by Diane Capri
The spot swelled rapidly. Someone handed me a linen dinner napkin filled with ice. I couldn’t open my eyes because the subdued light in the dining room was blinding.
There was nothing wrong with my ears, though. I heard George shouting. In public. Angrier than I’d ever witnessed. Through my slitted eyelids, I saw George’s red face as he gave Andrews a push toward the door that landed Andrews against Warwick and nearly knocked them both down on the floor next to me.
“Get out! Get out right now and don’t any of you attempt to come back here! Andrews, Warwick, I’m disgusted with both of you!”
Andrews reached for his wallet, but George waved him away. “Forget the checks, just leave. And do not try to make a reservation here again.”
George turned to his Mater ‘d. “Peter, these people are leaving and they are not to return. Ever.”
The Andrews family hurried to rise and leave the table, glancing down my way. Tory tried to reach me to apologize, but Jason grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the exit.
George bent down to me then. “Are you alright?”
Still feeling dazed, I tried to get up, glad I’d worn pants tonight and wasn’t sitting with my legs splayed open in front of half of Tampa.
“It was an accident. Tory meant to hit Andrews,” I said.
This made George even angrier. I guess it would have been okay if she’d been trying to hit me. Go figure.
Peter ushered the Andrews and the Warwicks out and Frank Bennett followed them. He must have been tickled pink to have been witness to a brawl involving high level politicians in Tampa’s classiest restaurant.
Tory tried to reach me again. “I’m so sorry, Willa,” she apologized while Jason kept moving her toward the door.
CHAPTER SIX
Tampa, Florida
Friday 11:10 p.m.
January 21, 2000
PETER RETURNED AND BEGAN to placate the remaining diners, who were openly staring now. I heard him offer apologies and a dessert of their choice, compliments of the house.
After a while, I could stand up without feeling too dizzy. We walked over to the Sunset Bar, the big white ice filled dinner napkin pressed against the rising lump on my forehead, George holding one elbow and Jason close beside me.
“I cannot believe that woman,” George sputtered, although his color had returned to normal.
“You know she wasn’t herself,” Jason soothed.
George wouldn’t be calmed. “So when she’s herself, I suppose her aim is better? Then she could have beaned the next justice of the Supreme Court? That’s just great, Jason. Just great.”
“What do you want Sheldon to do? He can’t hang around at home with her every night he’s in Tampa and he lives in D.C. as much as possible,” Jason retorted. His defense of Warwick was nothing if not consistent.
“Well, they can both go somewhere else to eat from now on. And I don’t need that hothead Andrews in here, either. Tory wouldn’t have thrown the glass at him if he hadn’t started a fight. I meant it when I said neither one of them is welcome here again.” He turned toward me, his anger renewed by the sight. “If Willa’s seriously hurt, it’ll be worse than that. For both of them.”
George seemed really pissed, and it scared me. He rarely displayed a temper. My husband is the most civilized man I know.
To my George, violence is a bad thunderstorm. Who was this testosterone laden, protective male next to me, anyway?
I felt as if my entire world had become a strange foreign land where I didn’t understand the language or the customs and from which I might never emerge. My eyes started to tear. Great. Just great.
Judges don’t cry, I told myself.
I blinked back the water and took a deep breath.
“Look,” I said. “You two need to calm down. Everybody’s gone now. I’m still living. And I’m thirsty. Where’s that drink and cigar you promised me?”
They gave up their bickering reluctantly. The passion they’d both been feeling over Andrews’s confirmation was intense. The steam had blown past their control here tonight, but the controversy was still boiling under the lid, threatening to spill over again if we dropped our guard for more than a few seconds.
I fingered the tender lump on my forehead, now about the size of a small spoon bowl. It would look awful in the morning. How in the name of heaven did I ever get involved in such a mess?
George and Jason had calmed down but they didn’t pretend to be interested in anything else now. They took up the political discussion they’d wanted to have at dinner but hadn’t been willing to risk being overheard.
“How is the committee vote going to go? Any idea?” George asked, anger still heating his tone.
Jason visibly resisted a sharp retort and replied, “Some of the senators have declared themselves already. Some did it in their opening statements and others have formed their opinions during the questioning.”
“Do you know?” George demanded. “Or not?”
Jason gave him a look that would have quelled a lesser adversary. “There are still enough that are at least undeclared to make it a horse race. Right now, I’m not sure how it will go. Fifty-fifty, maybe.”
“What does Warwick think? He’s the chair of the judiciary committee. He has some influence,” George said with exaggerated irony.
“He has a lot of influence,” Jason snapped. “But the
Democrats are not the only ones who have a say in this.”
“You can’t seriously think any elected Republican would cast a vote for that ignoramus,” George shot back.
I felt a little like a spectator at a wrestling match. Jason must have known more than he was willing to share with George, and George was determined to find out what Jason knew.
My head really started to throb. I hoped that eventually this, too, would pass. I had committed to the golf tournament tomorrow and I didn’t want to cancel over a headache. I called it a night and left them deep into their argument. When I went up to bed, they hardly noticed.
I should have stayed up for the late news, just to see how bad Frank Bennett’s report really was, but I couldn’t face it. The story would be repeated ad nauseum anyway. Bad news usually gets worse in the night.
I hate thinking I’m powerless over events like what happened in the restaurant tonight, even though I know I can’t control everything and especially can’t control everyone. If George had wanted me to know what was going on in his political scheming, I realized he’d have told me long before that Friday. I fell into troubled sleep, promising myself that I’d fix everything tomorrow, which never works.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Saturday 6:00 a.m.
January 22, 2000
THE ALARM WENT OFF at six o’clock. When I rolled over to turn it off and snuggle up to George for a few more winks, my hand felt only the cold, empty sheets on his side of the bed.
George never gets up before six o’clock. We’re both owls. We detest those bright eyed larks with their worm fetish.
No matter. I snuggled down into the covers instead.
The confirmation hearings were over. Our lives would return to normal today. We had survived George’s single-minded pursuit of Andrews’s defeat.
With the release of all that tension, perhaps George just couldn’t sleep and I’d find him in the kitchen. I sniffed the air but couldn’t smell an aroma of brewing coffee.
An uneasy feeling crept into my body but I pushed it away with the covers.
In the bathroom, through tired eyes, I examined the big purple egg on my forehead where Tory Warwick’s glass missile had hit me. In total denial of the pain in my head, I shrugged into my running clothes. With Harry and Bess at my heels, I shuffled through to the kitchen, planning to tell George where I was going. He wasn’t there.
Harry and Bess refused to tell me where he went, but there were only so many places he could be. Not too worried, I expected to find him outside on the veranda with his newspapers.
/> When I glanced up at the clock, I realized I had only about an hour to get ready for the golf tournament today, so the dogs and I rushed down the back stairs to the beach.
Harry and Bess ran way ahead of me. When I’m in good form, I do an entire lap around our island. Sometimes two laps. Other days, I just do half a lap and take a golf cart back. Today would be a quick mile. It was all the time I had.
When I started to run, I began to feel better. A lot of people run just for exercise, hating every minute of it. For me, though, it’s a spiritual experience. I love the sand, the water, the sunshine and the companionship I get from Harry and Bess. After years of running, I’m able to get to the runner’s high in about fifteen minutes and it carries me the remainder of the run. Sometimes, I have to consciously bring myself to stop.
By the time we returned to the house, huffing and puffing, I was sweating like an NBA player in the final two minutes. I jumped into the bay with Harry and Bess to cool off. This is the part they like the best because they get to submerge me and each other ten or twenty times before I’m completely exhausted and give up.
Our Labradors, Harry and Bess, are littermates, even though Harry’s yellow and Bess is black. They were very cute puppies, obnoxious adolescents and now, the equivalent of twenty-something adults. They are a joy to be around and we love them both in place of children: We don’t have to pay for college and we’d likely get arrested for putting kids in a cage. That, and being childless has made our marriage seem more like a long honeymoon. Until the Andrews’s hearings, I reminded myself. But those hearings were over now. The realization made my heart sing.
The dogs and I got out of the salty water and rinsed off at the outdoor shower. I left them in their kennel to dry off while I trudged up the back stairs. Now, they would wait patiently until after my shower for their breakfast.
Even with the bruised lump on my forehead, everything about the morning was so blessedly normal, except that I still hadn’t found George.
I started Cuban coffee before I headed to the shower. When I came out, dressed in purple and jade plaid crop pants and a jade golf shirt, not wanting my clothes to detract from the lovely purple color of the egg on my forehead, my coffee was ready.
Where could George have gone, so early in the morning? I had no idea. I glanced at my watch. No more time to wait. I called the dogs to eat, filled a travel cup with coffee, let myself out of the house and went down to Greta, my car. Unlike my husband, I could always count on Greta being exactly where I left her.
It was still early enough that dew on the St. Augustine grass and bright pink, red, purple, white and melon colored impatiens gave the morning a crystalline shimmer. As I drove Greta out from the circle in front of Minaret, the sun softly lightened the sky over the Port of Tampa and Harbour Island to the east.
Why would anyone live in Florida without a convertible? In a convertible, you experience all of the gloriousness Florida weather has to offer. I have discussed this, over wine of course, with a number of native Floridians. Sometimes they say they never had a desire for a convertible until they owned one, or rented one, or took a ride with a friend. Once exposed, they’re all hooked.
But how could you not know that being outside, able to feel the warmth of Florida living, would be glorious?
Oh, convertibles can be noisy. The tops get worn and have to be replaced periodically. In the old days, they used to leak. But now the only real drawback is that you can’t have rain gutters over the windows. Given the amount of rain we get in Florida in the summer, that can be a serious drawback for people who frequent drive-through windows.
But otherwise, is there any choice really between a stodgy old Rolls Royce and the least expensive convertible? Sport utility vehicles? Give me a break.
My spirits lifted with every minute we spent outside, as Greta and I headed across the Plant Key Bridge toward the Bayshore. The sun sparkled on Hillsborough Bay while two dolphins, swimming side by side, raced Greta and me the length of the bridge. They won. It was glorious. I’ve always loved mornings. It’s just that George and I usually sleep through them.
The short drive from Plant Key to Great Oaks golf course took me east on Bayshore Boulevard and into the old Palma Ceia section of town where the large, plantation style clubhouse and a beautiful thirty-six-hole golf course was nestled in the center of South Tampa.
In another month, early morning golf would be pleasant. But now, in January, the temperature was just a little cool. Our tee time was seven forty-two. We would finish our eighteen holes before noon. We play a scramble, which means all four golfers hit the ball at every hole and then we choose the best ball.
In theory a scramble speeds up play and all teams achieve a good score. For a social event like this one, it was a good idea. But in reality, four golfers have to have a conference over every hole and the decisions that eventually get made are not always quick or conflict free.
The event was already going strong when I arrived and let the valet park my car. I went into the locker room to collect my shoes and met my friend and playing partner, Mitch Crosby, outside. Mitch and a few other golfers had gathered around waiting for General Andrews, the guest of honor, to give the opening speech.
According to the posted schedule, our group would be the fifth foursome off, after General Andrews’s, our local State Attorney Drake’s, Senator Warwick’s and the Mayor’s foursomes. I was glad two foursomes would be between us and Drake. He was one of the most obnoxiously ambitious men I’d ever met. Two foursomes ahead of us, we’d never have to make small talk with him.
We were standing around, trying to stay warm, when one of the waiting golfers said, “Where’s George, Willa? I thought he’d come out for the opening. He’s usually here.”
Pride kept me from admitting that I had no idea where my usually solid, supportive husband had gone.
“Maybe he went jogging.” I said the first thing that popped into my mind without thinking that George hates jogging and everyone knows it. Everybody laughed.
“Sure,” one of the guys joked. “What’s her name and how long has George been seeing her?”
They laughed again at my expense, while I squirmed. The teasing continued until someone raised a topic that turned the conversation and removed George’s whereabouts from the spotlight, allowing my bright red face to settle back down to its normal pale pink tone.
Taking advantage of the reprieve, I spoke to my playing partner. “I can’t believe I agreed to team up with those two today, Mitch. What was I drinking when you got me to consent to this?” I asked him. I continued to sip the coffee I’d brought from home, which had finally cooled enough not to burn the hair off my tongue.
Mitch and I were playing today with Dr. Marilee Aymes, one of my personal favorites. The fourth member of our group, though, was Christian Grover, a local lawyer who causes me an everlasting stomachache, and everybody knows that, too.
“I thought maybe your consent had something to do with that pretty blue egg on your forehead. Like you were deranged or something,” Mitch grinned. “What happened to you?”
“I had the misfortune to be near Tory Warwick’s flying Waterford last night,” I said, as I gently patted the lump. “And it’s purple. Matches my shirt.”
“Flying Waterford is a natural hazard around her, all right. I should have recognized the imprinted pattern. Lismore, isn’t it?” Mitch gave me a glance filled with mock concern as he wiggled his eyebrows.
“Smart ass,” I smiled.
We kept up like this as we checked our bags and cart, found our specially marked balls and prepared to tee off as soon as we were given permission. The other foursomes were milling around, too. The opening ceremony was already a half-hour late.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tampa, Florida
Saturday 8:30 a.m.
January 22, 2000
FINALLY, SOMEONE APPROACHED THE microphone and said we’d begin without the opening remarks today because General Andrews hadn’t yet arrived.
They moved the general’s foursome back in line and the second group hurried to tee off.
Rumors that General Andrews was with President Benson, who might be joining us, quickly buzzed through the waiting golfers. But by the time our foursome was set to start, neither General Andrews nor the President had arrived.
In two separate carts, we waited our turn at the first tee. Marilee Aymes, a sixty-something cardiologist here in town, sat with Grover. I could hear her lighting into him before we even got started.
Whatever bad karma had given me these two as playing partners, it was worse for both of them. Unlike oil and water, it didn’t appear they could be mixed into suspension of hostilities, even for a good cause and a relatively short time.
“Grover, have you ever played with these clubs before?” Marilee chided him. “They look like something you bought off an infomercial advertised by Suzanne Sommers.”
“Just because I’m not a golfer, Dr. Aymes, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” he responded. “Who would buy golf clubs from Suzanne Sommers? With her chest, there’s no way I could get the same angle on the ball.”
Mitch put his hand up over his mouth to cover his smile. I grinned openly. The day promised laughter, something I’d missed lately. This tournament might turn out even better than I’d hoped.
Up at the tee, Mitch hit his first drive of the day about 220 yards, long for him and a good start for the team. I went next, then Marilee and finally Grover.
We were required to take everyone’s tee shot once each nine holes. I prayed Grover would be able to hit his ball more than fifty yards at least once. He went up to the tee, stood looking over the ball and the fairway and finally, finally, hit the damn thing about three feet.
Mitch and I stifled our groans, got back into our cart and started off to find his ball, stopping on the way to pick up mine. As we headed down the cart path, we heard Marilee saying, “That’s just great, Grover. Maybe we should get you some breast implants if you think it would help.”
“I didn’t think it was bad for the first ball I’ve ever hit,” he said with mock innocence.
