“Put it on, Ginger,” Ray Anne commanded.

It was stunning. Ginger felt a little like a princess. Then she reminded herself that she couldn’t be a princess or feel that beautiful. She was in mourning.

“It’s irresistible,” Ray Anne said. “Now just don’t bring us any more clothes. Ginger, put on those jeans with the white tee and pink jacket. You’re wearing it to lunch and then home.”

“Ray, don’t throw out my jeans.”

“Of course not, darling. You might need them for the next time you paint a house. We’ll stop in the shoe department and then we’ll have a lovely lunch together.” She looked at her watch. “Good, the lunch crowd will have passed and not only will it be quiet, it’s late enough in the day that we can manage with something light for dinner much later.” She examined her phone. “Looks like I’m going to be on the phone and computer after we get back to Thunder Point. For a Realtor and property manager a day with a lot of phone calls is a good day.”

They were alone in the dressing room and in a whisper she hoped wouldn’t be overheard, Ginger spoke. “Ray Anne, I appreciate all this so much, I do. But you can’t rescue me from grief with a few new outfits and a haircut.”

Ray Anne gave her a pitying look. “No one knows that better than I do, Gingersnap. But the other thing I know is that you have two choices—you can grieve that useless ex-husband and your precious lost baby forever or you can do what you must to move on and make life bearable. Because, honey, we’re stuck with life.”

Ginger positioned her arms as though cradling a baby in her arms. “When I put my arms like this, I can still feel the weight of his tiny head right there, in the crook.”

“Sugar, that’s not ever going away. You’re not going to forget. You’re just going to carry on. It’s not easy. It’s all you can do.” She blinked. “Now I think we need some shoes and some guacamole. You get dressed. I’m going to deal with the receipts.”

Fifteen

When Grace called Mikhail, he asked for the details of this dying. So she read the letter, though she stumbled from time to time.

My Dear Izzy,

First of all, I’m very sorry about my harsh words when you retired from skating. I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t. Shock and disappointment got the best of me. And I apologize about the mysterious note. I knew it would frighten you. I actually hoped it would. I think I must have had a stroke of some kind, that something like that would make perfect sense to me. Then you would come to me and I would pull all the right strings—you would feel safe again with my protection.

A fool’s game. I apologize. I wanted you to come home but not because you pitied me.

I am sorry about the years of arguments about skating and, if not skating, coaching or consulting or reporting or judging. Every time we get through with one of those conversations, with one of those power struggles, I am filled with hate for myself and anger with you. It’s the worst feeling and I always pledge never to allow myself to do that again. And yet I have.

There is a reason. Not an excuse, but a reason. I learned a couple of years ago that I have ALS. For a while the symptoms were manageable and it was easy to imagine it would be years before it would matter. And I resolved to use those years to lure you back to your roots. It wasn’t so much that I wanted you to compete. It was that I wanted you to be secure. I have always known I wouldn’t be alive forever, but never panicked that my time was short.

You are the only heir to this old Dillon money. Your half brother is not a part of my family and your father settled with him generously before and after his death. There is no one else, Izzy. It’s only you. And to my embarrassment, I’ve never acquainted you with the complications and responsibilities associated with this legacy. I’ve been managing since my parents died, before you were even a teenager. The work is immense. The threat of cons and predators and incompetent advisors is constant. People will take advantage of you. Steal from you if you even blink. Even charities will use you. Frankly, I don’t care if you spend it all on something that makes you happy, but I worry that if I don’t do my job you could lose it or be swindled.

That’s why I want your undivided attention for a few months. It is complex and you’ll find there are decisions to be made.

This ALS is hard. The symptoms are coming faster now. I’m an athlete at the core and even when I stopped competing, my body never betrayed me before. I was always competent and confident and now I don’t dare cross the street alone. The jitters and weakness and trembling and unbelievable fatigue are getting the best of me. I don’t know how much time there is. We should get this thing between us settled once and for all.

It’s not important that one of us wins, Izzy. It’s very important that we forgive each other. Before it’s too late. Before we can’t go back.

Love,

Mother

When she was finished, still wiping away the occasional tear as she read, she heard Mikhail curse. She had noticed that Troy wandered into the kitchen for more coffee, lingering at the coffeepot with his back turned to her as if it was painful to listen.

Mikhail said something she didn’t understand. “Sheet of the gods. I will come. Where do I come?”

She laughed through her tears. Shit of the gods? When he was himself, when he wasn’t pushing her to do more, do better, he could make her laugh and love him. “Why come, Mikhail?” she asked. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I can see her one time. She made my life when she gave me you. I am now best coach. I was not best coach before you.” He grunted. “But is Winifred. Will be hard. Where do I come?”

“Well, I live in one-and-a-half rooms, but Winnie is in a nice house at a resort in Bandon, close by. She has bedrooms.”

“She will not have me,” he said. “She is diva. Where is this Brandon?”

“It’s Bandon. Oregon.”

“Oregon? Did we skate in this Oregon?”

Grace smiled. Mikhail was a Russian immigrant; his US geography wasn’t great. They used to study the map before every competition. He was much better with Europe and Asia than the US. “We did not. It’s about an eight-hour drive north of San Francisco. She brought her car and driver. Before you buy a ticket, let me be sure Winnie goes for this idea.”