As I pulled into the parking lot of the Wyndwatch Golf Club, I could see why Casey loved it so much. Wyndwatch was a private club, but he'd played there often, having acquired the necessary connections through various long-term members. It was a beautiful place, and I could see, just by perusing the well-dressed men and women strolling toward the clubhouse and others approaching the first tee, that the course was patronized by the wealthy. Casey liked that, too.

Casey had two passions--golf and wealth--not necessarily in that order.

I was somewhere in his life, but could definitely not be described as a passion. Basically, I was his to control and to use. End of story.

Well, not truly the end . . . yet. A few more moments, and I could happily get on with my life. We had been married six months; three and one half of those months had been hell. And the honeymoon hadn't exactly been the best time of my life, either. It still completely astounded me that I could have so misjudged the man. Having always considered myself an excellent judge of character, it had taken me too long to admit that I had chosen poorly when it came to Casey. The man of my dreams became the permanent demon of my nightmares--nightmares that became haunting all day, every day, every night.

I'd been plotting potential opportunities for escape for weeks. And then the unexpected happened--

Casey died.

With a golf club poised to strike the next drive and the sky supposedly clear, a lightning bolt struck him down. A freak accident. That single, deadly bolt had been the unexpected advent to a horrendous storm that immediately followed.

The director of the local funeral home came personally to express his condolences. "Allow me to look after all the details, Mrs. Lachet," he'd said.

"Fine."

"You need only come to the home to make a choice of caskets."

"You choose," I had said. "Make it flimsy."

Guilt had been my constant companion for too long--guilt that I should never have shouldered because there was nothing in my marriage worthy of saving and, therefore, I had no business feeling guilty over a relationship that never should've been. And why I took on the burden of being the one at fault for everything bad that happened between us, I will never know.

My newly freed and rational self added, completely without guilt, "And when you order the flowers from me, please have them attach a thank you note."

He paused for the space of a heartbeat before choosing the most pleasant of any number of interpretations. "Oh, that is so lovely," he said. "You wish to thank him for the lovely life you had together; albeit ever so short."

Wrong. But how could I expect him to get it? So I replied, "Something like that."

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