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“What do you think it was?”

“My coach thought it was a lack of ambition, that I didn’t
have that killer instinct. But listening to you today, I think it was more what you said. When no one was watching, I could play for me. I connected to the ball and the course and the breeze and the birds. I hardly noticed who I was playing with. It
was
like magic. But when I knew people were watching, I couldn’t feel that anymore. I felt empty.”

“In your heart?”

“In my heart. So I gave it up.”

“Is that what you think I should do?”

“No, Zoey, that’s not why I told you that.”

“Why, then?”

“Because I wanted you to know that I made a mistake. What my coach thought was also true. I didn’t care enough to work through the problem. It had always been easy for me, and the minute it became hard, the minute I really had to work at it, I gave up and walked away.”

I cross into her practice zone and click my club against hers, tapping out a sound like a hollow gong.

“You’re better than that. You’re better than me. You can quit if you want. If you hate it. If it isn’t fun anymore. I’ll back you with Dad. But you can’t quit just because it’s hard. Things are hard for most people. Life is hard.”

Zoey watches me silently for a moment and then she starts to laugh.

“What is it?”

“Man, Mom, did you sign us up for some reality show without telling me?”

I almost ask her what she means before I get it. And then I’m laughing too.

“Okay, okay. I wasn’t trying to be all melodramatic. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean what I said, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll think about it?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I hear imagining the audience naked helps.”

“Mom!”

“Try it.”

She shrugs and turns her back to me. She squares herself to the waiting ball. Her arms swing back and for a moment I see a video of myself at eleven.

And I know the shot will be perfect, even before it is.

A couple months before
the consultants issued the report that recommended that 1.2 people be eliminated from my department, they actually had a good idea. Morale was a bit low, they reported to the brass after conducting their usual round of impromptu interviews with a subset of employees. Business was going well, and yet there were always more cuts, more asked of them. All their perks had been taken away and replaced by Safety Minutes and uncertainty. Something needed to be done.

I’m sure the employees who were interviewed meant—in a coded way—to send the message that what needed to be done was to axe the consultants and their recommendations. Message not received. But they did have a simple suggestion that would wipe all the cares away.

This was reported to the board with a serious face, my boss, Gerry, told me. Could I believe it? When
they
were the ones responsible for the morale problem in the first place?

It was bullshit, he said, and I agreed, but still, I was curious what the solution was.

“Some fucking lottery thing.”

“Like Powerball?”

Did the consultants really think spirits were going to be lifted by tricking us into a voluntary tax on the off chance of a jackpot that couldn’t be worth it?

“Nah. Some weekend at a golf resort team-building thing. Like in the old days. Only, everyone will be eligible to go, and the participants will be chosen by lottery so there’s no grousing about why him and not me?”

“What’d you want to bet that John Scott and his cronies all end up winning?”

“Too true, my friend. Too fuckin’ true.”

But the consultants, for once, knew what they were about. The lottery was announced, and a tremor of excitement rippled through the office. The prize was a weekend in Palm Springs in early March, perfectly timed for those of us who felt that winter had dragged on too long, i.e., all of us.

Fifty people were going. That made the odds good, right? That made the odds …

“One in twenty,” Art said in the break room where it was all anyone could talk about. “A 5 per cent chance.”

“That’s not so bad,” one of the assistants replied.

“So they say, so they say,” Art agreed and took his coffee cup away, looking reflective.

I followed him back to his desk.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, wondering if he had an inkling of what might be coming when the consultants turned in their final report. Or maybe I was being paranoid. I wasn’t sure about what was going to happen, then. Not totally sure.

He was fine, he assured me, and he hoped I’d have fun at the getaway.

“What do you mean? I haven’t won anything.”

“But you’re the kind that does win, aren’t you?”

“We all have the exact same chance of winning, like you said. Right?”

He smiled and went back to his spreadsheet.

But when my name was pulled from the spinning bingo ball cage they’d decided to use for the occasion, he looked back over his shoulder at me with an expression that said,
I told you so
.

Of course, I wanted to go.
Palm Springs
, I typed into my search engine, already knowing what I’d find. Golf courses as far as the eye could see, all kept green by the aquifer lying under the desert that was supposed to be inexhaustible. Five-star resorts, with courses designed by Nicklaus and Faldo. Hell, you might even run into Nicklaus or Faldo on one of those courses.

It could happen.

You never know.

But that’s not what happened. What happened was that when I took a seat in the empty-but-for-me van they’d rented to drive us to the resort from L.A., a familiar voice spoke above me.

“This seat taken?”

I looked up, my heart in my throat. “Tish! What are you doing here? How come you didn’t tell me you were coming?”

Her name wasn’t on the list of winners. We didn’t discuss it, but I’d checked, hopeful. I’m-not-going-to-think-about-why-I’m-even-checking hopeful.

“I didn’t know.”

“I’m confused.”

She plopped down next to me and I caught a whiff of the apple of her shampoo. She was wearing a light green sweater and casual jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked great. To me, she looked perfect.

“Lori Chan, the supervisor whose office is next to mine, was supposed to go, but she came down with a nasty case of the stomach flu. She got to pick her replacement.”

“And she picked you?”

“As you see.”

“But why didn’t you say anything?”

A slight hesitation. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Well, I’m surprised.”

“Good surprise?”

“The best.”

She smiled and looked like she was about to say something else when another employee climbed into the van. She looked away and said something anodyne about the weather, and once the van was full, we settled surprisingly quickly into companionable travel mode on the two-hour drive from the big city to the big desert. Along the way, we passed those windmills from
Rain Man
, and as we got closer, Joshua trees began to spring up. And that’s pretty much all there was — Joshua trees, scrubby-looking brush, and rocky sand unending in all directions.

A desert, to state the obvious.

“Do you know that, every couple of years, it rains an inch or so, and the desert comes out all in these amazing flowers?” Tish said.

“How’d you know that?”

She pulled a California travel guide from her bag. “I was reading about it on the plane. Here look.” She turned to a glossy page full of purple flowers spread among the Joshua trees. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

“It is.”

“Won’t happen this year, though. It’s been dry as a bone. Oh, look, that Joshua tree’s all burnt!”

I laughed and gave her hand a squeeze, then dropped it. I looked around, wondering if anyone had seen. Two of our travel companions were reading, and the other two had fallen asleep.

Tish turned to me with wide eyes and spoke quickly. “A lot of them are burnt. I wonder if there was a fire recently. It didn’t say so in the book.”

“Tish,” I said quietly.

She lowered her voice. “Sorry, am I talking too much? I do that when I’m nervous.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Aren’t you?”

I had butterflies in my stomach, for sure, but I couldn’t tell if they were more nervous butterflies or excited. I was trying not to think about it too much.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” I said.

“No?”

“No.”

When we got there, the resort wasn’t quite what the firm had promised. While there were three greener-than-can-be golf courses, the decor was ten years past its prime, and the whole place had a sad, yesterday’s news feeling about it. We had
the afternoon free until the welcome dinner. You could golf, swim, or take a tour of the area.

“Can you tear yourself away from the golf course?” Tish asked me after we’d checked in, been assigned rooms on the same floor, and were handed our welcome packages.

“You mean, this afternoon?”

She looked disappointed. “You don’t have to, of course, but I thought it might be fun to go on one of the tours. And we’re all playing tomorrow, right?”

I gave myself a mental kick in the ass. I’d been saying how much I wanted to explore someplace, any place, with her, for months, and here I was, seduced away from my promises by some green grass.

“I think it’d be awesome.”

“Wow. Overcompensating. I can go on my own. Don’t worry.”

“No, I want to go. I do.”

“Well, all right then.”

The tour was leaving in twenty minutes, and we agreed to meet back in the lobby. Although we were staying on the same floor, we took separate elevators to our rooms. I didn’t plan to, but she let me step on the elevator first and didn’t join me. Instead, she gave me a wave as the doors closed, mouthing, “See you soon.”

Alone in the elevator, I leaned back against the cool expanse of glass. My heart was beating abnormally fast, and it occurred to me that maybe I was nervous after all.

I squelched the nerves, and whatever might’ve been behind them, by calling home. My cell didn’t seem to be working—I got this weird clicking noise after I dialled, even though I had good reception—so I used the phone in the room. I was
thankful the office was going to have to pay the outrageous long-distance charges printed on the small card next to the phone.

“How’s the place?” Claire asked. “As nice as last time?”

“Nothing could be as nice as last time.”

“Awww. I’m surprised you’re not on the golf course already.”

“Well,” I said, a cough catching in my throat. “I’m going to go exploring, actually. There’s a tour of Joshua Tree National Park on offer.”

“Oh! You have to promise to play the album while you’re driving through.”

I laughed. “I’d even wear my tour T-shirt, if you hadn’t thrown it out.”

“It was full of holes and two sizes too small.”

“Bono would’ve understood.”

“You’re crazy. Have fun.”

“Will do. I’m in Room 806, by the way, if you want to reach me. My phone’s behaving oddly.”

“Eight-oh-six, got it.”

I changed into a pair of trekking sandals, cargo shorts, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was warm out, but not too warm. I could see why people retired here.

Tish was waiting for me in the lobby, and she’d changed too. Into practically the same clothes.

We looked at each other and laughed.

“Maybe we should’ve consulted on our wardrobes?” Tish said.

“That’s way too girly.”

“Says Mr. I’m-about-a-three-on-the-Kinsey-scale.”

“Shut it.”

Despite our driver waiting till twenty minutes past when he was supposed to leave, no one else showed up for the tour.

“You folks still wanna go?” he asked.

Tish looked at me and raised her shoulders to her ears.

“I’m game,” I said.

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer to be on the golf course?”

“I’m sure.” I tapped the driver on the shoulder. “We’re up for it if you are.”

He turned on the engine and put it into gear. “First stop: Joshua Tree National Park.”

He drove around the long loop through the park, letting us out into the bright sun to take pictures of the endless expanse of Joshua trees. The park felt like being inside U2’s album: American and desolate, and although no music was playing, there were moments when I felt like I was in a music video.

When we were tired of seeing Joshua trees—after you’ve seen a hundred, you’ve seen too many—the driver announced our second stop: the Shields Date Gardens in Indio, a couple towns over from Palm Springs.

Tish looked puzzled and thumbed through her guidebook. She read quietly for a minute, chuckling to herself.

“This is going to be something” she said. “It was opened in 1924. And they’ve been showing this film there ever since then that ‘can’t be missed,’ apparently.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the guy who made it felt that dates were the ‘least understood of all fruits’ and wanted to educate the public.”

“You’re making that up.”

“No, sir.”

“Takes all kinds.”

Indio was a short drive away, the less posh cousin of Palm Springs. It seemed to consist of one of those long strips of highway with a million tiny malls and gas stations. The housing was mostly trailer parks. Not the kind that get swept up by tornadoes—there was grass and trees and flowers — but a long way from the white adobe mansions we’d left behind.

Next to the highway, Tish told me, reading from her guidebook again, was the wash, a huge ditch system that existed to catch the once-every-couple-of-year rains, to keep the town from flooding.

Looking around me at all the dryness, tasting it in my mouth, it was hard to imagine that ever happening.

When we got there, the Shields Date Gardens was the one old thing in a sea of new. It was protected by a grove of palm trees, and proudly announced itself as being the Date Capital of the World.

I guess everything needs a capital.

And yes, there was also the film—
The Romance and Sex Life of the
Date — which was, the sign said, Free for Life. It would be.

We walked around the large, rundown store, Tish delighting in the ridiculousness of it all.

“Check this type out,” she said, pointing to a sign above a large barrel of dates. “‘Sweet and Creamy Super Jumbo Royal Medjools.’ You can’t make this stuff up!”

“That’s a hell of a moniker. Do you think they call it Super Jumbo for short, or Royal Medjool?”

“I’d prefer to be called Royal Medjool, myself. Much more mysterious.”

“Agreed. Shall we watch the movie?”

“Hold on, we have to get a shake first.”

“A what?”

“A date shake. The guidebook says they’re highly recommended.”

“What’s in them? Wait, I don’t want to know.”

She went to the snack counter in the corner and ordered a large shake that looked about as unappetizing as you might imagine it would look, and we crossed over into the old, worn theatre. The movie played every ten minutes or so, and the next showing was about to start.

The room was ghostly quiet except for the sound of the ancient projector wheezing to life. After a few moments, a scratchy black-and-white film that looked like it was being held together with duct tape started. The soundtrack sounded as if it were being played on a phonograph that was under water, all echoes and skips.

Tish tapped me on the arm. “Date shake?”

I looked at it dubiously. It was really the last thing I wanted to be trying. But Tish looked so … so cute, really, even though women don’t like to be called that, but she was, her ponytail bouncing slightly, a we-just-cut-class-successfully grin on her face, that I said:

“Don’t mind if I do.”