CaddyGirls

by V. K. Sykes

  But the big question was, why? After that last phone call between them and her refusal to return his calls, she’d been sure that he’d never want to think about her again. Was it possible he still had feelings for her, or did he just feel guilty about her rejecting OTE’s sponsorship?

  Forcing down water and Advil, Torrey changed into her running gear and headed out for a much-needed jog. When her head cleared, she’d call the Desert Oasis and CaddyGirls to quit her jobs—again. She’d have to plead with the casino to let her leave without notice. Even after she’d rejected Julian’s sponsorship, she’d decided against pulling her entry from the open tournament next week in Sacramento. Determined to give it her best shot now that she had a sponsor again, she had to spend the week on the golf course hitting the ball, not lugging some guy’s bag for CG.

  But before she called her bosses, she had one other call to make.

  * * *

  Brendan answered his cell phone right away. Taking a deep breath, Torrey took the plunge.

  “Hi, Brendan, it’s Torrey Green. I hope I’m not interrupting you. You said to call anytime I needed help.”

  She swore she heard a gulp at the other end of the line.

  “No problem,” he replied in a wary voice. “How are you?”

  “I’m great. In fact, if I were any better they’d have to declare me illegal.”

  He gave a forced laugh.

  “Look, Brendan,” she continued, “I won’t keep you, and I really don’t want to put you on the spot. But have you by any chance heard about the sponsorship offer I just got from Crocus Financial?”

  His hesitation lasted only a second, but it was enough to tell her what she needed to know. “Crocus is going to sponsor you? That’s fantastic, Torrey.”

  “Yes, and I must say it was quite a surprise. They hadn’t even responded to my earlier requests, and then out of nowhere they called with a firm offer. Amazing, don’t you think? Can you tell me anything about that, Brendan?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” he answered with no conviction.

  “Of course, the timing made me wonder if Julian had something to do with it. Does he have some sort of connection to Crocus?” Torrey knew she was probably trying his patience, but she wasn’t prepared to settle for evasive answers.

  “Shouldn’t you be asking Julian these questions?” he said, his voice sharper now.

  “I suppose. But, frankly, I thought I might have a better chance of getting the truth out of you.” She couldn’t tell him the real reason. She hadn’t been able to work up the courage to dial Julian’s number.

  “As I said, I really can’t tell you anything about that.”

  She pressed ahead, lacing her tone with friendly skepticism. “So, you’re saying that Julian had absolutely nothing to do with Crocus calling me?”

  Brendan sighed. “What I said was that I can’t tell you anything about that.”

  “Brendan, I really hoped you’d be honest and straightforward with me. If Julian made this happen, I think I deserve to know.”

  The line went quiet for a good five seconds. Finally, he replied. “Okay, Torrey—let me be very clear with you. I’m not saying Julian did anything whatsoever. But I can say that helping a friend in need is the kind of thing Julian often does.”

  Even though his carefully crafted answer didn’t surprise her, Torrey felt a warm glow spread through her chest. “Thank you, Brendan.”

  “For what?” His voice hinted of amusement.

  “Do you think I should call him?” she asked on an impulse. “He must be furious with me for not returning his calls.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I do know he misses you. Beyond that, it’s up to you two to figure out.”

  “You’re right. Thanks again, Brendan—I really appreciate this.”

  Torrey disconnected the call, weak with relief and nervous excitement. Julian had helped with the Crocus sponsorship, and Brendan wanted her to know that. Just as he obviously wanted her to know that Julian missed her.

  For the next half hour she paced the length of her tiny apartment, tapping the wall of her bedroom and then the wall of the living room as she went back and forth like a cricket player. If calling Julian was the right thing to do, why was it so damn hard? Was she letting her pride—and her fear of getting hurt—stand in the way of a second chance with him?

  She carried her phone as she wandered from room to room, but whenever she stopped to dial his number, her fingers froze before they touched the keypad.

  Disgusted with herself, she pulled a chair up to the kitchen table and began to put pencil to paper, crafting her opening lines. After a dozen tries, with wads of crumpled paper scattered across the table, she had something she could live with. Even though it was only eleven in the morning, she uncorked a bottle of wine, poured herself a full glass and took two swallows before she punched in Julian’s cell number.

  She found herself hoping he wouldn’t answer. A voice mail message would be so much easier. She just had to read the words in front of her with conviction.

  Coward.

  It felt like his voice mail would never kick in, but finally she heard his message and got a beep. She began to read her lines.

  “Hi, Julian. It’s Torrey. I hope you’re doing well. Congratulations on the merger with Apollo. I’m sure you must be very happy and proud. I wanted you to know I had some wonderful news myself yesterday. Crocus Financial Corporation called to offer me sponsorship for the rest of this year, right through Q-School. Isn’t that amazing? Anyway, I’m not sure if you had anything to do with it, but if by any chance you did, I want you to know I appreciate it. And I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls. That wasn’t right.”

  She paused, hesitating over the last line she’d written. Finally, giving up before the time ran out, she whispered, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  Damn. Why hadn’t she been able to read the final words she’d written?

  I miss you, Julian.

  Chapter 19

  Loud rock music assailed Torrey’s foam-stuffed ears. She rolled over and slammed her palm down on the snooze button, temporarily silencing the heavy metal assault. Cursing herself for not checking the settings on the bedside clock radio when she went to bed, she bounced up and yanked open the drapes to let in the sun. It had barely risen above the horizon. The view across the Sacramento Hampton Inn parking lot wasn’t exactly a breathtaking vista, but she couldn’t have been more excited to begin her day.

  The exhaustion of yesterday’s nine-hour drive through the enervating heat of the Mojave Desert had done its best to sap the nervous excitement that had been rippling through her for the past week. But not even the day-long trek from Las Vegas in her clunky, non-air-conditioned car could dull the thrill of the first tournament on her schedule—the first step on the long road to Qualifying School.

  Retrieving the newspaper from outside her door, she set up the coffeemaker and took a quick shower. With an eight-ten tee-off time, she hadn’t left herself much wiggle room. She ran her eyes over the golf clothes she’d hung in the closet—a different outfit for each of the six days of the tournament, including the qualifying and practice rounds. The rack held nothing like her usual presentable but inexpensive stuff. From now on she’d be wearing a colorful set of designer shirts, skirts, shorts, caps and visors—all courtesy of Crocus Financial Corporation, whose floral logo was emblazoned on everything but the skirts. As promised by Lindsay Moore, two massive packages had arrived at her home Saturday by FedEx. Everything had fit perfectly.

  Moore and the Crocus staff had treated her like a superstar during the meetings and photo shoot in L.A. The treatment went wildly beyond anything she’d expected. Though she suffered no illusions that she was anything more than a charity case for Crocus, they’d made her feel as if she’d just won an LPGA major. Late in the morning of her visit, Lindsay announced that the company president had asked to meet her. Daniel O’Hara, a rakishly handsome man in his thirties, had welcomed her as if she were A
nnika Sorenstam.

  In some ways, Dan O’Hara reminded her of Julian—young, smart, driven and sexy, but also kind and generous. She had to bite her lip to stop from asking O’Hara about Julian. By the time he showed her out of his palatial office, her last doubts about Julian’s influence on Crocus’s decision to sponsor her had vanished. No untested rookie ever got that kind of royal treatment from a new sponsor. And clearly she had Julian to thank for it.

  Today in Sacramento, she would start a new life. When she stepped onto the first tee, it would be as a sponsored professional. Even if she shot a poor round today and didn’t qualify for this tournament, she didn’t have to lose sleep. With the financial backing of Crocus, she had the time and the resources to round her game into shape before Q-School in the fall.

  And she owed it to Julian, who’d still looked out for her even after she had thrown his sponsorship offer back in his face. He’d changed her life forever. If she never saw him again, she would always be grateful.

  Torrey laid out a black cotton skirt with double back pockets and paired it with a Venetian red golf shirt bearing the Crocus logo. She poured her coffee and sat down to get her mind focused.

  By the time she’d finished the coffee, she grudgingly admitted she was far from zeroed in on what she had to do. On the day of her biggest career challenge, why couldn’t she shake Julian Grant from her mind? The last thing she needed was to have her fixation on him deep-six her concentration for even a few moments.

  If only he’d returned her phone call, or at least left a message. It killed her not to know what he was thinking. She’d given up hope he’d ever truly apologize for that stupid bet, but it still felt like a dagger in her heart whenever she thought about it. Her resentment had faded, replaced by a nagging thought that refused to be banished—that maybe their relationship had never been about anything more than the bet for Julian. That she had been only a brief diversion from his pressure cooker life. A bit of Vegas R and R, as it were.

  Annoyed with herself for the negative thought spiral and determined to do better, she stripped off her pajama pants and tee shirt and hurried into the golf clothes. After a few quick touches of makeup and a final check of her sports bag, she headed for the course.

  * * *

  It was too early even for the birds. Most mornings, Julian wakened to the chirping song of the swifts that flitted in and out of the gnarled live oak trees in his back yard. This morning the only sound was the faint buzz of crickets in the distance. The dark stillness of the night had yet to be softened by the first rays of the morning sun.

  He poured another cup of strong coffee from the French press he’d brought with him onto the patio. Sleep had refused to come, so he’d risen at three, packed a light bag and headed outside to enjoy the warm, calm night. And think.

  Nothing he’d tried in the past two weeks had succeeded in pushing Torrey out of his mind. The realization that the old rules didn’t apply threatened the architecture of his carefully designed life. Somehow the damn woman had slipped through all his defenses and left him hollow when she walked away from him.

  He mentally replayed the message she’d left on his voice mail earlier in the week. It had made him feel good—great, even. Better than when his little company had first gone public, making him rich. Better, even, than when he’d just knocked off the biggest merger of his career, landing him the current cover of a national business magazine. He’d pulled the strings with Crocus because he wanted her to succeed—and knew she deserved to succeed—not because there was something in it for himself.

  He’d done it because he admired her. Because he cared about her.

  Come on—you might as well admit it, you moron. You did it because you’re falling in love with her.

  It had taken her self-immolating rejection of OTE’s sponsorship for him to figure it out. But loving her came with a price he never thought he’d be willing to pay, because Torrey would never settle for only a tiny part of him.

  He finished the last of the coffee as he stared west at the low mountains. Soon the first faint glimmer of light from the sun rising behind him would glance off the trees, heralding another gorgeous California day. It was time to shower and get organized to leave—the traffic would be brutal if he didn’t get an early start.

  * * *

  Torrey drew a caddy named Franny. She had to take a second, hard look when she saw the unusual name written next to hers. Unlike tour events, golfers didn’t have regular, full-time caddies in these local tournaments—they took whoever was available from the area. Female caddies weren’t uncommon in women’s golf, but drawing one—especially knowing that she’d been toting bags herself only the previous week—somehow heightened the excitement of her first tournament on the road to Q-School.

  “Hi, Ms. Green.” A sturdily-built and very pretty girl with riotous red curls greeted Torrey with a grin as she stepped outside the clubhouse. “I knew you were my golfer because I overheard you when you checked in. I’m Franny McCourt. Beautiful day to play golf, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. I’m pleased to meet you, Franny. And call me Torrey, okay?”

  “I can do that. You’re from Las Vegas, right?”

  “Yep. Sin City, USA.”

  Franny chuckled, a deep, infectious sound. “Cool. I’ve never been. Is it as amazing as people say?”

  “I guess amazing would be one word for it. But Vegas can be a tough town too,” Torrey replied, anxious to get to the practice range. “Why don’t we head on over? I need to get as much practice in as I can before our tee time.”

  Franny easily shouldered Torrey’s heavy clubs and followed her. When they stopped, Torrey raised the question that had popped into her head the second she’d laid eyes on her caddy. She liked the girl’s enthusiasm, but she looked as if she should be in high school, not on the golf course.

  “Have you been caddying long, Franny?”

  “Long enough to know what I’m doing,” Franny said, bristling just a little. They walked in silence for a few more yards then Franny blurted out, “Look, I know I’m a little young. But I’m going to be a professional caddy—make no mistake about that, ma’am. And I’m starting right here, at the bottom. Just like you are.”

  The girl didn’t pull her punches. Torrey liked that. “Damn straight, Franny.” She nodded. “That’s the attitude we both need. If we work hard and believe in ourselves, we’ll make it. So, let’s go kick some butt, Franny McCourt.”

  “Right behind you, Torrey.”

  For the next half hour, Torrey hammered drives straight and long down the practice range. Franny grinned every time Torrey nailed one. After sending dozens of high rockets right down the middle, Torrey practiced drawing the ball—bending it on a right to left trajectory. She knew this course had several holes with doglegs to the left, where the ability to hit a controlled draw would make all the difference.

  “Wow, that was wicked,” Franny enthused as Torrey moved on to the practice green. “You’re a heck of a long hitter for a small person. If you putt like you swing, I’m going to want to caddy for you forever.”

  “Thanks, Franny. But it’s not that hard to hit great shots in practice. The trick is to do it when it’s on the line out there on the course. The game’s mostly mental.”

  The girl nodded. “I know. It’s like Yogi Berra said—ninety percent of this game is half mental.” Her cute freckled face opened up with a sparkling grin.

  Torrey laughed. “I like you, Franny. I think maybe we’re going to go places together.”

  The putts proved more challenging than the drives and long irons, but after twenty minutes of rolling them in from a variety of distances, Torrey pronounced herself as ready as she’d ever be.

  * * *

  She studied the foursome teeing off ahead of her. So many golfers wasted time chatting and looking around, but she found it helped her concentration to focus solely on the golf swing. Torrey never tired of studying other golfers’ techniques. You could always learn something,
and it gave you a chance to size up your opponents. Her dad had drilled that into her before her first junior tournaments, and it had stuck.

  Franny learned quickly. Though it was obvious she liked to banter and play it loose, she’d picked up on Torrey’s style right away and stayed quiet from the moment they strode to the first tee. Torrey looked straight ahead, visualizing her opening drive. A gentle dogleg to the left, it called for one of the draw shots she’d been practicing. Totally focused, she startled when Franny jogged her arm.

  “Sorry, but it’s time for us to move up to the tee,” the caddy said. “They’ll be calling your name any second.”

  The size of the crowd lining the tee area surprised Torrey. The small tournament obviously had a serious local following. It was either that or the golfers had really big families, she thought wryly. She followed Franny as the sturdily built girl strode through several rows of spectators onto the velvety green expanse of the tee.

  The tall blonde in her foursome had the honor, and quickly smashed a low screamer well down the fairway. Torrey tapped her driver on the manicured turf as she waited for her name to be called. Seconds later, the marshal’s voice boomed out over the buzz of the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, next on the tee is Torrey Green, from Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  She couldn’t believe the sustained round of applause she received. With a smile, she touched her index finger against her visor in a thank-you salute before bending over to tee up her Titleist.

  For the last time, she constructed a mental image of the shot she wanted to hit—a high draw that started out down the middle and slowly bent left to follow the gentle curve of the fairway. Taking up her stance, she waggled once then coiled into her backswing and whipped the big metal clubface down hard into the ball. Only when she completed her follow-through did she release her eyes from the ground and pick up the ball’s flight. In the split second it took to locate the fast-rising sphere, the sounds of success—applause and yells of encouragement—washed over her.