"Would Rupert do that to his own daughter in the middle of Q-school?" Laura said.
I shrugged. "There's an awful lot at stake on both sides."
We trailed Kaitlin back to the clubhouse, where a small crowd had gathered. Most were players who'd finished earlier in the day and waited anxiously for the news of the afternoon rounds. Julie's disheveled father stood in the background with his Leviticus sign, guarded by Sheriff Pate.
"Repent and the Lord will have mercy!" he shouted in our direction.
"Stand back," ordered Sheriff Pate. "Step aside."
"One Kings, fourteen: twenty-four," shouted Julie's father, thrusting his sign toward Kaitlin. "And there were also perverted persons in the land."
"He's not altogether wrong about that," I whispered to Laura.
"I can't even believe he's related to Julie," she whispered back. "She seems so normal."
We made a wide circle around Julie's father and approached the scoreboard that dominated the west side of the clubhouse. The scores from the morning had already been posted. The low round, sixty-seven, belonged to So Won Lee.
"Now there's a score you could sleep like a baby on," I said to Laura.
"Haven't you ever heard the expression 'sleeping on the lead'?" she asked. "It's a different kind of pressure, but pressure all the same. Most players I've seen shoot a super-low score like that blew up in the next round."
Kaitlin and Gary Rupert watched as her name was inscribed in black magic marker under the number sixty-eight, just below So Won Lee's sixty-seven. She accepted the congratulations of a cluster of players, then swept off toward the locker room. With the help of Laura's not so gentle persuasion, I dragged myself back to the putting green. There were demons to slay—I had to put today behind me, taking from it only what I could use profitably in tomorrow's round.
"I'm thinking about changing my grip back over to the right hand down," I told Laura.
"I don't think you need to change anything," she said. "Your stroke looks terrific. Let's just work on tempo." We putted for half an hour—first, long lag putts, then dozens of short no-brainers that could turn into knee-knockers under the high-beam pressure of the tournament.
"I need a break," I said. We stretched out on a bench in the shade. "You were going to tell me your theory about me and men."
"It's no big deal," she said. "I was just thinking about what a hard time you've had choosing a driver this year. You try them for such a short time, you don't give yourself the chance to know if one really suits your game. Maybe it's the same thing with you and guys."
"I change drivers because my tee shots stink," I said.
"You could probably use any one of those clubs, if you stayed with it long enough to get used to it. You have the skills, it's what's in your head that trips you up."
"If I can't hit a driver any farther than I do the three-wood, there's no advantage to carrying one. One-fourteenth of my club allotment is wasted—I'd rather have a third wedge. Using a driver I can't handle only gets me into trouble."
Laura smirked. "Like I was saying about your guys ..."
"You know what? I'm not paying you to analyze my psychological issues. I'm paying you to carry the damned bag. Or, in this case, the damned putter, since the bag is riding on a cart."
"I hadn't noticed you cutting any paychecks at all," said Laura.
Her cell phone rang.
"Hello?" She listened to an excited female voice on the other end of the line. "Let me see what Cassie thinks," she said, then placed her palm over the mouthpiece. "It's my aunt Barbara. She wants to know if I'll come down to Boca Grande and spend the night with her. I said I'd have to talk with you. If you need me here tonight, I'll wait to visit until the tournament's over."
At this moment, space between me and Laura felt like a gift. As badly as I'd wanted to have her here, the intimacy of her commentary had begun to feel abrasive and maddening. "You should go," I said. "She doesn't get the chance to see you much. I'll be fine. I'm just going to get to bed early and rest up for tomorrow."
"Sure you don't mind?"
I nodded vigorously. As she concluded her conversation with her aunt, loud voices drifted over from the driving range. I turned and saw Kaitlin screaming at Walter Moore.
"I thought we had an exclusive deal here," she said. Her complexion had flushed to a mottled red and a hank of hair had sprung loose from her usually perfect ponytail.
"I said we would sponsor you. I never said you would be the only one that we sponsored."
"She's Oriental, for God's sake," said Kaitlin. "You think that's going to sell golf clubs?" Now her voice verged on hysterical.
"She hits the ball longer than any woman I've ever seen. You included. That's what sells golf clubs," said Walter. "And just for your information, Oriental is for rugs. Asian is for people." He stalked away, leaving her fuming alone on the range.
"Tut, tut," murmured Laura. "A lovers' spat."
"Go, Walter," I said. "I wouldn't have believed he had that much backbone in him."
"Afternoon, ladies," said the gravelly voice of Sheriff Pate. The bench creaked as he lowered his bulk down next to Laura. He sighed and mopped his forehead with a graying handkerchief. "I thought the thunderstorm would cool things off."
"I'm Laura Snow. You must be Sheriff Pate." She shook his hand. "You guys had your hands full out there today."
"You're tellin' me," he said, puffing up at her recognition of his importance.
"Any progress on the Bencher case?"
Pate snorted. "They've decided they like one of his wacko patients for the murder. The guy showed up at the Myrtle Beach station and confessed. He had a bloody rag with him he claims he used to try to stop the doctor's bleeding after he shot him. Voices told him Bencher needed ventilation in his neck."
"I guess we won't need to have any more of our chats, then," I said. "I'll miss them so." Laura pinched me.
"Personally, I think the guy's a crackpot who made that up for some extra attention," said the sheriff, staring at me. "I doubt we've seen the last of each other, Miss Bur-dette." He hoisted himself up off the bench, arranged his clothing over his stomach, and walked away.
"Nice going, Cass," exclaimed Laura. "It's not a good move to aggravate the law."
"He deserves it," I said fighting back my irritation. "I'm going to get some dinner and get to bed. If I don't know how to putt by now, it's all history anyway."
I was relieved to have the evening alone. Both of us were way too crabby to stay the night together in a small space without danger of a serious squabble. At this point, my own personality quirks were all I could handle.
Chapter 15
Laura left me at the Cracker Barrel, happily gorging myself on meat loaf, fried okra, and biscuits dogpaddling in sausage gravy. I didn't feel tired by the time I returned to the room, though I knew I should follow my own advice about getting to bed early. I'd hate to run out of steam halfway through tomorrow's round. I washed up and got into bed with the thriller I'd brought with me. After I'd read the first chapter three times, I gave up and turned out the light.
Against my will, my mind began to run over my performance today, lingering painfully on the bogey putts on one, two, three, five, thirteen, seventeen, and eighteen. Anyway you looked at it, seventy-seven could not be considered an LPGA-quality performance. Then my mind shifted seamlessly to the Panther course. I began to review all the ways I could get into trouble, especially on the holes comprising the Panther's Claw. Cut it out, I told myself. Think about something else, anything else.
Next subject. It annoyed me that my friends felt so free to analyze my problems getting committed to a man. Laura herself was no paragon of mental health when it came to this issue. As far as I could tell, she hadn't gone on a date since we'd graduated from Florida. Which put her damned close to her freshness expiration date. Even so, she seemed completely unself-conscious about her dedication to her dad. What would Bencher have made of that?
"When Mom died,
it was just me and Dad," she told me a couple months ago. "He stuck with me through the worst time in my life. So I'm sticking with him until he doesn't need me around anymore. It may sound queer or screwed up, but that's the way it is. There'll be plenty of time later to think about finding a guy I want to marry and spend the rest of my life with."
Truth was, I couldn't really picture myself ever getting married. Though, as Dr. Baxter had pointed out, I did have a certain one-day-my-prince-will-come mentality. I couldn't help myself, raised as I had been on bride and groom paper dolls and Barbie and Ken. My grandmother sewed my Barbie a formal wedding gown from white satin and scraps of Belgian lace. Over and over, I played rehearsal dinner and then society wedding. Sick.
"Run while you still can, Ken," my father used to tell the boy doll before Barbie minced down the aisle.
"That's not funny," Mom would say.
"I didn't mean it as a joke," said Dad.
Making the mental leap from general neurosis to old flames, I thought about running into Max Harding. He had, as they say about old wines, aged extremely well. Not that he wasn't fine in those early days. For a couple of months during my sophomore year, I'd been the envy of the female population of the high school. I'd overheard girls gossiping in the hallways about why he'd chosen me—a small, gawky, shy, tomboy golfer—instead of one of the popular and glamorous cheerleaders who'd have killed to take my place. All of which meant I had a long way to fall when he dumped me without explanation. If I was willing to dig around, I could still feel the deep well of shame and hurt I'd locked away ten years ago.
But I wasn't willing, so back to the facts. What was he really doing at Q-school? It seemed unlikely that Kaitlin's lawsuit would have brought him down to Florida, unless he had business with the False Memory Consociation. It occurred to me that the guy I'd seen talking to Gary Rupert in the bar the other night looked a great deal like Max. Then I remembered my mother's phone message about Max coming into the restaurant for lunch. It made no sense that he would be in Florida on Saturday, Myrtle Beach on Sunday, then back in Florida today.
But speaking of Gary, what was up with that? If Laura was right and we had something going, I had no idea what it was. I wished Jack Wolfe were here. I knew part of the problem was just plain loneliness. In the end, having a boyfriend seven thousand miles away was about as much use as having no one at all. Besides which, Jack would know exactly how it felt to be in my position. He'd been through his own Q-school nightmare last year. And he had a way of taking things so easily.
"You're tense, Cassie. Go ahead and have a beer," I imagined him saying. In honor of Jack, and bowing to my spinning brain, I got up and cracked open the second-to-last can of Busch. Halfway through the last can, the phone rang.
"Cassie, it's Joe. I hope I'm not waking you up. How are you? How was the day?"
"Not great," I admitted. "Call me the bogey queen. I shot a big, fat seventy-seven."
"Hmmm," said Joe. 'Tough day. Tell me the good parts."
I described the two birdies on the back nine. "My problem is putting. And the bad news is, I'm playing on the Panther tomorrow. Its greens are much faster because of the broken sprinkler system "
"Did you spend some time on the putting green after you played?"
"Duh," I said. "With Laura cracking the whip? Of course I did."
He laughed.
"How's Mike doing?" I asked.
"I think I'm on the verge of being fired," said Joe. "He's like a munitions storage facility. The smallest spark and the whole thing may blow."
"Sounds familiar." I'd felt like that myself today. And the experience was giving me a lot more empathy for Mike's roller-coaster moods—-I'd come to know them well while carrying his bag. Now I realized there was no way someone else, no matter how well-meaning she was, could understand this kind of pressure secondhand.
"Have a plan for tomorrow?" Joe asked. "How will you calm yourself down?"
"I'm drinking a beer," I said. "It's the best I can do on short notice."
"I'm not so sure that's a good move, Cass."
"Jack would say you should do what you always do before a round of golf. If you usually have a few drinks or a big meal, go for it. You shouldn't make changes in your routine that will distract you from your mental preparation."
For a moment, Joe was silent. "I don't know that Jack's the expert on preparing for a big match."
"At least he's a player," I said. "He's not one of those guys that stands around telling other people how to do it."
"Fine," said Joe. "But he barely earned a dime on the Tour, and as a reward, he got himself banished halfway around the world." I heard him breathe in sharply. "I'm sorry. I didn't call to fight with you. I only wanted to wish you well." His voice was very formal now.
I matched his tone. "Thank you. I'd better get some rest."
I lay back down and turned out the light. I reviewed the conversation with Joe, then caromed back to the seven three-putts, then back to Joe. Things were out of control if I was even picking fights with him—a paragon of un-flappability. There was no way I would sleep now. I got up, threw on my jeans and a T-shirt, and walked to the nearby convenience store to buy more beer.
As I got off the elevator, I heard the phone ringing through the door of my room. I struggled to slide the card key into the lock, ran inside, and grabbed the phone. With all fingers and toes crossed, I hoped it would be Jack.
"Cassie? It's Max Harding. I'm sorry to call you so late." I was silent. Shocked, actually. Almost as if I'd conjured him up again, just by thinking about him. "Um, your mom gave me your phone number. I know it was bad timing to try to talk to you earlier today. I wanted to apologize to you for that. And for high school."
"For high school?" Jesus, wasn't he about ten years too late? His hoarse breathing filled the receiver.
"Gosh, this is harder than I thought it would be. I'd really like to do this in person. Could I come by for a few minutes and talk to you? I feel terrible about what's happened."
"I don't think so. Jesus, Max. Give it a rest. That was ten years ago. It's late and I'm tired. What could we possibly have to say to each other?"
"Please, Cassie," he said. "Just a couple of minutes. I know I've behaved like a first-class ass. Please let me explain." I thought for a minute. It was a stretch to imagine that anything good could come of having him over. A late-night chat with Max Harding would not fit into anybody's idea of a training regimen.
"Sorry. I have to be up early. Let's just leave it alone." . "I'm begging you. I really want to make this right." The pleading tone in his voice melted my resolve.
"I'll give you ten minutes."
While I waited, I splashed cold water on my face. I thought about dabbing perfume on the pulse points of my neck.
He's married to someone else, you idiot, I told myself, and grabbed a Busch from the minifridge instead. I drained half of the beer and considered the perfume again.
What the hell! He deserved to feel lousy about the good thing he passed up. I finished the beer, then brushed my hair and my teeth, applied lip gloss, and spritzed myself with Oscar de la Renta. Max knocked at my door.
"Thanks for seeing me. I feel so stupid about all of this." He looked longingly at my beer.
"Help yourself if you want a beer," I said, gesturing to the bar. "I'll take one too." He opened two bottles and handed me one. He sat down in the chair beside me, the no-stain slipcover crackling as he squirmed to get comfortable. His Adam's apple bobbed as he took a long pull on the Busch.
"How did you play today?" he asked.
"I played lousy," I said. "You came over here after ten years at this time of night to ask about my golf game?"
"You aren't in the mood to cut me any slack, are you, Cass?" I shook my head no. After three beers in quick succession, I wasn't holding back.
"You must think I'm a real rat." He sighed. "I know it looks bad—what happened after that night on the beach."
"No," I said. "It looked pretty go
od for you. It looked like you were out to get laid for the night, and you did. You got just what you wanted. I was a big, dumb sucker. End of story."
"That's not it, Cass. I loved being with you. I really meant to call you. I wish I could explain it now, I wish I could have then." He tore strips off the label of the beer bottle and balled them up while I waited for him to go on.
"Remember when we cut Mr. Romero's class and drove down to Savannah?"
"Dave wanted to kill both of us," I said. "Mom thought grounding me for life would be enough punishment."
"How about the time it snowed two inches and they closed school?"
"We drove all over town trying to borrow a sled," I said, laughing. "The trash can lids worked pretty well, though."
"We had a lot of fun together," Max said. He reached over and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead.
"Why are we discussing this now?" I said, pulling back out of his range. "I won't lie to you, you really hurt my feelings. But I got along fine without you. And you and Brenda have done just dandy, too, from the sound of it." Max winced. "We made a mistake. It's medieval history now." I stood up and strode to the door. "Thanks for your concern. I think you should leave."
Max followed me across the room. "But that's what I came to say. I don't think that night was a mistake. I've thought about it every day since then. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever known. You're strong." He squeezed my bicep. "And soft at the same time." His fingers barely touched my cheek.
Laura's warning about me and men reverberated in my head. Maybe I didn't give any guy a decent chance before I cut him off. On the other hand, Max was definitely married. A few beers could not obscure that basic truth. I knew getting involved with him in any intimate way would confuse me further and leave behind a legacy of shame. Still, I felt a powerful connection to him—same as I had years ago, but amplified by that abrupt and painful finale. I fidgeted, my stomach flip-flopping and my heart pounding. Max reached out to take my hand, and drew me close. I tugged my hand away.
"You can't finish this," I warned, "so don't even start."
Six Strokes Under Page 12
