“She managed to buy a business and operate it at a profit,” he said.

“Please. Don’t be naive. Her father left her a trust. She used it to buy that flower shop.”

Troy sat back in his chair. “What has that got to do with skating or broadcasting or coaching?”

“I thought it would be best if she chose a career path with some longevity in a field she loved. But she’s adamant...”

“You’re not going to win that one,” he said. “I don’t know why you can’t open a dialogue about what it will one day take to manage your old money. She doesn’t have to coach or work for the media for that to happen. And, for God’s sake, this is not urgent.”

Winnie Banks pierced him with her cold blue stare. “Mr. Headly. Troy. I wanted Grace to come to me out of loyalty and love. I had planned to tell her once we were talking again—there isn’t much time. I’m ill, Mr. Headly. I have ALS. The symptoms are getting stronger every day.”

He was speechless. She was a young woman, early fifties, he guessed. She appeared strong, except for the tremor. She was beautiful and willful, but with ALS, the mind would be strong until the body finally gave out.

“You have to tell her,” he finally said.

“Of course,” she said. “At once. I’ve written a letter. I wrote it before we had our altercation today. I was going to have my driver take it to her tomorrow but if you’re willing, you can give it to her.”

A bellman came to their table pushing a wheelchair. “If you’re not ready, I can come back anytime you like,” he said.

“It’s fine, Bruce. I’m ready.” She transferred herself into the chair. “Will you? Take my daughter a letter?”

He nodded, numb from the news. “Mrs. Banks, I’m sorry.”

“The letter is in my room. Can you pick it up?”

A few minutes later, Winnie was resettled in her cottage. Virginia, who was a maid or assistant or keeper of some kind, was there to assist her, some fresh fruit and cheese put out on her small breakfast table. The letter was on the coffee table, addressed but not stamped. She put it in his hand.

“Are you sure this is ready?” he asked her.

“It begins with an apology,” she said, reassuring him. “That’s something easier to do in a letter, I’ve found. Easier than while facing her anger.”

Fourteen

Troy hadn’t liked the Manhattan that he’d had with Winnie but he could really use a drink. In fact, a drink in a dark bar sounded like just the thing. He didn’t feel like running into friends so that eliminated Cliff’s and Cooper’s. He parked in front of Waylan’s and went inside.

“How about a Crown. Neat,” he told Waylan. “And then another one.”

The letter to Grace was in the center console in the Jeep. There was only one dim light shining in Grace’s loft. She needed time alone but he was going to have to go to her. There was no way he could have that conversation with Winnie and not tell her; no way he could be in possession of that letter and not give it to her right away. But he thought it was reasonable that he have a couple of belts for both his nerves and need of courage.

So he sipped slowly, dreading what had to be done.

What a complicated mess. There was a lot of rage between Grace and Winnie, and now they were going to throw heartbreak into the mix. Heartbreak and impending death. And an inheritance? This was quickly getting bigger than he was. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t made that drive up to the resort to confront Winnie. It might be easier not knowing. But he had thought he could help; he had thought he could be the voice of reason. The way he saw it, Grace shouldn’t have such a hot button at the mere suggestion she think about a career in the figure skating industry. And Winnie should drop the subject after being told about fifty times it was out of the question.

Here were two stubborn, pigheaded women.

It was nine-thirty when Troy called her. Grace answered sleepily.

“I miss you. Are you calmer now?” he asked.

“I am. I stomped around and cried for a while, then I think I nodded off. I’m exhausted.”

“Let me come over and hold you. I don’t know how to sleep alone anymore,” he said.

“Okay, but you have to be quiet and sleepy. I don’t want to talk,” she said.

“I don’t blame you.”

He drove around to the alley access and parked behind the Pretty Petals van. He used his own key to get in and found the loft was dark. There was an empty wineglass on the coffee table. He took the envelope from his jacket pocket and left it on the small table in her galley kitchen, left his jacket over a chair and went to the bedroom. She stirred and sat up.

“Hi,” she said. “Can’t stay away from me, can you?”

“I sure can’t,” he said, taking off his shoes. His pants and shirt quickly followed and he slid into bed. She rolled right into his arms and kissed him.

“Wow. Whatever that is on your breath, it’s powerful.”

“I needed a stiff drink,” he admitted.

“Winnie can have that effect on people. Tell me the truth. Did she make you want to run for your life?”

“No.” He pulled her into his arms. “I can see the challenge, however. Close your eyes. You don’t want to talk, remember?”

“I’m wiped out,” she said with a yawn, snuggling against him. “You are such a good pillow. I don’t think I know how to sleep alone anymore, either.”

“Just rest, baby. I’m right here.”

Troy didn’t sleep all that well, but it felt good to know that Grace did. She snored, a sure sign she was deep into sleep. He woke at five-thirty, just like most mornings, and after lying quietly for a while, he got up. He brewed coffee and waited for her to wake up. It was almost an hour.

“Why are you up?” she asked, stretching. “You don’t have work today!”

“Grace, I have something to tell you,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I went back to the resort after I dropped you off yesterday. To see your mother.”

“You what? Why would you do that?”

“Get a cup of coffee, honey, and let me tell you.” She was back in just seconds, sitting beside him. “I went because I was really disturbed by the way you two went after each other. Not that it was unique—my mom and sister have had a couple of good rows. But they always patched things up, even if it took a few days or even a couple of weeks. It looked like this conflict with your mom has been going on for years.”

“True,” she said.

“I went back to see her, to ask her what it would take to have a civilized relationship with you. You don’t have to like each other, but you’re mother and daughter. But that conversation didn’t really happen. She knows she’s made mistakes, Gracie. Big ones. And she has issues.” He tapped the letter. “She wrote you a letter. She was going to have it delivered to you if that flower delivery she trumped up didn’t result in a conversation. She asked me to give it to you.”

She put down her coffee and snatched it. “Do you really think that was your place? Going to see my mother?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It looked like you were both in pain. And it also looked perfectly ridiculous. I couldn’t imagine why on earth you two had to have such a blowup over your future in the skating industry. It made no sense to me.” He watched her rip open the envelope. “I get it now.”