“And?”
“And, I decided that it was contrary to my beliefs on how a man should act.”
“It’s not wrong to have a moral compass, Meredith. In fact, it’s pretty much essential in this line of work.”
“Quite,” I agree, under my breath. “But where I overstepped the mark was with my line of questioning. It must have seemed more like an interrogation than a counselling session to him.”
“How do you know? He might have found it refreshing to be asked questions that perhaps others daren’t?”
I snort and nonchalantly pick off a long blonde hair from my jacket sleeve. “The abrupt way he left, leaves me in no doubt he appreciated neither the questions, nor how I asked them.”
He places his hands down, letting them rest on each of his bony knees. “If you suspect he may complain then I will keep a watch-out for any communication. But I don’t imagine he will. I’m confident he will ponder on the issues you have raised and come back for more. Often people who seek solace in sordid recreational activities are seeking an authoritative voice to shock them before they eventually listen to their advice. I don’t think you have any cause for concern. Write up your notes and file them away.”
“Thank you, Hector, and I hope you’re correct.”
“Me too, Meredith.”
Then Hector shuffles on his seat and breaks the solemnness with a smile. “Anyway, I came to find you, so I could give you these.” He slides his hand into his jacket inner pocket and pulls out two tickets. The glossy print glinting in the sunlight now streaming through the vertical gaps in the window blinds.
“Ooh, what have we here?” I take the tickets from him.
“They’re for a comedy evening to support a charity that benefits children suffering from limb loss.”
“Oh, excellent.” I feign excitement. It sounds great and I desperately need a night out. My social life is non-existent as I’ve spent the last few years with my nose to the millstone getting my career off the ground. Consequently, I’ve nobody to take to such an event.
“Nancy and I would go, but she has raging morning sickness right now. Rather than duck out last-minute, we thought you and a plus one might appreciate them.”
“Of course, Hector, that’s very thoughtful.”
“It’s next Saturday night. You didn’t have plans already, did you?”
“No.”
Plans, what are they?
“Great, and don’t worry about your client, I'm sure he will give the session a good deal of thought, unlike you, who should forget about it until his next session.”
Next session? I doubt there will be one of those.
Chapter Five
Johnson
I can’t mope around all day, fixated on that doctor and what she said this morning. A quick shower, a change of clothes and down to the driving range to hit my frustration out on some balls is in order.
Perhaps I’ll drop in at Mom’s after the range to indulge in home-baked goodies. I’m salivating thinking about it, which is good, as it’s something other than the thought of banging the doctor over her consulting desk that makes my mouth water. The thought lingers; sex with a doctor, now that would be a first. Although I can’t imagine for one moment, she would be willing as her view on me is ground level. It’s obvious she thinks less of me than a fly buzzing around dog shit on her shoe.
After my shower, I search in my closet for something uplifting to wear. I have a whole section for my golf attire. There are shirts on the top rack arranged by color and pants on the bottom. Today feels like a red kind of day and I pick out one of my favored Nike shirts and contrast it with black pants. Then I turn my attention to my fifty plus pairs of golf shoes, each only worn a handful of times before they’re sent off with the maid to a recycling center. Although I can’t imagine what happens to them from there. It’s not as if they are much use to someone homeless or down on their luck who have higher priorities than a round of golf.
A handcrafted insert covering one whole wall, any woman would cream her panties to own, holds each pair in their own individual box.
Actually, I wouldn’t know if it would have that effect on a woman as I’ve never entertained one here. A cardinal rule I have stuck to ever since I bought this house. I don’t want a woman to assume she can get her feet under my table, let alone make space in my dressing room.
You could say that I’m selfishly single because I value my space and always do things my way. But actually, I’m not single by choice; I’m single because I’m selfish. And if I wasn’t selfish, I would live in Florida right now in a carbon copy of this house with a beautiful wife and kids who would, of course, share my love of the game. The wife, by the way, would have a name. Kirsty.
I trot down the stairs in my brogues, carrying a sweater and golf shoes in a small black bag. I grab my keys off the central hall table and exit through the integrated garage, so I can pick my clubs up on the way. The garage has never housed a car, it’s kitted out with racks for various golfing tools and hooks for all of my clubs and bags. I choose the half set I’m currently using for the driving range and press the button on the electric door mechanism. Shielding my eyes with the peak of my ball cap from the glaring afternoon sunshine. I pop the trunk on my car and slide my clubs in at the carefully rehearsed angle. Then I stride round to the driver’s door, fling it open and jump in to the seat. It’s a maneuver I’ve practiced, and I know looks cool, although any hint of a sore back and I’m sure it would be hard to achieve.
“Lose Yourself” by Eminem punches out of the speakers when I start up the engine. A fitting song for my journey back from the doctor’s appointment this morning, but it seems overkill now. For the first couple of miles of the drive, I flick through the rest of my playlist to find a more soothing track but I’m interrupted by AJ’s call.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
“Just checking in to see if you’re a changed man.”
“If you’re referring to this morning’s session with Dr. Fairchild? Then no. Not at all.”
“Why, what happened?”
“She went all snarky. Asking about my views on women and whatnot.”
I hear his chuckle through my speakers and I don’t like it one bit. “What’s so fucking hilarious, AJ?”
“I’m imagining what you might have said in response.”
I snort and shake my head at the cell phone I positioned in a holder on the dash.
“You realize she has you pegged, Johnson?”
“I don’t agree. I don’t have a downer on women. In fact, I love women.”
I check out my face in the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah and that’s the problem Mr. Wilder.”
“Fuck off AJ.”
I have a mind to cut him off and switch back to Eminem.
“If you want to get back on form, you need to listen to someone,” he continues to bleat at me. “Someone who isn’t just gonna stroke that massive fucking ego of yours, but tell you like it is. That sounds like this doctor. I’ve tried, and you reckon I’m pulling your dick.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re worse than me.”
Silence.
Ooh. I suck in breath across my teeth, I may have hit a nerve there. AJ recently did the dirty on his long-term girlfriend and now he’s dealing with the consequences. Oh well, he doesn’t get to tell me how to live my life without getting a little shit in return.
“Anyway, AJ, I’m heading to the range. Do you wanna join me? Shoot some balls?”
“Sure, I’m a glutton for punishment.”
The call cuts off and I turn up the volume so the music pounds through the Bose speakers. There’s no reason to rush, but I feel the need for a little thrill so I punch the foot pedal.
I’m still unloading my clubs from the trunk of my car when AJ pulls up. The braking wheels throw up dust all over me and my recently polished car. He has little man syndrome, I’ve been told, and therefore has the need to drive an oversized truck recklessly. Not bo
thering with the step, he jumps down from the cab, jogs around to the back and hauls himself up on the back fender so he can reach his bag.
AJ is a good golfer, but a hip injury has kept him off the professional circuit and by my side as my caddy. We’ve traveled all over the world together and lived in each other’s pockets for long enough to know we get on. As well as any man can get on with another that is. We argue. We fight. We take the piss. But we also build each other up and defend each other to the hilt.
“So, did you catch the news last night?” he asks, loading the strap onto his shoulder and giving the bag a jostle so it sits comfortably against his hip.
“No, why what did I miss?” I do the same with my bag and stride across the lot to the range reception area.
“McKenzie spouting about tactics and fitness for next week’s comp.”
“Huh!” I snort over my shoulder. “So, nothing he knows shit about then?”
“He mentioned you.”
I adjust my ball cap on my head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he pants, trying to keep up with my long steps.
I open the door and walk through the throng of golfers milling near the entrance to the adjacent pro-shop. Most of them acknowledge me with a nod or tip of their caps.
When we’re out of their earshot, I carry on with my mild interest in what McKenzie has been saying about me. I’m quite used to being the black sheep of the golfing fraternity. I know my fans like it as they’re more interested in following a character rather than a boring has-been. I’m sure they give me a virtual slap on the back for drinking until dawn and then coming straight on to the course for back-to-back rounds.
“So, come on then, AJ. I’m sure I’ve heard it all before.”
“Yeah more or less, but he reckons you’re over the hill. Burned-out.”
We reach the corridor that leads to the driving range slots. There are two reserved for the pro’s and I take the one furthest from rest so we can talk privately. I place down my bag and select a club. The first I pull out and immediately slide back in before lifting the second all the way out. “Pah, what does that wannabe know about it. We’ll see who’s over the hill next week.”
AJ titters. He loves to wind me up and if he’s got nothing original to say he parrots someone else’s insult.
My target shots are goddamn awful and it doesn’t seem to matter what club I choose, or what advice AJ gives, I can’t settle my mind enough to hit how I want.
Although, I’m more bothered by Dr. Fairchild’s assessment of me than McKenzie’s. He’s got an ulterior motive. She hasn’t.
I call it a day, leaving AJ at the range to find another drinking partner so I can visit Mom alone. I listen to a podcast on the way over there, it’s a broadcast AJ recommended. A sports psychologist who can help with mind over matter and who will fly anywhere on the planet to consult for a fee. If I like his style, I might even do that, because there’s no way I’m going back to see Dr. Fairchild. I’m no masochist.
Within two minutes, the sports psychologist’s dulcet tones are grating on me. It’s like he has cotton-wool stuffed up his nostrils.
My mind bounces from the podcast to Mom’s baking, to Dr. Fairchild’s legs and finally what the weather will be like in LA later this week.
The car turns on to Mom’s street before I realize blocked-sinus guy is still talking. Oh well, at least I’ve saved myself a few bucks because I’m not about to pay for his flight any time soon.
I speed onto the driveway and smile when I see the door fling open. I waste little time getting out of the car and bound up the porch steps to her.
“Come here, son.” She wraps her arms around my waist and snuggles into my chest. “I’m sure you’ve grown.”
It’s her standard observation of me. I’m the wrong side of thirty and she still treats me like a boy. Well, that’s when everything’s good. If there’s a problem she needs help with, then she acknowledges me as the man of the family.
I ignore her remark and follow her through to the kitchen. It’s the heart of the Wilder family home and nothing like the kitchen installed in my house. In here, there’s a long pine dining table at the center, surrounded by an assortment of chairs which she regularly fills with family and friends. Frilly curtains adorn the many picture windows and there’s always background music courtesy of a local soul radio station.
As expected, an array of baked goods cool on the countertop next to the stove, covered over with a cloth. In stark contrast, my stove has never been lit.
I walk towards the goodies and lift the edge of the muslin square, rewarded by the delicious smell of biscuits. I cast a glance her way and she nods.
“Move out of the way then Johnson and I’ll fry bacon to go with one.”
“One?”
She tuts and swooshes me away. “Go find Lincoln and ask him to come in for food.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. She knows I’m no gofer, especially with Lincoln. He’s my kid brother, and he rubs me up the wrong way. His lack of motivation and disdain of sport, sets him at the other end of the spectrum and no matter how much encouragement I give him, he doesn’t seem at all bothered. Mom is always quick to defend him though as he’s her baby.
She maintains my stare, so I blow out a breath and push off the cabinets I’m leant against.
“Where is he?”
“Out back, in his studio.”
I open the screen door and walk out onto the porch. The late afternoon sun is dipping behind the trees that line the edge of the backyard, creating cool shadows on the porch. I notice that the wooden deck needs attention as the varnish is peeling. It needs scrubbing back and a new coat painted on, so I make a mental note to sort it.
As I step down onto the grass, the sounds of opera float through the air. I don’t know which composition, because I’m not cultured that way, but it sounds kind of sad.
Instead of knocking, I push open the door and hover in the entrance before letting the door close behind me. Lincoln has his back to me and is airbrushing fat salmon-pink lines onto a large canvas with a can of spray paint. The activator clicking when he stops to give it a shake. He’s not wearing a shirt and the muscles in his back are taut and straining with his confident moves. I seem to remember him saying that this was a new technique he was experimenting with but to my untrained eye, the portrait appears too detailed to come from a can.
I daren’t tap him on the shoulder, for fear he will turn and spray paint in my face at the shock. So, I scan the room for the sound system the opera is blaring from, but it’s impossible to locate anything in this mess. There are canvases, paint pots, rags, brushes, items of clothing, books, and cups cluttering every surface. It makes me cringe looking at the chaos of the studio.
Stuff it.
“Lincoln!” I bellow. My vocal chords smart with the paint fumes I suck in when I replace the breath I’ve just expended from bawling.
He turns on the spot and gives over a silent soft smile.
“Jeez, Linc, how can you breathe with all these fumes? I’m surprised you’re not high as a kite,” I shout.
He walks over, leaving barefoot trails in the fine spray of paint adorning the floor near to the canvas.
“Yeah, forgot to put a mask on.”
I shake my head at him. “Mom’s making something to eat. You coming?”
He nods, but then goes back to his canvas and sprays again. I pick up a paper face mask hanging on a nail and tap him on the shoulder with it.
“Here.”
He takes it from me and loops the elastic around his ears.
I’ve done as Mom asked. Whether he comes in is up to him, but at least I’ve stopped him from killing himself.
As I approach the house again, the savory smell of bacon wafts through the air. Heaven. As I walk in to the kitchen, Mom serves the bacon with two biscuits and hands me the plate. I can’t resist, and pop the still sizzling bacon straight into my mouth. The heat of it burns my tongue and I have to suck in cool air to
overcome the pain.
Mom tuts at my cussing and places a cup of steaming coffee on the table which won’t help with the state of my mouth. I sit on the chair I claimed many years ago, at the head of the table and pour maple syrup onto the bacon. Mom sighs at my food foibles.
“Heard from Blane lately?” I ask, when my mouth stops raging.
“Yes, they’re both doing well. Yasmin is the picture of health and everything is going well with the pregnancy. They’ve not had any bother since that false alarm.”
I huff. “Yeah, now that was one helluva day.” That was the day Yasmin was laying over at Mom’s waiting for Blane to finish one of his inspirational talks at the local school. Yasmin mistakenly thought she was going into labor and I rushed her to the local hospital. More memorably for me, it was the day of that shameful event at the country club, and the reason for my current psychology sessions.
“I must visit them soon,” I comment.
“Have you not got the e-mail?” Mom asks.
“What e-mail?”
I don’t open my e-mails, not personal ones anyway. Cherie, the personal assistant Blane and I share, deals with all my correspondence but she drew the line at the personal stuff; claiming she needn’t be scarred for life by the images she found in e-mails from groupies. Yeah that’s right, golfers have groupies too, and mine are adventurous.
“It’s an update from Blane about where we’re at with the Wilder Foundation and details on a comedy benefit he wants us all to attend. It’s next week at the Loft Theater.”
“When next week? I’m in LA from Monday and was hoping to stay on to soak up the sunshine.”
Mom gives me the look.
I sigh. “But if I know when it is, I can make sure I’m back to take part.”
I break off a piece of the biscuit and swirl it around in a pool of syrup.
“That’s more like it Johnson. Read your e-mail and you’ll find out what it’s all about.”
Great! That means going into the abyss. Let’s hope there’s no-one that catches my eye in there.
“Are you playing golf in LA?” she asks.
“Yes, and it’s an important competition too.”
Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance Page 3
