Chapter 4: Grip

I didn't sleep.

At 5:50 the next morning I was on the 4th tee with a thermos of black coffee, a bag of ice, and a speech.

He came up the cart path at six exactly, the driver on his shoulder and the sun behind him.

He saw me, and for one second the whole careful man slipped.

"You're early," he said.

"You paid my father's bills."

He stopped.

"Thirty-eight thousand four hundred dollars," I said. "The line said, do not tell the daughter."

"Ms. Ketterman."

"Why?"

He set the bag down.

He took his time with it, adjusting the strap.

"Because I could," he said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one I have."

"You'd never met him."

"I knew him."

The words came out lower than he meant them to.

"A long time ago. He was a good man, and I owed him a debt, and I don't leave debts unpaid."

"What kind of debt?"

"Tee off, Ms. Ketterman."

"I'm not playing."

"You are this morning."

He pulled a seven iron out of his bag and held it out to me, grip first.

"You have a temper, and you need somewhere to put it."

I took the club because it was easier than arguing.

It was heavier than I expected, and cold.

He set a ball on the tee with his thumb.

"Feet apart. No, wider."

"I know how to stand."

"You're standing like you're about to run."

I was.

I widened my feet.

"Hands," he said, and then he stepped behind me.

He didn't touch me at first.

He stood so close that the heat of his chest came through the back of my polo.

I could smell soap and cut grass and something cedar.

Then his hands closed over mine on the grip.

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