By midafternoon there was just one couple in the bar, drinking Bloody Marys and eating sandwiches at a table by the fire. Troy checked the kitchen and dishwasher, but as usual Cooper had left the place spotless and organized. In winter this was a one-man operation, but in summer it took a full crew—there were lots of people on the beach, renting paddleboards and kayaks, eating and drinking, enjoying the bay and lighting fires on the beach at night, a constant flow of customers, sometimes until after ten.
He brought a stool behind the bar and opened his laptop. There was enough information about Grace to fill a book. She even had her own Wikipedia page, as did her wealthy mother, Winnie Dillon Banks, a champion figure skater before her. There was a half brother, twenty years her senior, a child of her father’s by a previous marriage. One article explained the many ways people managed the expensive training without being wealthy, but such sponsors were difficult to come by before the athlete had at least come very close to winning major competitions. And to his surprise, the number of moneyed US and world medalists was quite small. Most of them, in fact the best known among them, had hardworking parents who got up at four in the morning to drive them long distances to rinks where the best coach could be found. Some moved to accommodate their young champions.
By late afternoon the rain hit the deck outside and the last couple left, and he could get back to his research. Grace and her parents moved a few times; her father was sought after and drew a handsome coaching salary. He did not train Grace’s competitors, however. His income and notoriety, in addition to Winnie’s old family wealth, was a huge advantage for her. She didn’t make the cut for the 2006 Winter Games and there was some talk of moving her to another country. Obviously they hadn’t moved.
Lord, who was this girl?
He looked up Winnie Dillon Banks. There were dozens of pictures and all Troy could surmise from them was that she looked rich and cold. Many pictures of her watching her daughter skate in competition had her with a frozen face, wearing furs and diamonds.
That’s when he knew they hadn’t exactly fallen out over a flower shop. His best guess was that Winnie disapproved of her daughter leaving competition while she was still young enough to train and win.
He looked up figure skating training. It was typical to be on skates by four years old. Six hours on the ice every day, endurance and weight training, ballet and gymnastics, school or, in Grace’s case, tutors. Add in travel to every competition that would take her—first Nationals and then World Championships. He looked up international ice-skating championships. Jesus, she’d been to almost every country on the globe.
He watched a couple of YouTube videos of her skating, a long program and a short program, one when she was only sixteen and competing in Seoul. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. She looked just the same. Did no one ever remark on her likeness to a women’s figure skating champion? Her skill and beauty on the ice was nothing short of breathtaking.
Next on his list to research was sexual misconduct by coaches. He felt his heart race. It was everywhere. There were some horrifically wrong allegations. One female coach had her life nearly ruined by an accusation that never even went to court as her alibi was actually on film, placing her far from the alleged victim at the time; yet, years later she was still banned from certain gyms, even after the child finally recanted. It sent shudders through him. He thought a person had to be crazy to leave their child in the hands of a stranger even if he or she was a renowned coach.
To get a reality check, he searched the same subject with teachers and it was just as shocking, some cases getting national attention and being made into television movies.
I just thought it must sometimes be challenging...
He closed the laptop and turned on lights around the bar, though if anyone was out in this storm, he’d be amazed. He had a lot to process. It was almost five and the sun might just be on its downward path, but with the clouds it was already dark. He got himself a beer.
He’d known Grace for a year, maybe a little more. He only knew her superficially—he had gone into her shop to buy flowers for Iris twice and once to pick out an arrangement to be sent to his mother for Mother’s Day. He’d seen her at Cooper’s with Iris. He didn’t even really think of her as a friend but rather as one of Iris’s friends. He’d liked her but never thought about her—not before Christmas. He’d been looking right through her. He had no idea there was so much to Grace. She was amazing and complicated, part heroic, part tragic. And after last night, more woman than he ever imagined. Little virgin flower girl, a little shy, a little curious and cautious and, oh, God, so willing, trusting and sensual. So loving and innocent. She asked him to take her there, to sex and passion, then put herself in his hands. And man, what a ride.
“She’s an athlete, you dope,” he said to no one in the bar.
“Who’s an athlete?” Sarah Cooper asked, just coming in the door. She shook off her slicker.
“Jesus, you scared me to death!” he said. “Where’s the baby?”
“Finally sleeping. Ham’s babysitting.”
“Sarah, Ham’s a dog.”
“Best babysitter there is, trust me. He’s barely left her side since the day she was born. Don’t worry—she’s in the crib and the bedroom door is closed, but I trust Ham more than most humans. And I only came over for a second. You should close the bar. You’re wasting your time out here. This deluge isn’t exactly welcoming customers. Is there anything you need before you go? Besides to finish your beer?”
“I’ll just make a quick phone call, maybe take a couple of little pizzas from the cooler—I have a date tonight, I hope. Thanks, I think you’re right. No one has come in since two.”
She grinned at him, looking at the laptop. “Get your homework done?”
“I sure did,” he said. “And it was a load, too.”
“Thanks for helping out, Troy. Stay dry.” She pulled the hood of her slicker over her head and went out the back door.
He picked up his phone. “Gracie,” he said. “Thanks to the weather, I’m closing up early. Would you like me to bring you dinner?”
“I cooked! I cooked, hoping you would come here for dinner!”
“Your kitchen is the size of my closet. What did you cook?”
“Crock-Pot chili. A brick of cheddar and crackers. If I had a fireplace up here, it would be perfect.”
He brought a stool behind the bar and opened his laptop. There was enough information about Grace to fill a book. She even had her own Wikipedia page, as did her wealthy mother, Winnie Dillon Banks, a champion figure skater before her. There was a half brother, twenty years her senior, a child of her father’s by a previous marriage. One article explained the many ways people managed the expensive training without being wealthy, but such sponsors were difficult to come by before the athlete had at least come very close to winning major competitions. And to his surprise, the number of moneyed US and world medalists was quite small. Most of them, in fact the best known among them, had hardworking parents who got up at four in the morning to drive them long distances to rinks where the best coach could be found. Some moved to accommodate their young champions.
By late afternoon the rain hit the deck outside and the last couple left, and he could get back to his research. Grace and her parents moved a few times; her father was sought after and drew a handsome coaching salary. He did not train Grace’s competitors, however. His income and notoriety, in addition to Winnie’s old family wealth, was a huge advantage for her. She didn’t make the cut for the 2006 Winter Games and there was some talk of moving her to another country. Obviously they hadn’t moved.
Lord, who was this girl?
He looked up Winnie Dillon Banks. There were dozens of pictures and all Troy could surmise from them was that she looked rich and cold. Many pictures of her watching her daughter skate in competition had her with a frozen face, wearing furs and diamonds.
That’s when he knew they hadn’t exactly fallen out over a flower shop. His best guess was that Winnie disapproved of her daughter leaving competition while she was still young enough to train and win.
He looked up figure skating training. It was typical to be on skates by four years old. Six hours on the ice every day, endurance and weight training, ballet and gymnastics, school or, in Grace’s case, tutors. Add in travel to every competition that would take her—first Nationals and then World Championships. He looked up international ice-skating championships. Jesus, she’d been to almost every country on the globe.
He watched a couple of YouTube videos of her skating, a long program and a short program, one when she was only sixteen and competing in Seoul. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. She looked just the same. Did no one ever remark on her likeness to a women’s figure skating champion? Her skill and beauty on the ice was nothing short of breathtaking.
Next on his list to research was sexual misconduct by coaches. He felt his heart race. It was everywhere. There were some horrifically wrong allegations. One female coach had her life nearly ruined by an accusation that never even went to court as her alibi was actually on film, placing her far from the alleged victim at the time; yet, years later she was still banned from certain gyms, even after the child finally recanted. It sent shudders through him. He thought a person had to be crazy to leave their child in the hands of a stranger even if he or she was a renowned coach.
To get a reality check, he searched the same subject with teachers and it was just as shocking, some cases getting national attention and being made into television movies.
I just thought it must sometimes be challenging...
He closed the laptop and turned on lights around the bar, though if anyone was out in this storm, he’d be amazed. He had a lot to process. It was almost five and the sun might just be on its downward path, but with the clouds it was already dark. He got himself a beer.
He’d known Grace for a year, maybe a little more. He only knew her superficially—he had gone into her shop to buy flowers for Iris twice and once to pick out an arrangement to be sent to his mother for Mother’s Day. He’d seen her at Cooper’s with Iris. He didn’t even really think of her as a friend but rather as one of Iris’s friends. He’d liked her but never thought about her—not before Christmas. He’d been looking right through her. He had no idea there was so much to Grace. She was amazing and complicated, part heroic, part tragic. And after last night, more woman than he ever imagined. Little virgin flower girl, a little shy, a little curious and cautious and, oh, God, so willing, trusting and sensual. So loving and innocent. She asked him to take her there, to sex and passion, then put herself in his hands. And man, what a ride.
“She’s an athlete, you dope,” he said to no one in the bar.
“Who’s an athlete?” Sarah Cooper asked, just coming in the door. She shook off her slicker.
“Jesus, you scared me to death!” he said. “Where’s the baby?”
“Finally sleeping. Ham’s babysitting.”
“Sarah, Ham’s a dog.”
“Best babysitter there is, trust me. He’s barely left her side since the day she was born. Don’t worry—she’s in the crib and the bedroom door is closed, but I trust Ham more than most humans. And I only came over for a second. You should close the bar. You’re wasting your time out here. This deluge isn’t exactly welcoming customers. Is there anything you need before you go? Besides to finish your beer?”
“I’ll just make a quick phone call, maybe take a couple of little pizzas from the cooler—I have a date tonight, I hope. Thanks, I think you’re right. No one has come in since two.”
She grinned at him, looking at the laptop. “Get your homework done?”
“I sure did,” he said. “And it was a load, too.”
“Thanks for helping out, Troy. Stay dry.” She pulled the hood of her slicker over her head and went out the back door.
He picked up his phone. “Gracie,” he said. “Thanks to the weather, I’m closing up early. Would you like me to bring you dinner?”
“I cooked! I cooked, hoping you would come here for dinner!”
“Your kitchen is the size of my closet. What did you cook?”
“Crock-Pot chili. A brick of cheddar and crackers. If I had a fireplace up here, it would be perfect.”
