Then I’d gone to France and lain out on the beach with Daisy and had caught Tom with the nurse in the middle of the night. And all I could think that whole time, that whole entire time, was that I felt sorry for Daisy. She loved a man, and men were animals. And maybe I would be lucky to never love a man in my whole entire life. Maybe I was the lucky one, after all. Maybe Mary Margaret and I both were.
“Ems,” I whispered now. “I’m not afraid.” I moved my finger from her lips to her cheek, and then I leaned in just another inch and put my lips on her lips. It was different this time than it had been that other time, on the golf course. There was nothing quick or soft or remotely chaste about this kiss. I was fire and she was fire, too—my bravery made her brave. We kissed each other hungrily, greedily. My tongue explored her mouth and met hers.
“Wait,” she said, pulling back after a few minutes. Or a few hours. I’d lost track of time and place, and I was dizzy and breathless. She sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head, threw it on the floor. The only light was the light of the moon casting a glimmer in through the sheer-curtained window, but it was enough for me to see her body. I’d seen her before many times, of course, changing. But I’d tried not to stare then. This time, it was different. She wanted me to stare. She sat before me naked and beautiful and still. And I stared. Her breasts were larger than mine, perfect, round summer peaches, jutting out from her tiny rib cage, her narrow waist.
It was as if my eyes on her, my expression, made her newly brave. She sat up on her knees, crawled closer to me, and lifted my nightgown over my head slowly. I shivered a little as my bare skin felt the cool January air, but my blood ran hot; my cheeks flushed. She left her hand hovering in the air, just above my breasts. “Can I touch you?” she whispered. I nodded and reached up for her hand, pulling it to my chest. Her fingers were hot on my cool skin and I shivered again.
But bravery ran through my veins, hotter than blood, and I pulled her toward me, held her body against mine, and kissed her again.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING I woke up to the sound of banging.
I opened my eyes, and sunlight streamed in through the window, too bright. My body felt hot and tired and hungover. I tried to move, and I realized Mary Margaret was lying half on top of me, naked, still asleep.
I closed my eyes again and remembered, like flashes of a silent film rolling through my mind: Mary Margaret’s fingers in between my legs, my mouth all over her body. I reached my hand up to my lips and they felt swollen now.
“Jordan and Mary Margaret.” Mrs. Pearce stormed in through the door, bellowing our names. That’s what the banging was. The door. There was a lock on it, and I’d turned it when we’d come in last night, but of course, Mrs. Pearce also had a key. “Do you know what time…” She suddenly caught sight of us, there in the bed, naked and entwined, and she stopped talking midsentence.
Mary Margaret’s eyes popped open at the sound of Mrs. Pearce’s voice. They caught mine, and I saw in them everything she’d told me last night she was afraid of. Mrs. Pearce just stood there in the doorway, staring, her mouth agape.
I rolled out from under Mary Margaret and pulled the covers up, over both of us. “Boy, it was too warm in here last night, wasn’t it?” I made an awkward half attempt to explain away our nakedness. I heard the sound of my own voice, too high-pitched, nearly shrill. It rose up above me and hovered somewhere in the room like smoke.
Mrs. Pearce just pressed her lips together and stared, and it was probably only a few seconds, but time seemed to suspend and it felt like hours. My heart sprinted in my chest, and I could hear Mary Margaret breathing heavily, but she did not say a word. None of us did.
“You’re both late,” Mrs. Pearce finally said, turning her head away from the bed. “It’s eight thirty. Get dressed and get downstairs. We’re leaving for the course in twenty minutes, with or without you.” She spun on her heel and walked out.
“She knows,” Mary Margaret said, her voice breaking, as soon as Mrs. Pearce shut the door. “Oh my god, she knows.”
“She doesn’t know anything,” I said quickly. Though my heart still pulsed furiously; fire still filled my veins. I stood and my body felt wonderfully sore. I began to get dressed, and the silent movie flashed on again in my head, Mary Margaret touching me. And I stopped moving, closed my eyes for a second, trying to make it stop. Wanting it to go on forever.
“How could she not know?” Mary Margaret was in tears now. She got out of bed and yanked her clothes out of her bag with more force than was necessary.
I walked over to her, only half dressed in just my skirt and my brassiere. I reached for her shoulder, pulled her toward me, and hugged her tightly. I smoothed back her hair with my hands. Here we were again, in the light of day, when everything was bright and different and… gone. And I didn’t want it to be gone. I wanted to hold on to it, keep it close, keep her close. Forever. “No one knows what happened last night but us,” I whispered into her hair. “It’s just us, Ems. Mrs. Pearce can think what she wants but she’ll never say anything. She can never prove anything, and, besides, any hint of scandal would doom the tour.”
“Jordan.” My name escaped her lips like a strangled half cry. “I already miss you.”
“Shh, Ems. I’m right here,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
* * *
GOLF HAD ALWAYS been my sanctuary and strength. After Mama died it made me into a tough little girl and then, after Daddy died, a fierce young woman.
I went out onto the course that day in Atlanta more determined than ever to focus on the ball, to play my best, to win the $1,000 tournament prize. If I won, it would be money to do with as I pleased. Not Daddy’s money. Not Aunt Sigourney’s money. Daisy had money, but Daisy’s money meant her being with Tom. I wanted money all my own. A life all my own. And choices that only I was in control of. And besides, if I was the best today, if I won the tournament, Mrs. Pearce wouldn’t dare say a word about what she thought she saw when she walked into our room this morning.
As I stood at the first tee box, I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering again the feel of Mary Margaret’s hands on my skin. I took a deep breath, inhaled. Exhaled. I parted my feet and readied my club and stared at the ball.
But when I raised my arms to swing, everything else disappeared: Mary Margaret, Mrs. Pearce, Daisy. It was just me and the club. Then I swung, and all my power and my fire channeled into that one tiny little white golf ball that soared like a dove through the air.
* * *