grandfather was eroded by Casper's leaving the way she did.

"I don't think I can do that," Trick replied.

At these words, the expression on Robert's face turned from one of anticipation to one of sorrow. Angel's expression went from one of hope to one of disappointment.

"I understand," Robert said quietly. "If you change your mind, the funeral will be at 10:00 a.m. Tuesday morning at St. Gabriel's Church in New Canaan."

Trick and Robert looked at each other, unsure about how they should say good-bye. In the end they exchanged handshakes in lieu of a hug. Trick then said good-bye to Angel and Blaze, turned around, and walked out the door. Surprisingly, the Jeep started right up, and Trick debated whether to go after Casper. But he thought she might need a little space, so he made his way back to the lighthouse, where the fog was once again rolling in.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TRICK ENTERED HIS workshop, picked up a brush, and started to put a second coat of stain on the hatch that he intended to turn into a table. He must have been at it for two hours before he realized he was hungry and, to his surprise, was interrupted by the sound of someone coming into his house. After hearing the door shut, he heard the sound of paper bags rustling and then smelled the aroma of Chinese food coming from his kitchen.

"Freddie," Trick said. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Sunday night," she replied. "We always have Chinese food at your house on Sunday night and watch reruns of _The X-Files_ , remember?"

The tradition started years ago when Trick, his father, and Freddie got hooked on reruns of the popular science fiction drama, and when the series became available for online streaming, they devoted Sunday nights to watching episode after episode on Netflix. Freddie and Trick continued the tradition after Trick's father passed away.

"I'm not sure I'm in the mood for Mulder and Scully tonight," Trick said, referring to the show's two main characters.

"Why are you so down—and where's Casper? I thought maybe I'd get a call saying you wanted a little privacy tonight," Freddie said, punching Trick in the arm playfully.

"She left."

"Left?" Freddie asked, raising one eyebrow. "What do you mean, she left?"

"That's my thing; you can't do my thing!"

"What are you talking about?"

"That one-eyebrow thing."

"Last I checked, no one can have exclusive rights to a bodily talent. Now stop dodging my question."

Trick filled her in on everything that transpired that day, starting with the exhilarating feeling of being on the golf course with Casper as well as the kiss they shared. When he got to the part about meeting his grandfather, Freddie's mouth dropped open.

"That's the most ill thing I have ever heard," she said.

"Ill?"

"Sorry—it's a word I use when I mean that something is freaky."

"What's even freakier is that he invited me to his wife's funeral." Trick explained how Robert's wife had died the day before and recounted how he came to Chatham to pick up something that belonged to his wife.

"What was it?"

"A keepsake that his daughter made for his wife and gave to her on Mother's Day."

"Wait a minute—wouldn't that be a keepsake that your mother made for your grandmother?"

Trick paused. "Technically, you are right, but I got the feeling that what he really wanted was to find a way to connect with me somehow."

"What did you say to him?"

"I basically told him not to bother—too much was being thrown at me at once." Trick remembered how hungry he was. "Let me get plates for us; would you mind getting the silverware?"

"Silverware? We have all the silverware we need!" Freddie said, fishing the chopsticks out of a bag.

Trick walked over to the cabinet where he kept the plates and then screamed loudly as he felt something pierce his foot. "Mother of pearl!" he shouted, using an expression his father frequently used instead of swearing.

"What happened?"

Trick hopped over to a chair and sat down.

"Why are you walkin' around barefoot?"

"This is my house, and I'll walk around barefoot if I want to." Trick saw a small nail sticking out of the ball of his left foot. He was bleeding and, hating the sight of blood, asked Freddie if she could help him.

"Do you have any hydrogen peroxide?"

"Look in the bathroom down the hall."

Freddie came back a moment later with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some cotton balls, and a Band-Aid. She washed her hands in the kitchen sink and then positioned a chair in front of Trick. "Let me see your foot."

Trick placed his foot on top of Freddie's knees and winced when she touched the nail. "This may hurt for a moment, but trust me, it's for your own good," Freddie said. She then grabbed the nail, pulled it out quickly, cleansed his wound with the cotton balls soaked in peroxide, and applied the Band-Aid. "Good as new!" she exclaimed.

Trick thought for a moment and then had an epiphany. "You're going to have to eat alone tonight."

"What?"

"I have to go do something." Trick said, hobbling toward the door, still barefoot.

"You may want to put on shoes, Romeo," Freddie said.

"Right," Trick replied, hurriedly slipping on an old pair of sneakers. "Give my regards to Mulder and Scully."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

TRICK DROVE DOWN Main Street and made a left onto Chatham Bars Avenue. During the height of season, he would have to wait forever to make that left-hand turn; Main Street would be lined with pedestrians walking to dinner, window-shopping in front of Chatham's many art galleries, or visiting the small boutiques that lined Chatham's rustic main road. This evening, however, he had the road to himself and made the left-hand turn with ease.

He pulled up to the inn, not waiting for the valet to come out of his hut before jumping out of his Jeep and running inside. Fortunately, Jimmy, the valet, recognized Trick and didn't give him any trouble. Trick ran up to the front desk, where a woman named Holly was busy stapling some papers together.

"Can you please ring the room of Ms. Casper Quinlan?" Trick said, breathing heavily. If he could have seen himself, he would have realized how creepy this situation looked from the desk clerk's perspective.

"One minute, sir," Holly said, looking at her computer screen. She typed in Quinlan and saw that she had checked out early.

"I'm sorry, sir; she's already checked out. Is there someone else I can call for you?"

"When she registered, she didn't provide a mobile phone number, did she?"

"I'm sorry, sir; our privacy rules forbid us from giving out that information. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Damnit!" Trick said. "No."

Just then Trick heard laughter coming from the tavern bar located off the lobby. He thought the laugh sounded familiar and walked into the bar. Once there, he saw Blaze Hazelwood having drinks with a young woman with jet-black hair. Blaze had gotten tired of waiting for his father and sister to arrive and decided to go out for a drink. The woman's back was to Trick, but the color of her hair gave away the fact that the actor wasn't with Casper. When she turned around, he saw it was Nicole, the Russian waitress from the Impudent Oyster. Being one of the few restaurants in town that was open after the tourist season ended, Trick recognized her immediately.

"Look what the cat dragged in, luv," Blaze said to Nicole.

"You look like hail," Nicole observed in her Russian accent. "My mother's borscht looks beyter than you."

"Blaze, do you know where Casper went?"

"What happened between you two? I thought you were all lovey-dovey, and the next thing I know, she storms out of the house."

"Couldn't put ball in da hole?" Nicole quipped.

"Very funny. I said something to her I think she misunderstood, and I really need to talk to her. You don't have her number, do you?"

"I do—but better than that, I know where she went."

"Where?" Trick asked.

"I dropped her off at the airstrip in Chatham where she was going to look into chartering a plane to take her to the airport in Boston. From there she was going to try and get the last flight out to L.A."

"How long ago was that?"

"About ninety minutes ago, but I know the pilot wasn't due for an hour after we got there. She may still be at the airport!"

Trick ran out of the bar and back into his Jeep, which was still running.

"Thank you, Jimmy," Trick said to the valet. He made a left out of the hotel's parking lot and another left onto Main Street, and then continued for three miles until he turned onto George Ryder Road. As he pulled into the parking lot at the airfield, he saw a plane at the end of the runway. He jumped out of the Jeep and ran to the fence that divided the parking lot from the airstrip. He watched the plane begin its takeoff roll down the runway and go airborne thirty seconds later. While he knew there was a chance that Casper wasn't on that plane, he wasn't hopeful.

Trick walked to the door of the airstrip's main building, and a bell announced his entry into the main office.

"Can I help you?" said Lloyd Ryder, great-great grandson of George Ryder, for whom the road the airstrip was on was named.

"Can you tell me if there was a woman on that plane?"

"A beautiful woman with blonde hair and a slight limp?"

"That's the one."

"Yep, she was on it. Seemed awfully upset about something, too."

"How long before they get to Boston?"

"Boston? They're not going to Boston. That pilot was doing a run to Westchester County Airport just outside of White Plains, New York, because he's got some family in those parts. If I heard correctly—and my hearing isn't so good anymore—I think she booked herself a ticket to California from White Plains. They don't fly direct from Westchester to California, though, so she'll have to go through Chicago. I'm not so sure about the old fella, though."

"What old fella?" Trick asked.

"After she came in looking for a flight, an old guy and a woman came in right after her."

"Did they have any dogs with them?"

"No, not in the office, but I heard two dogs yappin' from their car. From what I gather she was supposed to drive him somewhere, but she got another assignment so was looking to book a flight for him to wherever he lives. When he saw the blonde lady and learned she was going to Westchester Airport, he asked if he could come along—I guess it ain't too far from where he lives, and she didn't put up any fuss. He offered to split the cost of the charter with her, but she said not to worry about it."

"How long before they get to Westchester Airport?"

"I don't see it taking them much longer than an hour and ten minutes. Good tailwind going tonight. You looking to go down there?"

Trick felt hopeful that he might be able to get there in time to see Casper before she boarded the flight to Chicago. If not, he would have no way of getting in touch with her before she got back to California; he was kicking himself for not getting her phone number directly from Blaze. If that were the case, his plan was to call the offices of _Fore!_ magazine late morning East Coast time and try to find someone who would share her phone number with him.

"Yes, can we leave now?"

"I was just askin' because you look anxious. I don't have a pilot who can take you now. Lloyd the fourth is a flyin' your friend right now, and you don't want Lloyd the third to take you."

"Let me guess—you're Lloyd the third, right?"

"Damn right, but my eyesight is so bad I can't even see the end of the runway."

"But I have to get down there tonight; I need to see her before she boards that flight to Chicago."

"Relax there, eager beaver. You can drive down there tonight and be there in more than enough time before her flight leaves."

"Doesn't her flight leave tonight?"

"Aw, heck no, junior! I gather she'll be leaving tomorrow morning because I checked and the last flight out to Chicago from Westchester has already left. I heard the old man invite her to stay at his house—must not be too far from the airport. Old guy still has it where it counts, if you ask me. Though he's probably got to pop one of those little blue pills..."

"Thank you for your time, Lloyd."

"My pleasure there, Skippy; hope you get the girl before the old fella sinks his dentures into her."

Trick left the main office of the airstrip, got back into his Jeep, and made a U-turn to head back toward Main Street. He pulled into the gas station located on the corner of Main Street and George Ryder Road, filled up with regular unleaded, and went into the convenience store to buy a cup of coffee. It was almost seven p.m., and he had a four-hour drive ahead of him. He got back into his Jeep and said a prayer that Trudy would get him to where he was going without breaking down.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

AS THE CESSNA rolled down the runway, Robert McMullen held on to the headrest attached to the seat in front of him for dear life; he had always been a nervous flyer and had never enjoyed the thrill of traveling in a "puddle jumper."

"If y'all want to talk to each other, you need to put the headphones on," the pilot, Lloyd Ryder the fourth, said while pointing toward the ceiling of the cockpit. "Otherwise once we get up there, you'll have to shout so loud you'll lose your voice before we get to Westchester. You'll sound like Janis Joplin after a rock concert."

There were four seats in the plane; the pilot was in the front left seat at the controls, while his dog, Reilly, occupied the front right seat. Casper and Robert sat in the two seats at the rear of the plane. They both put on the headphones per Lloyd's instruction.

"Does flying make you nervous?" Casper asked, sensing Robert's anxiety.

"Nervous is too generous a word," Robert said. "I'm damn terrified of it."

Their ascent was bumpy until Lloyd banked to the left and took the plane over Nantucket Sound. Once they were over the water, the air was smoother.

"Why are you flying back anyway?" Casper asked. "Didn't you drive up with Angel?"

"What Angel failed to tell me was that she could drive me up to Chatham, but she couldn't drive me back. Apparently, she was reassigned to another case in New Hampshire after my wife died—some poor fella suffering with emphysema. I guess hospice nurses are in high demand."

"Seems like a job with built-in security," Casper observed and then added, "I'm sorry about your wife."

"Madeline was my rock. We were together for over fifty years; we practically grew up together."

"I can't imagine finding someone who would be with me for one year, let alone more than fifty."

"We were high school sweethearts. We met during my junior year of high school in 1966 and were married before either of us graduated."

"Why so young?" Casper asked.

"I got drafted to go to Vietnam. We were so madly in love that we decided to get married when we both turned eighteen; we were only married for two months before I went away. Didn't come back until 1969."

"What did you do in the war?"

"I had an aptitude for science, and because I had an interest in medicine and no skill whatsoever for firing a weapon, I became a medic. I saw things I wish I could forget. Horrible things—on both sides."

"How did you handle it?"

"I was just trying to survive just like everybody else, but it was my job to help our injured on the battlefield, or at least make them as comfortable as possible. I prayed a lot, but at some point even that didn't work. They don't tell you this, but when soldiers are dying on the battlefield do you know what they do?"

"What?"

"Ask for their mothers," Robert replied. "Every single one of them asked about their mother before taking their last breath."

Casper did not have to be convinced how special the bond between a mother and child was; she missed her mother every day. "At least you made it back in one piece."

"That I did, but I was never the same. Madeline used to say as much—that I went in a boy and came back a man, albeit a man she barely recognized at times. But her love and support helped me get through. I wound up going to college on the GI Bill and graduated with a degree in biology in 1973. I must not have paid attention to any lesson in reproduction, though, because that was the same year Katie was born, and it wasn't our intent to start a family before I finished medical school. My wife, good soul that she was, didn't want our daughter to be a hindrance to my dream of going to medical school, so she had her mother move in with us to help with Katie, and then she got a job as a music teacher in our public school system to help pay the bills. Between medical school, my internship, and my residency, I missed the first five years of my daughter's life."

"That must have been hard on your wife," Casper observed.

"I suppose it was," Robert agreed, "but she never let me know it; she never complained at all."

Casper wanted to bring Robert back to a happier time, so she asked him why they purchased a house on the Cape. "When I was in Vietnam, I was one of the only guys who could put a sentence together, so I became the grand scribe of my unit. I wrote a newsletter that got sent back home, and someone had the bright idea of publishing my work in our local paper. Writing actually helped get me through the two years I was deployed in Vietnam, and it was something I always kept up, even when I came home.

"Except when I returned from the war, I started writing fiction as an escape from the trauma that followed me home. I had countless nightmares—I would wake up screaming and scare my wife half to death. Loud noises set off an anxiety within me that I can't even begin to describe. It was so bad that every Fourth of July, Madeline, Katie, and I went to Canada so I wouldn't be startled by fireworks. I turned to writing as a form of therapy to help take my mind off of my anxiety, and it worked; I published my first medical thriller in the late 1970s. The advance from my second novel, combined with the royalties from my first, earned me enough money to buy a house in Chatham without needing a mortgage. It became my retreat every summer, and one year for Father's Day, Madeline and Katie made me a hand-painted sign with the words _Writer's Retreat_ —you may have noticed it hanging over the front door of our Cape house."

"It must have been a very special place for you."

"It helped me earn back all those years I couldn't spend with my wife and my daughter while I was in medical school and we became very close. For a long period of time, I was one of the happiest men on the face of this earth."

"Was it hard going back there today?"

"I almost suffered an anxiety attack when I first walked in because I was so overwhelmed with emotion; seeing all the pictures of my family and all of Katie's drawings was almost more than I could handle. When I went into Katie's room to get what I came for, or at least what I thought I came for, I almost collapsed. And then, when you and Trick showed up, a lightbulb went off in my head as if it wasn't a coincidence; that something was bringing us together. Why were you interviewing him anyway?"

Casper recounted how her father's magazine was struggling and her intention was to try and get an exclusive interview with Trick in order to help boost sales.

"And he let you do that without a fight?"

"No, when he first found out I was a reporter, he stormed out of the restaurant we were in."

"Then what happened?"

"I was ready to give up, but this friend of his, Freddie, who is kind of a sister to him, spotted me at a diner and admitted to me that when she saw me with Trick the night before, he seemed happier than he had in a long time. She encouraged me to seek him out at the cemetery where his father is buried, and that's where I found him this morning. However, he rejected me there as well—it wasn't until I fell in front of his house that he agreed to talk to me."

Robert thought about how he would be re-familiarizing himself with the cemetery in the near future; after his daughter died, he would sit by her gravestone daily, but then daily became weekly, weekly became monthly, and monthly became every Christmas. Now that his wife was gone, he anticipated spending more time there.

"When Katie died I would sit by her graveside daily and just be with her. Once, while I was sitting there just talking to her, an old man came up to me—I think he was some kind of gardener—and he asked me what I was doing talking to myself. I explained that I wasn't talking to myself, but rather having a conversation with my daughter. He asked me why I was seeking the living among the dead—I had no idea what he was talking about. He explained that as long as I kept my daughter alive in my heart, I wouldn't have to seek her presence in a cemetery; I could feel it everywhere."

"That's beautiful. Part of me thinks that his father's grave is what is keeping Trick from leaving Chatham; his memories are holding him there the way a magnet attracts metal."

"If Trick were here, I would tell him the same thing. And by the way, when I saw you two earlier, it seemed like you had gotten past whatever caused him to storm out of the restaurant last night."

Casper told Robert about confiding in Trick about how she lost her leg and her best friend, and how being so open with him allowed him to open up too. She mentioned the kiss they shared in the rain before leaving the golf course and showing up at the house.

"So why are you here with me now and not with him?"

Casper silently reflected on Robert's question. She thought about how she acted when Trick said he wanted to slow things down. She wanted to blame him for her decision to leave, yet she had to admit to herself that leaving was the easy way out for her—it meant that she didn't have to risk being hurt.

"Because of me. I left because I didn't believe there was any way Trick, or any man, could really love me for who I am."

Robert let her words sink in, and then slowly and deliberately said, "You are an idiot."

"Excuse me?" Casper asked indignantly.

Robert started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry to be so blunt, but you are a beautiful woman and, if what you tell me is true, you somehow got my reclusive grandson, who is still reeling over his father's death, to trust you with some of the most intimate parts of his life. How many other reporters had he turned away? Yet you were the one he chose to speak with—why? On top of that, he tells you honestly that he wants to take things slow; that's pretty unheard of with young people these days."

"How do you know what he said to me back at the house?"

"I was trying to sleep in the room right above you; it's an old house, and the walls are thin. Listen, at some point you have to stop the pity party—the one you keep RSVPing to—and have a little faith in other people." As Robert spoke, he remembered that Angel had used the very same words with him earlier that morning: _Have a little faith_.

"Oh my goodness, I am an idiot!" Casper said, and then laughed.

"Y'all should go on the _Dr. Phil_ show," came the pilot's voice over their headsets. "This has been the most interesting conversation I've heard in long time; usually I just listen to investment banker types talking about stocks this and bonds that, but y'all are about to make me cry."

"I didn't realize you could hear us," Casper said.

The pilot tapped on his own headphones. "These cans pick up everything. Now I'm just giving you both a heads up: We're gonna be landing in Westchester Airport in about ten minutes. The pilot who just landed there said it was a bumpy descent, so if either of you feel as if you might experience your dinner again, I would appreciate it greatly if you'd use the appropriate bags in the pocket of the seat."

"Will do," Casper said, and then turned to Robert. "How are we going to get to your house from the airport?"

"There's a car service right at the airport," Robert said. "My house is only about twenty-five minutes away."

Casper looked out the window as they descended toward Westchester County Airport. The airfield was small, and they arrived at a commuter hangar minutes later. Robert helped Casper with her bags, and they walked to the main terminal where they were able to arrange for a car to New Canaan.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

TRICK WAS DRIVING south on Interstate 95 and had just passed Providence, Rhode Island, when his attention was drawn to a statue of a giant blue termite resting on the top of the large building. Taking his eyes off the road for a minute almost proved to be a costly decision; he didn't immediately see the person in front of him slam on his brakes. _Thank goodness my reflexes are still sharp!_ Trick thought to himself, breathing a sigh of relief. As Trick continued south, he vowed to pay more attention.

As he drove toward the Connecticut border, he realized it was the farthest he'd been from Chatham since last August—quite a change from previous years where he found himself in a different city every week for at least half of the year. At some point he got tired of listening to music and came across a religious talk show program on satellite radio. He was intrigued by its name, _The Busted Halo Show_ , and the fact that it was hosted by a Catholic priest, Paulist Father Dave Dwyer. Listeners had been asked to call in, mention a song or movie from pop culture, and make a faith-based connection to it. When Trick tuned in, a caller was sharing her point of view on how the song "Alive and Kicking" by Simple Minds could be related to faith in Christ as one's savior.

Trick was intrigued by the segment and listened to the remainder of the show as he crossed the state line dividing Rhode Island and Connecticut. The last caller was apparently a regular; he was welcomed as Mike from Stamford, Connecticut, and he attempted to make a connection between faith and the song "Moment of Surrender" by U2.

"Starting with the time we are born, we are pushed—unless, of course, we're delivered by C-section, and then I suppose we are pulled—into a world that wants us to be independent," Mike said. "Parents are taught not to pick up crying babies. They can't wait for their children to walk by themselves so they don't have to carry them, talk for themselves so they can tell them what they want, and ultimately live by themselves. This independence is not a natural state. God does not want us to be independent from him, so why would it be his will to be independent from our human families? From an early age we are taught to keep our guard up and not appear weak—and many of us are taught to never surrender.

"But I think we all need a moment of surrender every now and then to reflect on who we are as people and how we fit into the world, and also to spend time listening to God. It's in these moments of surrender that we become most creative due to His inspiration. When we fully surrender our wants, needs, and fears to God, good things happen. It takes a strong person to be able to do this, and it's something I'm working on personally."

Fr. Dave responded, "As always, an excellent call, Mike, and that's the one we will end our show on this evening. Tune in tomorrow night for Free-for-All Friday right here at seven p.m. on channel 159."

_Surrender...could it be that simple? Is that all I need to do: surrender my worries and my fears to a greater power and have faith that everything will be okay? Surrender the fear that starting a relationship with my grandfather might end up leaving me hurt or abandoned in some way?_ Trick pondered these questions for the next two hours as he continued his drive south.

Suddenly another thought occurred to Trick: He had been in such a rush to leave for Connecticut that he had forgotten to get Robert McMullen's address. Realizing this, he planned to pull into one of the many roadside service stations that lined the highway and say a prayer to Our Lady of Google in order to find the address of his grandfather.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THE CAB DRIVER pulled up to 39 White Oak Drive in New Canaan at exactly 10:33 p.m.; traffic was slow on the Merritt Parkway after entering Connecticut. The state had decided that the trees lining the bucolic Merritt Parkway needed to be cut back, and in order to avoid a major commuting disruption, this work was being done in the evening.

Casper got out of the car while Robert paid the driver for his services. She studied the house, a beautiful brick colonial located right on the main road.

"The greatest thing about this house is its proximity to Waveny Park," Robert said as he joined her. "You should take a walk through it tomorrow morning before your flight; it will help to clear your head. Always works for me."

"I am afraid I won't have much time," Casper admitted. "I have a seven a.m. flight to Chicago, and from there I have a connecting flight to LA."

"Well, if you change your mind, it's a lovely spot. It's actually where I asked my wife to marry me. There's a gazebo right behind a gorgeous mansion on the property, and behind that gazebo is a small pond. It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life when she said yes, even though I couldn't give her a ring—I was only eighteen at the time."

"Sounds very romantic," Casper replied.

Robert removed a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door. Casper walked in and was impressed by the splendor of the interior; the floor of the foyer was made out of marble, the ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and a long, U-shaped staircase led up to the second floor.

"When Katie was young, she used to start from one side and I would start from the other, and we would race to the top to see who could get there first."

"That sounds exactly like something I would have done with my father."

"Are you hungry? It's kind of late for takeout, but I can certainly make you an omelet; it's about the only thing I am capable of making, as a matter of fact." After he said this, the realization dawned that he would have to learn how to cook for himself now that Madeline was gone.

"That actually sounds great," Casper said.

"There's guest room upstairs, two doors down on the left. Feel free to get settled and freshen up. I'll have the omelets ready in about ten minutes." Robert headed to the kitchen and found eggs, shredded cheese, mushrooms, red peppers, and some spinach. He was thankful Angel had done some shopping for him the day before Madeline passed away.

As Casper walked up the stairs, she heard the sounds of eggs cracking and the unmistakable sounds of banging pots and pans—Robert clearly was not familiar with the location of such things in his kitchen. Part of her thought she should go down and help him, but she worried that doing so might insult him. When she got to the top of the staircase, she forgot whether or not Robert said to go to the first or second door on the left. She tried the first door and found it to be locked. She then went to the second door where she didn't run into the same problem.

For a guest bedroom, the size was very generous; there was a queen bed, a dresser, and its own full bathroom. The bed looked comfortable, and the thought of taking a shower sounded heavenly to Casper.

"Do you like cheese in your omelet?" Robert called from downstairs.

"The more the better," Casper replied.

She decided to use the restroom before going back downstairs. As she was washing her hands in the sink, Casper took a moment to look at herself in the mirror, and what she saw startled her. She was tired—anyone would be after traveling so much in such a short period of time, but the reflection staring back at her looked more than tired; it looked sad. And sad she was. On the flight from Chatham to Westchester, Casper realized she might very well have sabotaged another potential relationship by giving in to her own self-limiting beliefs as a way of avoiding potential heartbreak.

"Soup's on!" Robert called from downstairs.

Robert's kitchen included a state-of-the-art commercial-grade stove and top-of-the-line appliances. "This kitchen looks like it could have come out of a magazine," Casper said admiringly.

"Madeline loved to cook and to entertain. This kitchen was my gift to her for our fortieth wedding anniversary. We got a lot of enjoyment out of it over the past ten years. Here you go," Robert said, handing her a plate. "Would you care for a glass of wine?" When they were vacationing in Paris years ago, Madeline and Robert would have an omelet with a glass of white wine every afternoon.

"Sounds perfect," Casper said.

Robert went into his wine cooler and pulled out a bottle of sauvignon blanc. "Any objections to a crisp white wine from New Zealand?"

"Not at all."

Robert uncorked the wine and poured her a glass.

Robert seemed lost in thought. When he noticed Casper looking at him, he said, "This is the first meal I've had here since Madeline passed away; words cannot describe how much I miss her."

"My mother died fifteen years ago," Casper said. "My father still talks to her at night before going to bed. He doesn't know it, but when I sleep at his house I can hear him. Do you have any family nearby?"

"The closest family member I have now is 180 miles away from here," he said, referring to Trick, "and I'm afraid he doesn't want anything to do with me."

"No brothers or sisters?"

"I was an only child, and my parents are long gone."

"Do you think you will stay in this house?"

"I'm not sure. It's only been thirty-six hours, and I haven't given it much thought. That reminds me," Robert said, reaching into his pocket to take out the necklace he retrieved from Katie's room in Chatham, "I better go put this in a safe place; I have to bring it to the funeral home tomorrow."

"Your wife's dying wish was for you to go up to your Cape house and bring _that_ back?"

"I know it sounds odd, but this meant a lot to her."

"But why do you suppose she wanted to be buried with it? Not to sound harsh, but it's not like she's going to realize it is there."

While Robert had his suspicions that the real intention of having him go to Chatham had nothing to do with the necklace and everything to do with building a bridge between him and his grandson, he didn't want to believe that this was actually the case—primarily because he failed to do so.

"Can I remind you of something you said to me on the plane?" Casper asked.

"Of course," Robert replied.

"You are an idiot."

Robert was so stunned by what came out of Casper's mouth that he dropped his fork onto his plate.

"Have you given any more thought to the possibility that Madeline was trying to get you up to Chatham so you could meet your grandson and develop a relationship with him?"

"Let's say I have considered that," Robert replied. "A lot of good it did me; Trick wants nothing to do with me."

"It's only been a day," Casper reminded him, "and not even a full twenty-four hours at that. Relationships are not built overnight." As Casper heard her own words, it became clear to her that she was criticizing Robert for the very same thing _she_ was guilty of. "I'm an idiot!" she exclaimed.

"We both are," Robert agreed.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

IT WAS CLOSE to 11:30 p.m. when Trick reached exit 38 on the Merritt Parkway, one of three exits that could take him into the town of New Canaan. Not sure what exit would be best, he saw that there was a service station in between exits 38 and 37, so he decided to pull off there. He took out his mobile phone and did an Internet search for _Robert McMullen_ ; the first ten results that came up all had to do with books written by R. J. Donahue, and that's when Trick realized that R. J. Donahue was a pseudonym that his grandfather used for his book publishing. _That explains the posters in his study_ , Trick thought.

He tried another search; this time he added his grandmother's name to the query: _Robert and Madeline McMullen_. The first result was for his grandmother's obituary, which he accidentally tapped on. It read:

M _adeline McMullen, beloved wife of Dr. Robert McMullen, passed away after a brief battle with cancer; she was seventy years old._

_Madeline was a music teacher for over forty-five years in the New Canaan school system and taught many children in town how to play the piano, viola, and violin. After retiring from the public school system, she continued to give private music lessons to any child who was interested in learning an instrument, often at no cost to the family._

_She was an active member of the Columbiettes at St. Gabriel Church, which she often referred to as her second home. She volunteered frequently at the Pacific House Homeless Shelter for Men in Stamford, where her signature dish of chicken and dumplings was a resident favorite._

_Madeline is predeceased by her daughter, Katie, and is survived by her husband, Robert, with whom she treasured her fifty years of marriage. A Mass of Christian Burial will be held on Tuesday, March 15, at 10:00 a.m. at St. Gabriel's Roman Catholic Church, 914 South Avenue, New Canaan, Connecticut. In lieu of flowers the family requests that donations be made in Madeline's name to Arlene's Farm, a no-kill shelter for abandoned adult dogs located in Little Falls, NY._

Trick thought his grandmother sounded like an amazing woman and felt a twinge of sadness that he never had the opportunity to know her. Then, conscious of how late it was getting and eager to find his grandfather's address, he continued searching until he found a link to their address at 39 White Oak Drive in New Canaan. Trick entered that address into the GPS on his phone and realized he was only half a mile away from the house.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CASPER TOOK A long, hot shower in the guest bathroom. She knew that sleep wouldn't come easily since her body was still on West Coast time. Even though it was 11:30 p.m. in Connecticut, it felt as if it were only 8:30, long day notwithstanding. She decided to go back downstairs.

Casper entered the living room, where Robert was on the couch thumbing through an old photo album. He closed the album—one Madeline had put together featuring Katie—when she walked in the room and said, "This album should have had more pictures in it."

Casper looked around the room, noticing a baby grand piano to her left. Robert noticed her admiring the piano and said, "It's made out of walnut. I bought that for my wife on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary."

"I thought twenty-five was silver," Casper remarked.

"Why don't you have a seat on the bench?"

Casper did as she was asked and immediately noticed a silver plaque with an inscription on it located in the space above the keyboard. It read: "To my wife, Madeline, on our silver anniversary, remembering that day twenty-five years ago when two became one."

"She cried the first time she sat down to play it." Robert reminisced.

"Do you remember what she played?"

"How could I forget? It was our daughter's favorite piece of classical music, 'Für Elise.'"

Casper surprised Robert by placing her hands on the keyboard and playing it from memory. Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched her hands glide over the keys; he couldn't help but remember all the times he watched his daughter play the same piece. After she was finished, Robert said,

"Thank you! That was beautiful."

Seeing the tears streaming down his face, Casper got up from the bench and gave Robert a hug.

"Thank you," he said again. "I really needed that."

The moment between them was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Who could be here at this hour of the night? It's almost midnight!" Robert exclaimed. He walked to the front door and peered through the peephole. "You're never going to believe this..."

"Who's there?" Casper asked.

"Come and see for yourself," Robert replied, opening the door.

Casper walked into the foyer and saw Trick Evans standing there. "Oh my God," she said, her heart pounding.

Trick had spent the last hour of his drive thinking about what he would say to both Robert and Casper, but now that he was face-to-face with both of them, he quickly forgot everything he rehearsed. Instead he decided to wing it. "Robert, there are many things I want to say to you, but I'm hoping you're okay with waiting until the morning. Right now, I need to say something to Casper."

"Trick, what are you..."

Trick walked up to her, motioned her to stop talking, and bent to kiss her. Casper, taken off guard, surrendered to the kiss and wrapped her arms around him. Robert, realizing that the two showed no signs of stopping, said, "Why don't I leave you two alone for a while?" The couple, so lost in each other's embrace, may have actually heard him but gave no sign that they did.

Casper pulled away first, and when she did, a look of sadness came over Trick's face. She grabbed him by the hand and led him upstairs to the guest room. The rest of what happened is a private matter between Casper Quinlan and Trick Evans; let's just say, however, that Casper did not make her seven a.m. flight the following morning.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

WHEN TRICK WOKE up he was momentarily confused about where he was; it was a sensation he often experienced the first night in a new city when he was on the PGA tour. He turned on his side, expecting to see Casper, but she was gone. For a moment his heart sank, but then he heard the sounds of a piano coming from the floor below. He followed those sounds like a hunting dog might follow the scent of a fox in the woods until he found Casper sitting at the grand piano. She was playing a beautiful song written by Lori McKenna called "Humble and Kind"; he recognized it immediately because the country artist Tim McGraw, one of his father's favorites, had a current hit with it. Casper was so lost in the music that she did not see Trick enter the room.

"Wow!" he said when she finished playing.

"I didn't know you were there," Casper replied, startled.

"If you did, would you have played that?"

"Probably not," she said.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't give it away then. Where is Robert?"

"He left a note in the kitchen saying he was going somewhere quiet so he could write his wife's eulogy; the funeral is tomorrow."

"When I woke up and saw that you weren't there, I was afraid you had left for the airport."

"Thanks to you, I slept right through my flight."

"As my father used to say, it takes two to tango."

Casper blushed. "Where do we go from here, Trick Evans?"

"I don't know the answer to that question," Trick admitted, "but I'm looking forward to the journey."

"I hate to bring this up," Casper said, "but I kind of have to write an article; I was planning on doing that on the flight back, but now I'll need some time to do that today." Mentioning this made Casper nervous because she didn't know how Trick would react. She was surprised at what came out of his mouth next.

"Do you have all the content you need?"

Relieved that he did not object to being the subject of her article, she replied, "The only thing I need is some time to write."

"Why don't I get out of your hair then and let you do that."

"Are you going to stay around here?" Casper asked, afraid he would head back to the Cape.

"That depends," he said with a wry smile on his face. "Are you going back to California today?"

"I know it sounds odd, because I have known Robert for an even shorter time than I have known you, but I think I'm going to go to the funeral tomorrow."

Trick hadn't really considered going to the funeral; the only reason he came down to New Canaan was to express his feelings for Casper, but if she was staying for it, he may as well, too. "Would you like some company?"

"I don't think you can go dressed like that," Casper replied. Trick was still wearing the same clothes he showed up in the evening before; they were far from appropriate for a funeral.

"Good point. How about I head into town and pick up some new clothes while you write; we can meet up later on."

"Sounds like a plan."

Trick went back upstairs to take a shower and Casper turned her attention back to the piano. Often Casper didn't have a plan for what she was going to play; this time she wound up playing "What a Wonderful World," a tune popularized by Louis Armstrong. Buried deep in her subconscious was a memory of her father singing that song to her as a child. Suddenly remembering that she hadn't spoken with her father since leaving California, she stopped playing and went upstairs to retrieve her phone and called her father's office. While it was still before nine a.m. on the West Coast, he was an early riser and Casper knew he would be at work.

Don Quinlan answered on the second ring. "I was wondering when I was going to hear from you. How is the Cape?"

Casper explained that she was no longer on the Cape but in New Canaan, Connecticut. She told him about meeting Trick accidentally and all the circumstances that had transpired, including the disaster at the Bleeding Seal, playing golf with Trick, and meeting Trick's grandfather.

"Casper Quinlan, while I live and breathe, this is the most amazing story I have ever heard. This could really help to boost the sales of the magazine; how soon can I see a draft?"

Casper paused. She wondered if she was doing the right thing by telling such a personal story; while she had Trick's permission to do so, she questioned her own motivation. Was telling the story just to sell more copies of a magazine the right thing to do? She decided she would write it first and then determine what she would do with it.

"Darling, are you still there?"

"Sorry, Dad, I was just spacing out. It shouldn't take too long to write—I have the structure of it in my head, and I've set aside the whole day to do it. I should have something for you to look at by the end of the day today or, at the latest, tomorrow morning."

"Excellent!" her father replied. "When will you be home?"

"I don't know. I am going to head to the funeral tomorrow; maybe I'll get a late flight out tomorrow night. It's hard to say."

"Casper Quinlan, have you fallen in love?"

"What? Dad, no..."

"You can't fool me! The Casper I know would have taken the first flight out after achieving her objective, but something is keeping you there—and in my mind it can only be one thing."

"I don't know what it is, Dad, but being with Trick makes me feel whole."

Although she couldn't see it, Don Quinlan was grinning from ear to ear. He knew how beautiful and talented his daughter was, and his heart ached because he also knew how many limitations she placed on herself due to her handicap. That she had found someone who made her feel whole was worth more than any article. "Even if you decide not to write Trick's story, and I know you might be conflicted about that, please know that what you just told me makes me happier than hearing that you managed to land an interview."

Tearfully Casper said, "Thank you, Dad."

"Once you have your travel plans figured out, call Sylvia so she can arrange everything for you. That will give you one less thing to worry about."

"Will do. I love you, Dad."

"Love you too, darling."

Casper kept the phone to her ear a minute after hearing the beep that signaled the call was over, allowing herself to enjoy the warm emotions that washed over her. Smiling, she decided to take a shower, power up her laptop, and begin writing.

## CHAPTER FORTY

THE PROSPECT OF writing a eulogy for his late wife was almost too much to handle for Robert McMullen. How could he summarize a lifetime of experiences together in a ten- or fifteen-minute tribute? While Robert was no stranger to the written word, his specialty was fiction, and what was required of him tomorrow was anything but. Putting a light jacket on over his sweater, he decided to talk a walk through Waveny Park to help clear his head and search for inspiration.

He crossed South Avenue and entered one of the many trails contained within the park. In a few weeks these trails would experience the pounding of running shoes, as many of the area's cross-country runners called Waveny Park home, but on this Monday morning, there was no fear of being run over by someone doing sprint intervals or repeat miles; today the trails belonged to Robert and his thoughts.

He could never have predicted the events of the past couple of days: driving up to Writer's Retreat only to run into the grandson given to him by a daughter he'd all but abandoned, and then the twist of events when that grandson followed his heart, driving from Chatham to his house. It was like something out of a movie!

He thought about the girl he flew home with, the object of his grandson's affection, and how she responded when Trick embraced her. He thought about his grandson, obviously still reeling from his father's death but working his way through it. Robert sensed little indication that the two of them might ever have a relationship; perhaps that was for the best. He didn't expect Trick to forgive him for the way he acted toward him or his mother. _Some things cannot be forgiven_ , he thought sadly.

Robert crossed over the main road through the park and followed the trail that paralleled the Merritt Parkway. After a quarter mile he decided to take a right onto the trail that led to the main area of the park. In the summertime, park goers would enjoy picnics, flying kites, and pickup games of soccer here, but today it was empty. On Tuesday nights, the park hosted its concert race series where local runners would compete and then enjoy a jazz concert on the lawn behind the mansion located on the park's property, but those races were still twelve weeks away.

As Robert walked up the lawn toward the mansion, he saw a lot of people exiting the home. He knew the building could be rented out for events—usually weddings, but March certainly wasn't wedding season. His curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to check it out.

Once he got close enough to see what was happening, Robert saw that most of the people coming out of the mansion were on the older side, many of whom walked with an aide. All were carrying small sculptures that appeared to be made out of clay. Robert stopped one of the aides, who was helping an old woman down the steps. Looking at this name tag, Robert said, "Albert, I'm sorry to bother you, but can you tell me what is going on at the mansion today?"

"The town put on a special event," Albert replied. "A world-renowned sculptor named Bruce Miller is teaching anyone who wants to learn how to work with clay. The director of the Waveny Nursing Home thought it might be good therapy for some of our residents. Another session is about to begin."

"Albert, I have to get home to watch my stories," said the older woman impatiently.

"I'll get you right home, Maria," Albert replied, and then turned to Robert. "The guy is pretty amazing; you should go check it out. It's free for town residents."

"I think I will," Robert said. "Thank you for your time—and, Maria, I hope you enjoy your stories."

"I'm married!" she exclaimed. "The nerve of these younger men, always trying to pick me up. You should be ashamed."

Although he could no longer hear Maria when he walked into the mansion, Robert was certain Albert was still getting an earful from her. As he walked into the mansion, he saw lots of tables covered with white paper tablecloths. A mix of people, both young and old, were waiting for the session to begin; each one had a ball of clay and a utility knife, which reminded Robert of the scalpels he used when he was a practicing physician.

A woman wearing a smock approached Robert. "Would you like a ball of clay?" she asked.

"No, I really wouldn't know what to do with it," he replied.

"Then you came to the right place," came a booming voice from behind him. His name tag read Bruce, and Robert knew from his conversation with Albert that a Bruce Miller was the one teaching the class. "There's an open spot in the front near me—let me teach you about molding clay."

Robert walked to the front of the room, and Bruce turned around to face everyone. "You're going to learn something about clay," he said, "but along the way I'm going to tell you a story about music." With his long, unkempt hair and wiry body, many of the people who came to see Bruce that day initially mistook him for a rock star instead of a sculptor.

"I remember as a kid listening to certain tapes in my Sony Walkman so much that they would wear out and sound distorted after a while—kind of like when the batteries were running low or when the dentist gives you too much laughing gas. I listened to certain recordings so much that I would actually come to hate them after a while. Kind of ironic, don't you think?

"The point is, over time I became careful not to 'party out' and listen to an album I liked so much that I would wind up hating it. When U2's album, _No Line on the Horizon_ , came out, I listened to it at least once a day for two weeks and then decided to put it away until I saw them in concert about six years ago. Much of that show centered around that album, and it was only then that I remembered how great of an album it is.

"One song in particular stands out—'I'll Go Crazy if I Don't Go Crazy Tonight.' I am a spiritual seeker; I believe that the Holy Spirit surrounds us if we are open to letting Him in. I know that there are others like me out there who actively pray that someone's hard heart—or even our own—will soften, and we are sometimes disappointed and discouraged that the process does not happen as quickly as we would like. If there is one thing I've learned, it's that such a change does not happen on our time, but on _His_ time."

Robert wasn't the only one wondering what this had to do with clay. Bruce then drove his point home.

"The Holy Spirit works more like a sculptor molding clay than a machine fabricating parts for a new car. _It takes time to chisel away the imperfect as the artist's vision comes to life._ It cannot be rushed. As the chorus of U2's song suggests, life is more of a mountain than a hill. To successfully climb a mountain requires faith and trust in others; to climb the spiritual mountain of life requires that we trust in something bigger than ourselves and make the time to analyze the sources of doubt that invariably spring up from time to time. I love the idea of the goal of making it toward the light, but only after a little craziness is experienced along the way. This is a reminder of our own humanity. We may strive to live saintly lives, _but every now and then our human nature reminds us that we will fall down along the way_. The important question to ask is: What do we do when we get back up, if we get back up at all?"

Bruce paused and took a deep breath. "Now focus on a problem in your life that you want to solve. Maybe it's a relationship that needs healing; maybe it's a result of a financial matter. Whatever the case, picture it in your mind and then picture the worry and stress associated with that problem get smaller, and smaller, and smaller until you can barely see it at all. Now, with a clear mind, open your eyes and turn your attention to the clay in front of you and make something with it. Make whatever you want; there is no wrong way to work with it. Just let your hands—and your spirit—do the work."

Before he knew it, Robert's hands were working with the clay. And after a while, he realized that the problem of what to write for his wife's eulogy was solved.

## CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

WHILE ROBERT WAS molding clay at the mansion at Waveny Park and Casper was busy working on her article, Trick drove to New Canaan's shopping district to purchase a suit for the funeral.

He parked his Jeep in a municipal lot and fed a dollar into the parking meter. He walked around the corner and then up Elm Street, which was New Canaan's version of Main Street, until he found a store that sold men's clothing. The window of Grace Marie & Company Clothiers featured a mannequin dressed in a sharp-looking dark suit, so Trick thought it was as good a place as any to shop for what he needed.

"Can I help you?" came a voice from the back of the shop. It belonged to James Peters, an employee who referred to himself as a professional "style consultant."

"I need a suit," Trick said. "I'm going to a funeral tomorrow, and the only clothes I have are the ones I am wearing."

James came out from the back and recognized Trick immediately. "Oh my goodness, you're Trick Evans, aren't you?"

Trick would never get used to being recognized in public and was always embarrassed when someone singled him out. "Yes—as I said, I need a suit for..."

"Are you going to come back to the tour this season? No one has heard from you since last August."

"I haven't made up my mind yet about that. Look, my grandmother just..."

Before he could finish what he was saying, James interrupted with, "My heart was in my throat when you holed your shot from the trap during the PGA Championship last August. It was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. I am so sorry about what happened to your father."

The last thing Trick wanted to talk about with a men's store employee was golf or the death of his father. "I appreciate your kind words, but what I really need is a..."

Before Trick could say the word _suit_ , James took out his phone and looked as if he was about to snap a picture. "What are you doing?" Trick asked.

"It's not every day I get to see a celebrity in this town. I mean, every now and then Harry Connick Jr. and Paul Simon show up, but they are old news. Can I take a selfie?"

"If I agree to take a picture with you, can we please get me fitted for a suit?"

"Are you kidding? Yes, of course."

Trick walked over to James and stood by his side. James's arm came up, phone in hand, and they both smiled. He snapped a few pictures and then put his phone back in his pocket. "What kind of suit are you looking for?"

"I am going to a funeral tomorrow and need something appropriate. Since we don't have time to tailor it, I just need something off the rack."

"Certainly, let me just take some measurements." James removed the flexible measuring tape he had around his neck and took measurements of Trick's neck, sleeve, chest, waist, and leg length. "If you want to go to the dressing room, I'll bring you some options as well as a white shirt and some ties. I assume you will need socks, shoes, and a belt as well?"

"I need it all," Trick said.

"I'll meet you in the fitting room."

Trick did as he was instructed and waited for James to come back.

Before picking up a suit from the rack, James couldn't resist pulling out his phone and posting a message to his social media accounts that he was waiting on Trick Evans. His Facebook post read, "Trick or Treat? Both for me; I'm fitting him for a suit. #grandslam #golfhero #ESPN" and then attached the selfie of him and Trick. His Facebook account was linked to his Instagram account as well as his Twitter account. Within minutes, anyone connected to James on those social media networks, or anyone searching those hashtags, would know that Trick was shopping in New Canaan, Connecticut.

James returned with some selections for Trick to consider. After trying on everything, Trick settled on a classically cut black suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie. Once the suit was picked out, James brought back a pair of black dress shoes, some black socks, and a black belt. Trick changed back into the clothes he was wearing when came into the store and took everything to the register where James rang him up.

"Thanks for your help today, James. Just one thing—can we keep this between us? I don't need anyone knowing I left the Cape; you wouldn't believe the amount of reporters I have had to avoid since last August."

Feeling a twinge of guilt, James replied, "Of course. It will remain between you and me."

"Thanks, James."

Trick turned around and left the shop. He walked back to his Jeep and deposited his purchases in the back cargo space. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was only two o'clock and realized he still had the rest of the day to kill. He decided to walk down Elm Street, and there he came across a movie theater. The sign on the marquee said that Monday was "Retro Monday" and _Seems Like Old Times_ starring Chevy Chase, Goldie Hawn, and Charles Grodin was playing at 2:15. He had seen that movie with his father, so he decided it wouldn't be a bad way to kill the afternoon. He purchased a ticket along with some popcorn and a Coke and easily found a seat in the almost empty theater.

When instructed to do so, he put his phone on mute and sat back to enjoy the movie. Had he not done so, he would have been bombarded with numerous emails, text messages, and social media notifications from people who had heard the news that he was in New Canaan, Connecticut, shopping for a suit. Instead Trick enjoyed the movie in peace and quiet without any interruptions whatsoever.

## CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CASPER WAS MAKING significant progress on her article when she received a call from her father. While she had been ignoring all calls, emails, and texts, she decided it was time to take a break, so she answered the call. "Hi Dad, what's up?"

"You haven't heard the news, have you?"

"I've been in a media blackout all day since I started writing. What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Depends on how you define okay. Turn on ESPN if you can."

"I'm not in a room with a TV, but I'll go to the website." Casper went to the ESPN website and saw a big headline that read, "Trick Evans Leaves the Cape. Could Augusta Be Next?" She saw a picture of Trick and some guy with a measuring tape around his neck as the lead image for the story.

"Oh my goodness, he's going to freak out when he sees this."

"Have you heard from him at all?"

"Haven't spoken with him since this morning. I'll try calling him in a moment. Thanks for letting me know, Dad!"

Casper tapped the end call button on her phone and then attempted to call Trick, but there was one small issue she forgot about—she had never gotten his number. At that moment, she heard the front door open and rushed toward it, thinking it might be Trick, but when she reached the foyer, she saw it was Robert. Casper looked at her watch and saw that it was four p.m. and remarked, "I thought you might be Trick."

"Casper, you frightened me. When I saw that Trick's Jeep was gone, I figured you two had left to go somewhere."

"We've decided to stay for the funeral," she admitted. "Trick went into town to buy a suit."

Robert was overjoyed with this news; the fact that his grandson was going to come to the funeral made him feel as if there was a chance that, over time, the two could build a relationship. "I am happy to hear that," he said, his eyes beginning to water.

Casper saw that Robert was carrying something in a brown bag. "What's in the bag?"

"My eulogy."

"A eulogy in a bag?"

"You'll see. Listen, I have had quite the day—I'm physically and emotionally wiped out, and I need to take a nap. Do you think you and Trick would want to go to dinner tonight? There is a great Mexican place in town."

"That sounds good to me, but I am not sure of what kind of mood he will be in."

"Why?"

"Somebody who works at the place where he bought a suit decided to share that fact with the world."

"I don't follow."

"Do you have a TV down here?"

Robert motioned Casper to follow him into the family room and turned on the television. "What channel?"

"ESPN," she replied.

Robert turned on ESPN, and sure enough, a sports anchorwoman named Nikki Hart was talking about Trick Evans.

"Just to confirm, ESPN has learned that Trick Evans, who to the best of our knowledge has not left his home on Cape Cod since the death of his father last August, is in the well-to-do town of New Canaan, Connecticut. On the phone is James Peters from the Grace Marie & Company men's shop in New Canaan. James, what can you tell me about why Trick Evans was buying a suit from you today?"

"I just want to say, Nikki, that I am a big fan of yours. I think you got a raw deal when HBC Sports fired you."

James was referring to an incident that happened six months earlier. Nikki entered the locker room of the Miami Dolphins without permission after their win against the New York Jets. She walked in on many of the players as they were changing and was promptly fired from the network. Since then there had been a few conspiracy theories floating around the sports world that she was set up—that HBC was just trying to figure out a way to fire her without having to pay the rest of her contract.

"Thank you for that," Nikki said. "But, James, what can you tell us about why Trick was shopping at your store earlier today?"

"I mean anyone with half a brain could tell that you were set up. Anyone who believes otherwise is kidding themselves!"

Nicole was losing her patience, and this was starting to show in her facial expression that was, at the present moment, being beamed to the 20 million households in the US that were currently tuned in. "Can you speculate what Trick is doing in town?"

"Right, well, he said something about having to go to a funeral. Let me just add one more thought..."

Nicole sent a signal to the person in the control room manning the phone lines to sever the connection with James before he could continue making points that had nothing to do with the topic she wanted to discuss. "Well, you heard it here first: Trick Evans is in the town of New Canaan, Connecticut, to attend a funeral. We will keep you informed as this story continues to develop. Switching gears, we'll now talk about the NHL teams with the greatest post-season prospects..."

Robert turned off the television just as Trick entered into the room, surprising both of them.

"Where have you been all afternoon?" asked Casper.

Trick replied in a poor excuse for a Spanish accent, "I had to get my feet scraped."

"What?" Casper asked.

"Love that Chicken Pepperoni!" Trick clarified.

"Are you on drugs, son?" Robert asked.

"What are you talking about?" Casper asked.

"Haven't either of you ever seen _Seems Like Old Times_? It was playing at the movie theater in town, so I decided to watch it. I had nothing else to do today—and those are classic lines from the movie."

"Has anyone tried to call you this afternoon?" Casper asked

"Haven't received any calls since I went to the movies—oh wait, I forgot that I turned my phone to do-not-disturb mode." Trick took the phone out of his pocket and turned the do-not-disturb feature off. The minute he did, it started buzzing like crazy. "What the hell?" he said.

"Trick, I think..."

"Wait—I have ten missed calls from my agent, and my Twitter feed is going crazy. What's going on?"

"Trick, I think you'd better sit down," Casper said, taking out her own phone. She tapped to open the Twitter app, did a search for the hashtag _ESPN_ , and scrolled down until she saw the post by James from the clothing store. She stifled a laugh when she saw that his Twitter Handle was @JimmysPeter. "Look at this," she said, handing him her phone.

"Mother of pearl!" Trick exclaimed. "I asked him not to post that."

"Seems like everyone is looking for his or her fifteen minutes of fame," Casper replied.

"If they find out I am here for a funeral..."

"Too late," Robert chimed in. "Your friend from the store was just on ESPN sharing that fact."

"If they find out whose funeral it is, it's going to turn into a media circus!"

Robert spoke up. "Trick, it's a pretty safe bet they will; reporters are like vultures."

"I better call my agent," Trick said and went into the other room. Casper followed him.

Trick's agent was a man by the name of Peter Schilling; he was a no-nonsense Brit who had been trying to reach his client since the news broke. "Trick, where have you been? And do you remember last August when I agreed not to call you unless it was really an emergency?"

"Yes," Trick replied.

"And did I live up to my end of the bargain?"

Once again Trick agreed.

"Even though your hiatus from the business of golf cost us what could have been hundreds of millions of dollars?"

From what Trick read, this was actually a conservative estimate of what he could have made in tournament winnings, endorsements, sponsorships, and licensing deals. Since his agent got a 15% cut of everything Trick made, when he said _us_ , he really meant it.

"Yes, I am aware."

"Well, when I do call you I expect you to pick up and not have to ramble on your voicemail which I assume you haven't checked."

"I was at the movies and I turned it off."

"Well, it must be bloody nice to be able to go to the movies on a Monday afternoon!" Peter said sarcastically.

"Look, Peter, I just heard the news, and I'm calling you to figure out what to do about it." Trick then ran Peter through the recent sequence of events, from meeting Casper to running into the man who turned out to be his grandfather.

"Bloody hell, that is an amazing story! Would make for a great book; let me call Esther at Random House and..."

Trick cut him off before Peter could continue. "Look, my number one concern right now is to make sure my grandmother's funeral doesn't turn into a media fiasco."

"Let me think about this for a minute," Peter said, and hung up.

Thirty seconds later he called back with a plan. "I'm pretty sure I can stop the vultures from circling at the funeral, but I'll have to give them something juicy in return."

Trick wasn't sure he liked where this was going. "Such as?"

"Such as a press conference with Trick Evans—his first since leaving golf last August. If I can promise them that, I can almost guarantee a quiet day for you and the family tomorrow."

Trick paused for a minute to think about the consequences about doing a press conference in front of the entire golf world. He would certainly be asked about his intentions to resume playing on the tour, and he'd have to field personal questions about his father's death. On the other hand, he considered the consequences of not agreeing to a press conference and the spectacle that would be waiting outside the church tomorrow. "Where is the tour this coming weekend?"

"It's the inaugural playing of the Guitar Center Open in Westlake Village, California."

"Hold on a second, Peter," Trick said and turned to Casper. "Where did you say you lived in California?

Casper responded, "Westlake Village. Why?"

If there was one thing Trick learned over the last two days, it was that there are no coincidences in life. He turned his attention back to his agent and said, "Okay, I'll do it."

"They're holding a media day Wednesday at the inn where most of the players are staying. Do you have a pen handy?"

"Hold on a second," Trick said. "Casper, can you grab me a pen?"

Casper returned with a pen and a piece of paper. "Okay, I'm ready."

"Media day will be held at the Westlake Village Inn. It starts at noon and runs until six p.m. Can I start telling people that you will be there?"

"Not yet; I have one condition."

"What's that?"

"Nothing gets announced until Casper Quinlan's piece on me gets released by _Fore!_ magazine."

Casper looked at Trick and smiled.

"When will that be?" Peter asked.

"Let me ask," Trick said and then turned to Casper. "When will your article be done?"

"I need to proof it tonight; I can have it up by midnight."

Trick turned his attention back to his agent on the phone. "Midnight tonight; nine p.m. your time. Does that work?"

"Yes, but it's going to be a late night—I'm going to have to make a lot of calls to the East Coast and wake up a lot of media people."

"Then you'll really be earning your schillings, Peter," Trick said with a smile. "See you Wednesday."

"Before you go," Peter said, "let me arrange for the agency's private jet to take you to California. I know you tend to eschew such things, but if you fly commercial, you're going to be bombarded."

"Good thinking; make sure it has room for three."

"Three?" Peter asked. "Do you have an entourage all of a sudden?"

Trick repeated, "Just make sure it has room for three people, Peter," and ended the call.

"What was all that about—and why did you need to know where I live?"

"Because I just agreed to do a press conference in Westlake Village the day after tomorrow; we're taking my agent's private jet back to California."

"Very presumptuous to assume that I would go back with you, Patrick Evans!"

"If you would rather fly commercial..."

"When do we leave?" Casper asked hastily.

"I have to arrange it with my agent's assistant. We should probably leave after the funeral though; I don't want to risk traveling on the day of the press conference."

"Why did you say that the plane needed to have room for three?" Casper asked.

Trick looked toward the family room where his grandfather had resumed watching television. "I thought it might be good for him to get a change of scenery."

## CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CASPER PUT THE finishing touches on her article and proofed it one final time before sending it off to her father for a quick editorial review. She called him immediately after sending the email to let him know that it was coming, and they agreed to speak again in thirty minutes. It was 11:00 p.m. and she was finding it difficult to keep her eyes open. The only time she had taken a break was when Robert came upstairs with some takeout from the Mexican restaurant he mentioned earlier; they decided that given the events of the afternoon, it would be unwise for Trick to be seen having dinner in public.

Well before the agreed thirty minutes were up, Casper's phone rang. She checked the caller ID to confirm that it was her father. "Hi, Dad," she said drowsily.

"Is this what you want to run with?"

"Why, is it bad?"

"It's just a little different than I was expecting."

Casper had been afraid of this. After finishing her article earlier in the evening and looking over what she wrote, she decided to take a different approach with it. It became a much more personal piece than before. "I can send you an alternative version if you like."

"No—it's one of the most beautiful and honest pieces I have ever read in my life. I was brought to tears reading it; I just want to make sure you are fine with _Fore!_ publishing it. Once it's out there, it will live on forever."

Casper paused, took a deep breath, and said to her father, "I am ready for it to be out there."

"Okay," he said, "I'll make sure our webmaster gets it up in the next five minutes."

"I love you, Dad," she said.

"I love you too, Casper," he replied, and hung up.

It was a long five minutes, during which Casper second-guessed her decision no fewer than ten times. When the five minutes were up, Casper typed in www.foremagazine.com/casperscorner, and this is what she saw:

Casper's Corner: What I've Learned from Trick Evans

by _Casper Quinlan_

Welcome to a new online column from _Fore!_ My name is Casper Quinlan, and I have to admit something to you up front: I was never supposed to be in the golf business; my sport of choice was ice hockey. My career as a hockey player, though, was cut short fifteen years ago when a car accident took my leg as well as my best friend's life. My father was my rock during this period of my life; he taught me that it wasn't how many times I fell down on the road to recovery, but what I did when I got back up. Over time I learned to walk again. While I adjusted to my new physical reality, though, I never was quite the same mentally or spiritually.

Three days ago I met someone who changed my life forever; his name is Patrick Evans. Most, if not all of you, know him as Trick. At first I was just another journalist wanting to capture Trick's story. Then, after meeting him, I was convinced I could help him get through the pain that he was feeling because of his father's death, but I was proven wrong—it was he who helped me.

I've learned to compensate for my handicap pretty well; people who meet me for the first time have a hard time believing that hidden under a long dress or a pair of long pants is a prosthetic leg, but the thing is, I know it is there. And it is this knowledge of my imperfection that drove me to believe that no one would ever love me completely. I sabotaged countless relationships with well-intentioned men who told me that my disability wasn't a concern for them, that they loved me for who I was. Whether or not they were being honest, I didn't believe them.

Then I met Trick Evans. I was fortunate enough to convince Trick to play a few holes of golf with me; in my mind, how I did this was nothing short of a miracle given the fact that he walked out on me the night before when he found I worked for _Fore!_ I was heartbroken that night because, for the first time in over fifteen years, I made a personal connection with someone, and it felt different—it felt honest and pure. Not to mention that people in his hometown of Chatham, Massachusetts, treated me like a pariah after they found out who I was and what I did for a living; they are very protective of their own.

So you may be wondering what I did to convince Trick to chat with me over a few holes of golf; I lifted up my skirt and showed him what I never showed any man I had just met (get your head out of the gutter, boys): I showed him my prosthetic leg. Taking a risk and exposing my vulnerabilities encouraged Trick to do the same, and I got to know him over six holes of golf.

I could share with you everything he shared with me about his upbringing, his relationship with his father, and all the lessons his father taught him, but those are really his stories to tell—and believe me, they are powerful stories. Life-changing stories. Instead, I want to share with you the lesson that Trick taught me.

The game of golf is more than just a summation of all the shots you take during a round. It is the experience you have and the lessons you learn about yourself during every round. A round of golf is more than just the score you have at the end of it, but the experiences you have with your fellow golfers.

I learned that a golf course is also a great metaphor for life. Like a golf course, life has its own set of fairways, roughs, water hazards, and sand traps. Much like the lesson my father taught me about getting back up after falling, in life, as in golf, it's not important that you missed your objective, but the adjustments you make to get back on target to achieve your goal, hopefully better than you did in the past.

Perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from my time with Trick was even more personal than that. Just as golf is greater than the individual shots you take, I am greater than the individual parts that make up my body. I have lived the past fifteen years believing that because I am missing a leg, I am somehow not whole. My brief time with Trick Evans this week has shown me otherwise.

I can't tell you if and when Patrick Evans will return to the game of golf. All I can tell you is that if he does, it will be on his own terms. Inside of me, though, I hold out hope that he will reconsider his reasons for turning away from who he is meant to be.

_Casper Quinlan is the new director of digital strategies for Fore! magazine. Please feel free to share your comments in the field below or send them directly to casperscorner@foremagazinedigital.com._

Casper said a silent prayer that Trick wouldn't take issue with anything she wrote and then succumbed to the sleep her body had been craving for the past few hours. With a funeral in the morning and a flight to California in the afternoon, tomorrow was going to be a long day, and Casper knew she would need her strength.

## CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

TRICK AND CASPER followed Robert to the church; he was insistent on going alone and wanted some time to himself while he prepared mentally for what he was about to experience. While it was customary to have a limo service take the family to and from a funeral, Robert didn't want to go through such pomp and circumstance. The church was under a mile away from his home in New Canaan and the cemetery where Madeline was to be buried was only half a mile from the church. This also allowed Trick and Casper to catch up.

"I read the article," Trick said as they pulled out of Robert's driveway.

"And?"

"It was beautiful, just like you. Thank you for not divulging too much about me in it; I have been dreading talking to the press because—as you know—I'm not the kind of person who likes to talk about himself."

"You remind me of my father's friend Billy Casper; he was a superstar, but you would never know it because he wasn't boastful or flashy."

"I wish I had the chance to play with him before he died last year," Trick said. "I've heard he was a nice man with a very consistent game."

"I couldn't say a bad word about him. Did you talk to Robert about coming to California last night?"

"Yes, and I think he was touched—and a bit shocked—that I asked him."

"Is he going to come?"

"No. Today is going to be tough on him, and he wants some time to adjust to being alone."

"I can understand that," Casper said. "Hey, did you ever learn anything more about what he plans to say today?"

"I asked him before going to bed last night, and he told me I'd find out today."

"Interesting. And have you given any thought to what you are going to say at the press conference tomorrow? Make any big decisions yet?"

"Honestly, I have no idea what I'm going to say; maybe I'll have a moment of divine inspiration in the church."

Trick parked his Jeep next to Robert's car. The three of them walked into the church, Robert holding the brown bag from yesterday. The church was very modest and had room for only about two hundred people. Robert, who was convinced it would be empty, was surprised to see it almost full. They walked to the sacristy looking for Fr. Bob, but they only saw one of the altar servers. She was busy trying to light a piece of charcoal inside a censor; Catholic funerals typically used incense as part of the funeral rite, and the priest would swing the censor around the casket as part of a ritual rooted in a superstition to keep evil spirits away. As a practical matter, it also came in handy during the period of time when embalming wasn't the science it is today.

"Have you seen Fr. Bob?" Robert asked.

The girl looked up and said, "He went to the Tabernacle to see how many hosts he has; he thinks we may run out."

A moment later they heard Fr. Bob walking down the hall saying, "I think we'll be all right, Mary Christine." As he walked into the sacristy, he looked surprised to see two other people with Robert. "Robert, do you have family in town I wasn't aware of?"

"This is my grandson, Patrick."

"Grandson?" Fr. Bob looked puzzled. "I didn't know you had a grandson."

"That's a story for another time."

"And who might the lovely lady be? The grandson's wife?"

Casper blushed. "I'm Casper Quinlan. Trick and I are just friends."

Trick looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. "Just friends?" When the priest wasn't looking, Casper punched him in the arm.

"And what do you have in the bag, Robert?"

"My eulogy."

"A eulogy in a bag?"

"It will all become clear when..." Robert stopped himself from talking as he saw the hearse pull up outside. He was immediately overcome with emotion.

"This is probably a good time to go over how the service will run," Fr. Bob said. "We will start in the back of the church, and I will begin the Mass with a prayer over the casket. At this time, I will sprinkle it with holy water as a symbol of purification, and then we will process to the front of the church, where I will read an opening prayer and then the Mass will continue. Right before the closing prayer, I will invite Robert to come up and give his eulogy. Typically, we don't allow eulogies at Catholic funerals, but since Madeline was insistent on not having a wake, I see no reason why I can't bend the rules a little bit for you. After that I will walk around the casket with the censor as another symbol of purification, and we will recess out of the church."

The doors to the church opened, and Tom from Gallagher's Funeral Home removed the casket carriage from the back of the hearse and placed it on the floor in the back of the church. He approached Robert and shook his hand, saying, "Again, I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Tom."

"We are down one guy today," Tom said. Robert had hired Tommy to bring pallbearers because he didn't think anyone who came to the church would be able to help in that regard. Turning to Trick, Tommy asked, "Would you be able to serve as a pallbearer? You just need to grab one side of the casket and walk it from the hearse to the back of the church where we will place it on the carriage that I just brought in."

"I would be honored to," Trick replied.

Fr. Bob turned to the altar server and asked, "Mary Christine, do you need any help lighting the Pascal candle?"

"No, Fr. Bob, I was able to do it."

"Okay, then. I'll just go put on my vestments, and we can get started."

Robert watched as Trick and five other men carried his wife's casket from the hearse into the church. Once it was placed on the carriage, Fr. Bob came out of the sacristy and said, "It's time to begin." He then reached under his robe and flicked the switch to his wireless microphone to the on position.

"All rise," his voice boomed within the church, as everyone stood and looked toward the back to see the casket being wheeled in.

Fr. Bob continued, "The grace and peace of God our Father, who raised Jesus from the dead, be always with you."

Everyone responded, "And with your spirit."

Fr. Bob continued in prayer while sprinkling the casket with holy water. He then put a ceremonial cloth over the casket and the congregation sang the hymn "You Are Mine," which Madeline had chosen herself. Robert, Casper, and Trick could not help but cry as they processed down the aisle. Casper walked down the aisle arm in arm with Robert so he wouldn't lose his balance.

The rest of the Mass went by in a blur for Robert. He listened to Fr. Bob say some comforting words about how Catholics believe that death is not the end of life but instead a new beginning; however, his own grief acted like a shield, preventing those words from fully sinking in. The next thing he knew he was in line to receive Communion, weeping as he walked past Madeline's casket. Once Communion was over, Fr. Bob removed the consecrated bread from the altar and placed it in the Tabernacle. He then asked everyone to remain seated so Robert, the husband of the deceased, could say a few words.

Casper offered to walk up to the with Robert, but he declined, saying this was something he had to do alone. After genuflecting toward the Tabernacle, he slowly took his place at the lectern and placed the brown bag he had been carrying on top of it. He took a minute to adjust the microphone and then looked out at everyone gathered. He was so amazed at how many people came to the funeral that he was speechless for a long, uncomfortable minute. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and began a tribute to his wife that would be remembered by everyone gathered in the church that day:

"First of all, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming today. As I look around I see so many people from every era of our lives together. I see friends we met in high school, friends from my Army days, friends from the hospital; heck, even my literary agent showed up." This last line gave everyone some comic relief. "I thought long and hard about what I was going to say today, and I determined that it was impossible to write a fitting tribute to a woman who has meant the world to me for over fifty years. So instead of reading a eulogy, I am going to tell you all a love story.

"Madeline and I met in high school in the mid 1960s and, aside from the two years I spent in Vietnam, we never spent a night apart, after we were married of course." This line received laughter from everyone in the church, including Fr. Bob. "She was my best friend and I, hers. We grew up together and were each other's first, and only, loves. Sure, we had our moments when we didn't like each other much, but we were able to get through those times without throwing in the towel. We made a commitment to each other and we kept it—something that is rare these days.

"I had an experience yesterday that I wanted to share with you all. I was walking through Waveny Park, right here in town, when I came across a free class being offered at the mansion. A sculptor was teaching novices how to shape clay into a piece of art. The first part of the lesson was calling to mind our worries and fears and then visualizing them becoming smaller and smaller until we could not see or feel them anymore. Once we did that, he instructed us to turn our clay into something else. I actually did the entire exercise with my eyes closed, and when I opened them, I looked down and saw this."

Robert reached into the bag, pulled out a heart, and held it up. A hushed silence came over the congregation as he continued. "For the past twenty-nine years, I have lived with a very hard heart over the death of my daughter. My heart started to harden when I found out she was pregnant, and it continued to harden when I learned she was going to marry a man I didn't think was good enough for her, and I blamed him for putting her in that state. I turned my back on my daughter and never got a chance to tell her I loved her before she died in childbirth. I never bothered to get to know the grandson she gave me, and I lived with that hardness until just recently. It is important for me to say, though, that I alone was the sculptor who molded his heart into one of stone.

"Before Madeline died, she asked me to bring something back from our home in Chatham, Massachusetts, something she wanted to be buried with." At this point, Robert looked directly at Trick, and at that moment Trick felt as if they were the only two people in the church. "I fulfilled her wish, and I'm happy to say that in the process of doing so, I started a fire inside me that is presently burning to soften the hardness of my heart and begin to repair the damage I have done.

"I believe that Madeline is within our midst right now, and she and our daughter will be patiently waiting for me to join them on the other side when it's my time. And since I believe that she can hear my voice as I say these words, I would like to say, 'Thank you, Madeline, for the gift you have given me over the past couple of days. I can only pray that with time, those who I have hurt by my actions can come to forgive me just as I have started to forgive myself."

Everyone in the congregation seemed to be blowing their noses or dabbing their eyes with facial tissues as Robert finished. As he walked down the three steps separating the altar area from the main part of the church, Trick left his pew and gave his grandfather a big hug. The two wept on each other's shoulders until Fr. Bob cued the organist to play the recessional hymn, Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," which was set to the melody of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9. It wasn't a traditional, solemn hymn typically played at funerals; Madeline chose a celebratory piece because she wanted her funeral to end on a high note.

After Mass, Trick, Casper, and Robert met at the cemetery where Madeline would be buried. It was a very emotional moment for Trick, since it was the first time he had ever been to his mother's final resting place, and he held on to Casper's arm tightly. Fr. Bob joined them at the gravesite and performed the Rite of Committal, which is an expression of the communion that exists between the Church on earth and the Church in heaven. Then Casper, Trick, and Robert each placed a flower on top of Madeline's casket and watched as it was lowered into the ground.

## CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

AFTER LEAVING THE cemetery, Robert headed back to the church, where the Catholic women's group his late wife belonged to was hosting a small reception. He advised Trick not to attend since it might lead to unwanted attention if attendees figured out who he was, so Trick and Casper said their good-byes to Robert at the cemetery, and Robert gave Trick the code to the garage so he and Casper could grab their things.

After retrieving Casper's bags and the old clothes that Trick wore on the drive down, they made their way to the Westchester County Airport where a private jet was waiting for them.

"What are you going to do about your Jeep?" Casper asked. "If you leave it here, you'll pay a fortune for parking, not to mention the fact that you'll have to come back here to get it."

"Up until now, I hadn't given any thought to it," Trick replied. He thought for a minute and then had what he would later characterize as an epiphany. "Hey, open the glove box; there should be an envelope in there."

Casper opened the glove compartment and found what Trick was referring to. "Is this it?" she asked, handing it to Trick. After parking the Jeep near the commuter terminal, he opened it and looked through the contents.

"Yep."

"What's in it?"

"My title and registration," he replied, as he took Casper's bag out of the cargo hold.

A few days ago the thought of selling his Jeep would have been unbearable, but he now had come to realize everything has a season—and the season for his Jeep was over. "What are you going to do with that?" Casper asked as they walked toward the terminal.

"You'll see."

They walked through the main entrance of the commuter terminal, where Trick spotted a young man, who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, pushing a mop back and forth near the entrance to the men's room.

"Excuse me," Trick said. "Do you know if there is a mailbox in the terminal?"

"Yes, right by security," the young man replied.

Trick spotted the mailing station, which was not busy at two p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon. He removed one of the express mail envelopes and wrote a quick note on a discarded piece of paper left on the counter. Casper read over his shoulder: "Dear Freddie, I'm off to California (be sure to watch ESPN tomorrow afternoon). Enclosed is an early graduation present—treat Trudy well. She's parked in the commuter lot at Westchester County Airport. Enclosed also is enough money to pay for parking and charter a flight from Chatham to White Plains; talk to Lloyd. I'll call when I can. Love, Trick." He then reached into his wallet and placed a large number of bills in the envelope as well as the keys to his Jeep. He signed over the bill of sale on the back of his registration certificate over to Freddie and enclosed the title. He sealed the envelope, purchased an Express Mail stamp using the electronic kiosk, and deposited the package in the slot.

"Problem solved."

"So where do we get this plane?" Casper said, smiling.

Trick pulled out his phone and looked at the email from Peter Schilling. "It says that we need to go to Hangar B and Major Tom will be waiting for us."

"The pilot's name is Major Tom?"

"No, the pilot's name is Adam Mullen; the _plane's_ name is Major Tom."

They followed signs for Hangar B and showed their IDs to a security guard who checked their names against a list and then paged Captain Mullen. He came out of a door to the right of where they were standing, which Trick reasoned must be a waiting room.

"Are you Trick Evans?" Captain Mullen asked in a thick southern drawl.

"Yes, and this is Casper Quinlan. You must be Captain Mullen."

"Guilty as charged," he said while showing them his ID badge. "If y'all are ready, we can get going."

"Don't we have to go through security?" Casper asked. For the first time in over fifteen years she actually wasn't dreading having to expose her prosthetic leg to a TSA agent.

"Not when flying private you don't. We've got a bit of a headwind, so it may take a little longer to get to Burbank than usual." Trick's agent recommended that they fly into Burbank instead of LAX since it was closer to Westlake Village. It also would allow them to avoid the worst part of the 405, which, by the time they landed, would resemble a parking lot more than a multilane highway.

"It's about 2:15 now," Captain Mullen said, "and I'm estimating it will take about six hours to get to Burbank, putting us there at 8:15 p.m. EST—5:15 p.m. Pacific time.

"I'm ready if you are," Trick said, looking at Casper.

"No time like the present!"

## CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

MAJOR TOM, PILOTED by Captain Mullen, landed at the Burbank airport around 5:17 p.m.—two minutes past the Captain's predicted arrival time of 5:15. Trick's agent arranged for a rental car, which Trick picked up from Hertz. He wasn't surprised that Peter had arranged for a four-door Jeep Wrangler with a cloth top; Jeeps were, after all, Trick's automobile of choice, and Peter knew this, good agent that he was.

The conversation that transpired next between Trick and Casper was reminiscent of a popular _Saturday Night Live_ skit featuring a group of Californians telling each other how they got to and from certain places in Southern California.

"Trick, I think it's best to take the 118 to the 405 to the 101N."

"Was that English?"

"I'm just saying the best way to get to Westlake Village is to take the 118 to the 405 to the 101N."

"I miss Cape Cod already." Trick planned to follow her instructions up to a point and then deviate from them slightly. He had a plan up his sleeve that he didn't want Casper to know about just yet.

As they merged onto the 101 from the 405, the traffic was almost at a complete standstill. "It's actually not that bad this afternoon. I've seen it a lot worse," Casper said.

"How could this possibly be any worse?" Trick asked. "We're barely moving."

"But we _are_ moving," Casper said.

As they inched toward Westlake Village on the 101, Casper said, "I have to close my eyes for a few minutes—just take this to Westlake Boulevard and wake me up when we are close." Casper fell asleep almost immediately; to keep himself entertained, Trick streamed _The Adam Carolla Show_ from his phone to the Jeep's radio.

Casper woke up to Trick's laughter.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"We just passed an exit for Thousand Oaks."

"Thousand Oaks?" she asked. "You went too far; we have to turn around."

"Nope. We're not going straight to your father's house."

"Where are we going?"

"It's a secret." Trick continued until they entered the town of Simi Valley.

"Why are we going to Simi Valley?" Casper asked.

Trick didn't answer her question; he just smiled.

"This is really close to where I used to play hockey before my accident," she said. "Wait a minute...Trick Evans, what are you up to?"

"I think it is time that you went back and said hi to an old friend of yours." He turned left onto Easy Street and right into the parking lot of Iceoplex, the only ice rink in the Simi Valley.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to go in there," Casper said hesitantly. "It's been too long; he's probably forgotten all about me."

"Have a little faith," Trick replied.

He parked the Jeep, went around to the passenger side, and opened the door for Casper. "I don't think this is such a good idea," she said.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

Casper shrugged her shoulders and followed him into the main entrance of the rink. Walking through the doors, they were immediately hit by a blast of cold air. The structure actually held two rinks, both of which were almost always in use except when the ice was being cleaned between games and practices. They were almost run over by a gaggle of middle school-aged girls who were leaving figure skating practice and then again by a bunch of elementary school boys on their way out the door after finishing hockey practice. The ice on both rinks was being cut, and for the first time all afternoon, the rink quieted down.

"Maybe he's not here," Casper said, ready to turn around and walk out.

Trick's reflexes were lightning quick. He grabbed her shoulder and said, "Maybe he is."

As they passed the pro shop on the right, Casper looked in and saw Paddy O'Connell restocking his display of hockey tape. Had he seen them, they wouldn't have gotten much farther given that Paddy was blessed with the gift of gab. Just past the pro shop were some offices that the management of the rink used to conduct business; the last door on the right was an old wooden door in need of a new paint job. It was closed and the nameplate on the front simply read "Coach Pat."

"I am not sure that I can..."

Before Casper finished her sentence, Trick knocked on the door.

"Oh yeah, just one minute. I dropped my khakis and I have to bend ova to pick 'em up."

Having grown up in Massachusetts, Trick recognized a Boston accent when he heard one and decided to play along. "Sorry to interrupt you—I didn't know you were getting dressed."

"Who said anything about getting dressed?" asked the man. "I dropped my khakis." He opened the door and was dangling his car keys in front of him. "Don't you know what khakis are?"

Suddenly he saw Casper Quinlan standing before him. His droll little mouth dropped open then he gave her one of the world's biggest and warmest smiles. "I don't believe it."

"Hi, Coach," Casper said, trembling a little.

He immediately hugged her. When Coach Pat sensed that Casper's emotions were under control, he asked, "To what do I owe the honah?"

Casper didn't say a word, but merely pointed at Trick.

"I may be an old hawkey playa from Bastin, but you look an awful bit like that golfa fella who did the unimaginable last yeah."

Trick extended his hand and said, "Trick Evans."

Coach Pat refused his hand, saying, "Any friend of Caspah is worthy of a hug from Coach Pat." The coach locked Trick in a bear hug, giving Trick a whiff of what Casper's father always referred to as "the holy hell hockey smell."

"I read your new column this morning. Caspah's Cornah—it has a good ring to it. For what it's wurth, I always thought you could go pro."

"Well, shit happens," Casper said, knocking on her left leg. The expression was the one Coach Pat said countless times when players got injured on the ice.

"Watch your mouth, young lady," Coach Pat said and then began to laugh. "You want to see some pictures of Caspah when she was just a bantam, Trick?"

Casper started to protest, "Coach, I don't think that's necessary..."

"I'd love to," Trick said, ignoring her.

Coach Pat began pointing to various pictures on the wall. "Here's one taken after Caspah had three trips to the penalty box for knocking a boy down to the ice after the official blew his whistle calling an end to the play."

Trick turned to Casper and gave her a look of mock disapproval.

"He went after my goalie!" she protested.

"Here's one of Caspah skating to the penalty box after sending a boy down to the ice after he referred to her as a female dog."

Casper defended herself once again. "No one calls me a bitch!"

"Here's a picture I asked Caspah to autograph for me; it's one of her skating to the penalty box after arguing with an official."

Throwing up her hands, Casper said, "That guy would not have known what off-sides was if it slapped him in the face!"

"If I were you, fella, I wouldn't make that one angry," Coach Pat, pointing at Casper.

"That might be the best advice I've received all day."

"How about this picture?" Casper said, pointing to a team picture hanging on Coach Pat's wall. "You didn't mind my aggressive playing when it helped earn us our first state championship."

"No, I did nawt!" Coach Pat admitted. "Do you remember that season at all?"

"How could I forget it? We swept the state championship tournament and went 5-0. No one expected us to make it past the first round, let alone win all five games."

"Including me!" Coach Pat admitted. "The way you all looked at the beginning of the season, I thought you were hawkey's version of the Bad News Bears. Do you remember what I told you at the end of the season?"

"Of course! In between tears you told us that the reason we won is because we finally started to play as a team."

"And that's what hawkey is all about: learning to play as a team. No team that ever won a state championship—or the Stanley Cup, for that mattah—evah did so without learning how to play as a team. Championships are not won by individual playahs, but by a team of skilled people who trust each other. Do you remember what else I told you?"

"Yep—at our end-of-year celebration, you told us that just like hockey, we would be more successful in life if we learned to trust other people and had faith that they would be there when we needed them."

"And, if I am to believe everything I read this morning in your article, it sounds like you took that lesson to heart."

"Thank you, Coach."

"So what brings you to these pahts? You are a long way from Chatham, Mr. Evans. I should know—I spent many a summah working on the Cape."

Trick walked Coach Pat through the sequence of events that led to his decision to agree to a press conference tomorrow.

"That's one of the most incredible stories I have evah hurd; have you decided what you are going to say tomorrah?" Coach Pat asked, referring to the press conference.

"Even if I tell the story that I just told you, there is only going to be one question on everybody's mind, and I don't know how to answer it just yet."

"What question is that?" Coach Pat asked.

"When will Trick Evans come back to the PGA tour?"

"Do you want to go back to the tour?"

"I really don't know; I miss the game and the thrill of the competition, but there is a little voice inside me telling me I can't win without my father."

Coach Pat put his finger up to his mouth and tapped it a few times; he was debating whether or not to tell Trick a story he had never told anyone. He decided that there was no better time than the present.

"My fathah taught me how to skate. My mothah says he had me skatin' before I could even walk, and I think there is some truth to that statement. I loved gettin' on the ice, and back in the suburbs of Bastin, me and my friends played pond hawkey like it was our jawb. Every day after school, all day Saturday, and after church on Sundays, hawkey consumed us. My fathah taught me everything I knew about the game, and by the time I was eighteen, I was being considered by the Bruins. Back then, though, they didn't pay you squat to play in the farm teams. He and my mothah saved a bunch of money to help put me through college, and they agreed to give me part of those savings to live on so I could realize my dream of playing in the NHL one day."

"I never knew you played in the Bruins' organization," Casper said.

"That's because I didn't!" Coach Pat retorted. "I was a teenager who had never been away from home before, and I couldn't handle the freedom. I started going out and drinkin' with the other guys when I should have been sleepin'. My practices suffered, my performance in the games suffered, and eventually I was cut. Not a day goes by when I don't wish that I could go back in time and make better decisions, but the biggest regret I have isn't that I didn't become a big time hawkey playah—it's that I let my fathah down."

"Did he ever mention it to you?" Casper asked.

"He nevah made me feel bad about it, but I knew deep down inside I had disappointed him. But you," Coach Pat said, turning to Trick, "your fathah saw your success and was a paht of it. And if your fathah was anything like mine, the life lessons he taught you through golf are like little breadcrumbs in your mind that you can follow home. Your fathah may be gone, Trick, but so long as you keep his memory right here," Coach Pat said, pushing his index finger into the center of Trick's chest, "he will always be with you. You have a gift for the game, son—don't do what I did and waste it, because then you will always be living your life by looking through the rearview mirrah instead of the windshield."

Trick silently considered Coach Pat's words until the silence around them was broken by a page coming through the intercom. "Coach Pat, please come to the garage. Coach Pat to the garage."

"I bet the Zamboni is on the fritz again; I'm the only one around here who can fix that damn thing. Caspah, don't make it another fifteen years before you come back here. You may be interested to know that we're starting a sled hockey league, and we would be honored to have you help with it."

Casper received this news with interest. Sled hockey, a form of hockey where amputees, or those who have lost the ability to use their legs, play the game sitting in a sled, was a very popular sport among wounded veterans. "I will definitely give it some thought."

"We run clinics here the second and fourth Wednesday of every month. Been doing it in combination with the Southern California Wounded Warrior Project, and it goes a long way to restore a veteran's self-esteem. It doesn't cost the veterans anything, and I could use anothah coach."

"How can I say no?" Casper said.

"Coach Pat to the garage, please. Stop whining about how there's only one Dunkin' Donuts in Southern California and get your butt to the garage now. Thank you!" It was well known within the four walls of Iceoplex that Coach Pat bemoaned the fact that the closest Dunkin' Donuts was in Santa Monica.

"Duty calls," Coach Pat said. "I'll be watchin' you tomorrah, Trick Evans. Can't wait to hear what ya say."

_That makes two of us_ , Trick thought.

By now it was close to 8:30 p.m., but to Trick and Casper, who had finally started to adjust to East Coast time, it felt more like 11:30. The two were beyond hungry and decided to drive back to Westlake Village and eat at Paul Mitchell's, Casper's favorite restaurant. After dinner, Trick drove Casper to her father's house but declined an invitation to go inside and meet him. Casper understood. She realized how much emotional stress he had been through over the past couple of days, and she knew he must be exhausted.

"Where are you going to stay tonight?"

"Peter booked me a room at the Hampton Inn in Agoura Hills."

"Big spender."

"Look, the press is going to expect me to turn up at either The Four Seasons in Westlake or the Westlake Village Inn, where every other player is staying. My only hope for a hassle-free sleep is staying where they least expect. Plus, they serve a free breakfast in the morning."

"You never cease to amaze me. By the way, since tomorrow is Wednesday, I'm going to go into work, and I probably won't see you until the press conference tomorrow afternoon. Can you live without me?"

For a moment Casper felt as if she just used a poor choice of words, but she was relieved when she heard Trick say, "Casper Quinlan, I hope I never have to know what it means to live without you."

She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the lips, which almost made him second-guess his decision to sleep alone that night. Sensing this, Casper pulled away and said with a smile, "You need your sleep." Waving good-bye, she turned around and walked to her father's front door.

## CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

WHILE CASPER WAS spending her first full day at the offices of _Fore!_ magazine, Trick decided to get better acquainted with the area. Realizing he didn't have much in the line of clothes aside from the suit he wore to his grandmother's funeral and the casual clothes he left Chatham with, Trick decided to do some shopping at an outdoor shopping mall called The Promenade. At an upscale men's store, he bought a light-colored suit, as well as a new dress shirt and a tie. Fortunately, this time nobody asked to take a selfie with him; this area saw a fair number of celebrities on a regular basis, and the store's employees were cautioned that nothing turns celebrities off more than requests for photos or autographs while they are simply trying to do some shopping.

His next stop was J.Crew, where he stocked up on polo shirts, shorts, a pair of swim trunks, undershirts, underwear, and socks. His last stop was a sporting goods store for workout clothes and a pair of running shoes. With a few hours to kill before the press conference, he decided to break in his new sneakers, so he drove back to the Hampton Inn to change into his new workout clothes.

After some stretching, he started out, and for the next nine miles, he let his mind reflect on the events of the past seven months. He thought about his father's death last year and how he had withdrawn from everything and everyone ever since. He thought of meeting Casper four days ago and how deeply she had impacted his life in such a short period of time. He went back over the chain of events that led to meeting his mother's father—including the unusual woman, Angel, whose metaphor of a heart with nails in it was remarkably similar to the story Fr. Paul had shared. And then there was Fr. Paul himself—he was the one who set the wheels in motion when he saw Casper enter his church on Saturday evening. _If I wrote all of this down, no one would believe any of it_ , Trick thought.

When he arrived back at the hotel, Trick looked at his watch and saw that he had been gone almost ninety minutes. While in his prime he was running under seven minutes per mile, he wasn't about to feel bad about his performance; for the first time in a long time, he felt great. He walked into the lobby, where his agent, Peter, was pacing back and forth.

"Where have you been? I have been trying to call you for an hour!"

"It's good to see you, too, Peter. My phone is upstairs; I never bring it when I go for a run."

"We have to discuss what you are going to say at the press conference this afternoon; we are due there in twenty minutes!"

"Relax, Peter; it's all up here," Trick said, tapping his head. "I'm off to shower—I'll be back down in fifteen minutes." He headed to the elevator.

"But we need to have a strategy for questions," Peter protested.

"Have a little faith," Trick answered, as the elevator doors closed.

Trick shaved quickly and opted for a cool shower, which felt refreshing after his long run. He dried off and put on his new suit; it was a slim cut, light gray, and looked great with the new lavender shirt he purchased. He decided against wearing a tie and instead opted for a pocket square that matched the color of his shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror, ran a brush through his hair, and decided he was ready to face the world.

Peter, always in search of headlines, wanted to take his Bugatti to the Westlake Village Inn, but Trick told him in no uncertain terms that doing so would be a deal breaker. He wanted to come in under the radar and insisted they use his rental Jeep.

The Inn was one of the most popular destinations in the Conjeo Valley, and Trick could easily see why. On the property there was a vineyard, a lake, beautiful gardens, and a spectacular pool area. The amenities and elegance of the grounds put it on the shortlist for many a couple looking for a perfect place to hold a wedding reception.

Once in the lobby, Peter asked the receptionist if there was a "back door" entrance into the room where the press conference was being held as he did not want to parade Trick through the assembled crowd. The receptionist called the catering manager, who joined them in the lobby and escorted Trick and Peter to the catering entrance—a smart decision given the size of the crowd assembled.

Once he was standing at the dais in front of the crowd, Trick realized how Robert must have felt the day before when he stood in front of all those gathered to attend his wife's funeral. For a moment Trick was so overwhelmed that he didn't think he could go through with the event, but then he saw Casper sitting three rows from the front next to an older gentleman who Trick assumed was her father. When she caught his eye and smiled, his nerves began to calm.

He knew everything that he wanted to convey to the press, but he wasn't sure how to begin. He knew he had to start somewhere, though, so he opened his mouth and said: "It's good to be back."

The entire ballroom erupted with cheers and applause. It took almost three minutes for the volume to come down to a point where Trick could be heard talking again. Once the room quieted down, he continued: "I've missed you, too." The room erupted in laughter, but this time the disruption did not last long.

"The last seven months or so have been very difficult for me; I not only lost my father—I lost my best friend. As most of you know, it was only the two of us, and I was born when he was younger than I am right now. It was my father who taught me the game of golf and instilled in me the sense that there was nothing I couldn't do in life. After he died, there were many times I felt that I couldn't go on without him, but thanks to my sister from another mister, Freddie Daniels, I somehow managed to keep it together. She really is like a sister to me and, Freddie, I put an early graduation present to you in the mail. Treat Trudy well."

Freddie was watching the press conference with her mother and nearly dropped the bottle of water she was drinking. "Mom, did he just say what I think he just said?"

"The other day, though, my parish priest asked me to meet him in the confessional..."

When Trick said this, every reporter assembled snapped to attention. Many of them doubted his clean image and were waiting for the skeletons to fall out of his closet. They were hopeful he was about to divulge some big secret about why he really left the game after last year's PGA Championship—but they were about to be disappointed.

"Before you jump to conclusions, my father was a carpenter, and he taught me a thing or two about building things. My priest, Fr. Paul Hewson, asked me to provide an estimate for replacing some of the rotting wood in the confessional and repainting it. But that was just a ruse; he noticed a beautiful woman enter into the church minutes before, and he thought he would play matchmaker."

Fr. Paul was at the Bleeding Seal watching the press conference with half of the town's locals. As his name was mentioned, everyone in the bar raised their glasses and took a big sip of whatever they were drinking.

"While there is a lot more to this story than I'm going to share right now, let's just say that this woman taught me a thing or two about what to do when one gets knocked down. The way she opened up to me encouraged me to do the same, and I can honestly say that I'm a different person than I was just four days ago. The haze that has been surrounding me since my father's death has finally lifted."

Casper's eyes filled with tears, and she was glad she remembered to bring tissues; the last thing she wanted was to end up looking like Alice Cooper.

"I also realized that, as human beings, we are all capable of making decisions that we regret later in life, and it's a terrible burden to carry this regret around on our shoulders. Forgiveness is a powerful thing; sometimes we need to seek the forgiveness of others, and sometimes we need to seek forgiveness within ourselves. This week, for the first time in my life, I met my maternal grandfather, a man in search of such forgiveness. We didn't exactly hit it off immediately, but I want him to know that I am looking forward to establishing a relationship with him when I get back to the East Coast."

Robert was watching the press conference all alone in his empty home in New Canaan. Like Casper, his eyes welled up with tears. Unlike Casper, he wasn't wearing any mascara and had no fear of looking like an aging glam rock star.

"I want to thank you all for not giving in to the temptation to show up at my grandmother's funeral yesterday. I'm sure that must have been tough for some of you. I actually imagined Larry Charles and Pepper Michaels doing a play-by-play from the parking lot."

This line got a big laugh from everyone in the room.

"In all seriousness, I am very conscious about what my walking away from the game has done for the business of golf over the past year. To my sponsors I want to say thank you for sticking with me during this difficult time, and to everyone who makes a living in the golf industry, especially the small business owners who sell merchandise and concessions at tournaments, I am sorry if my absence has hurt your sales. But I am also conscious that there is someone who should be thanking me: Thomas Andrews. Since I haven't been playing, you have won a few tournaments. Congratulations!"

This led to more laughter, especially when Thomas Andrews stood up and took a bow.

"I want to thank all of you for standing by me and for respecting my privacy. At this time, I'm happy to answer any questions you might have."

Every journalist assembled in the Fairway Ballroom raised their hands and started shouting questions at the same time. Trick motioned for everyone to calm down and told them he would pick one reporter in the crowd to go first. His eyes focused on Casper Quinlan's.

"You, miss, in the third row with the blonde hair and blue blazer. Do you have a question for me?"

Casper stood up, and Trick noticed that she was wearing a knee-length skirt that did not hide her prosthetic leg. "Trick, I believe there are two questions we all want answered: Do you intend to come back to the PGA tour—and if so, when?"

The room became dead silent, as if Trick's answer was the equivalent to the meaning of life. "Well, I am glad you asked that question, Miss..."

"Quinlan. Casper Quinlan."

"I'm glad you asked that question, Casper. Casper—that's a pretty name, by the way. Is that a family name?"

Blaze Hazelwood was watching the press conference at Robert's house on Cape Cod. With his sister on one side of him and his father on the other he screamed, "Stop flirting and answer the question already," at the television.

"There was a period of time when I believed I couldn't win without my father, and if there was no chance of winning, I had no interest in playing. Since then, though, I've come to realize that my father is very much still alive inside of me. I may not be able to see him physically, but I hold his memory in my heart, and because of that, he will always be with me. So, to answer your questions, yes, I will be coming back to the PGA Tour, and my first event will be in two weeks at the Colgate Open at Seven Oaks Golf Club in Hamilton, New York. After that I will defend my title as the reigning 2015 Masters champion..."

The room erupted in applause, and this time it didn't stop. Reporters began furiously typing on their mobile devices, hoping to be the first to break the story that Trick Evans was back. With all the commotion, no one noticed Casper and Trick leave through the catering doorway.

Once outside, they found themselves in the inn's Tuscan Garden. They decided to head for the vineyard.

"Do you remember right before it started to rain when we were at the golf course in Chatham?" Casper asked, as they walked hand in hand through the vineyard.

"How could I forget?" Trick replied. "It was the first kiss I had in a long time!"

"You told me you were going to share with me one more thing about your life, but then it started to rain."

"I was going to say something that isn't really relevant any longer."

"Is that a cop-out?"

"No, I was going to tell you that, ever since my father died, I was waiting for my real life to begin again. I was waiting for some message to come into my life; for the phone to ring with the answer to all of my life's problems or the postman to deliver the letter that would be what I needed to get out of the funk I was in.

"But now someone has come into my life who makes me believe in myself again, someone who showed me that it's okay to fall down so long as I get back up. You helped me break through the darkness that was holding me back, and for that I will be forever grateful."

"And you helped me feel whole again," Casper said, her tears falling freely. "Damn it, Trick Evans, I think I am falling in love with you."

Trick didn't say a word—he just pulled her close and kissed her.

## CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

TRICK EVANS RETURNED to the PGA tour, and over his almost forty-year career, he would go on to win an astounding seventy tournaments, one more than Billy Casper. While he won additional major championships, he never again won more than one in any calendar year, let alone all four. Through it all he maintained a laid-back, subdued style and was a fan favorite. He eschewed the limelight, and at the watering holes where golf's writers satiated their thirst, reporters always whined that he didn't give them anything juicy to write about. The lack of attention from the press didn't bother Trick at all, though, as golf no longer was the most important thing in his life; his top priority was his family.

One year to the day after meeting Casper Quinlan, the two were married at a small, private ceremony held at St. Jude's Catholic Church in Westlake Village, where Casper and Trick became active parishioners. Fr. Paul flew out from Chatham to celebrate the Mass, and Freddie Daniels drove over from Pepperdine University to serve as one of Casper's bridesmaids. Trick was happy to see that Trudy made it to the West Coast in one piece.

Over the years, Casper gave birth to six children, including a set of triplets—all of whom were baptized by Fr. Paul. Unlike many golfers on tour, Trick was present for each birth and took time off from playing after each child was born. His family often joined him on tour until the kids were of school age. At that time he decided to scale back the number of events he participated in each year in order to maintain a presence in the lives of his children.

Casper continued to write "Casper's Corner" and eventually inherited the magazine from her father after he passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-one. Wanting to focus on motherhood instead of running the business, Casper sold the magazine to Brandon Anderson, who, along with some of his country club friends, raised the money to perform a leveraged buyout. Shortly afterward, a large, anonymous donation was made to Arlene's Farm, the no-kill shelter for abandoned adult dogs that Trick's grandmother Madeline had supported.

Over the years Trick developed a close bond with his grandfather Robert McMullen. During celebrity pro-am tournaments, it was not uncommon for Robert to be seen caddying for Trick. Until his death, Robert enjoyed spending time with his great-grandchildren; all of whom inherited his late wife's gift of music.

You may be wondering what happened to Blaze Hazelwood, the actor who Casper met in the airport who, coincidentally, wound up renting Robert's home in Chatham. He decided to sell his home in Malibu and move to New York in order to build a relationship with his father. He wound up taking the lead role on _The Sun Is Ablaze_ , the online soap opera his agent pitched him in Chatham, and has adjusted well to East Coast living. When his sister asked him what influenced his decision to sell his home and move to New York, he told her that his brief encounters with Trick, Casper, and Robert made him realize that it was never too late to build a relationship with one's father.

## CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

THE INSPIRATION FOR this story was a piece I wrote for my local newspaper, The _Stamford Advocate_. The piece focused on key lessons I learned from my father, Don Carlon, and was very well received. It was reprinted in a book called _10 Habits of Truly Optimistic People_ published by Viva Editions in 2015. My father taught me many important lessons about life, many of which found their way into this book.

My father wasn't alone, though; my mother's influence can be seen on many pages of this book, and I would be remiss if I didn't give her the honor that she deserves.

My son, Patrick, is a golf enthusiast who came up with the name _Fore!_ magazine. Patrick, I will always be grateful to you for that.

While my parents were my first and greatest teachers, many of the lessons I share in this book are based on the almost quarter-century romance I have enjoyed with my wife, Nicole. As Robert says about Madeline in this book, "We grew up together." She is my rock, and I do not want to imagine what life would be like without her.

A great big thank you to my editor, Claudia Volkman, whose keen eye, attention to detail, and sage advice helped turn a manuscript into a novel.

Sue Oats, auditor extraordinaire that she is, was a great source of encouragement during this project and helped me spot a few typos that were hiding on the pages of this book. Thank you, Sue!

Not to be left out is my longtime friend Renee Paul, whose proofreading also helped to make this novel the best that it could be.

Additionally, I am grateful for the invaluable feedback Elizabeth Johnson provided; she was the first of my beta readers to finish the initial draft of the manuscript, and her feedback was invaluable—thank you, Elizabeth!

Cecilia Cordova Kling, Fr. Liam Quinlan, and Kate Connolly are well deserving of a shout out because their feedback was priceless.

I cannot help but mention Robert Bartlett and his late wife Madeline whose house in Chatham we have been renting every summer for the past two decades. Much of this story was written in the Bartlett home on Harding's Beach Road—not far from Trick Evans' house. Thank you, Bob, for the use of your home!

Finally, the idea for this novel came to me in a flash while I was on a business trip in Chicago during the summer of 2015. I was driving with a colleague, Brian Davis, when I first heard the song "Winning Streak" by Glen Hansard. It is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard, and the title inspired me to craft this story.

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## CHAPTER FIFTY

MICHAEL CARLON IS the author of Uncorking a Murder and Return to Casa Grande. He lives in Stamford, CT with his wife Nicole and their teenage triplets Grace, Patrick, and Maggie. Follow him on twitter at @uncorkingastory. To see more of his writing, visit www.michaelcarlonauthor.com.

