Table for five

by Susan Wiggs

  With this current rotation, she tended to crawl into bed and sleep when she wasn’t working, anyway. They didn’t exactly live together, but lately they’d slept at his place every single night, and item by item, her things were migrating over to his apartment. Two days ago, she’d brought her CD collection and a picture of her family. This was as close to a permanent arrangement as Sean had ever had with a woman. Well, almost.

  He looked around the clubhouse, where a few groups of golfers milled around, comparing scores and tallying up debts. Due to the storm, there weren’t many of them. Only the diehards were out in weather like they’d had this afternoon. Sean listened to them laughing and talking, and it made him remember that golf was supposed to be fun. A game. He missed those days.

  In the locker room, he changed out of his chinos and club-logo windbreaker—Echo Ridge didn’t permit jeans—and slipped on his favorite Levi’s.

  His cell phone rang, and when he recognized the number of the incoming call, his pulse sped up. “Yeah?” he said.

  “Hello to you, too, pretty boy.” The voice of Harlan “Red” Corliss, Derek’s agent, was broad and smooth with a smile.

  “You sound happy with yourself.” Cocking his head to hold the phone, Sean transferred the things from the pockets of his work pants to his jeans.

  “What are you doing next Saturday, Maguire?” Red asked.

  Sean dropped his keys and clutched the phone hard. “You got me in the Redwing tournament.”

  “That I did. I have a few sponsors’ exemptions and I used one just for you, kid.”

  Tournament play. It used to be what Sean lived for, what defined him. He used to be a rising star, a hero of the game. Now here he was, shadowed by disgrace, nobody’s hero. No matter what he did, he could still feel the sick sense of shame and guilt that had shrouded him like a pall.

  “Hello?” Red asked when the pause drew out too long. “You’re not worried about your game, are you?”

  Sean prowled back and forth in the clubhouse. “The talent’s intact.”

  “Forget talent. You have a talent that’s almost freakish. So big deal. Forget you know how to hit a ball at all and work your ass off.” Red was quiet for a moment. “It’s not that, is it?”

  “You know it’s not, Red.”

  “Look, you can’t worry about that. You didn’t cheat. You were set up. It’ll be ancient history before you know it. Hell, it’s already ancient history.”

  Sean leaned his forehead against the locker door. It didn’t matter that he’d been set up. He was guilty of stupidity. He deserved to be back where he started, climbing his way out of a hole of his own making.

  “Got it, Red. Ancient history.” He stood up straight, turned and looked out the window. Freshened by the rain and bordered by majestic ancient cedars, the golf course looked green and bright enough to hurt the eyes. And in that moment, it hit him. This was a chance to get back in the game.

  “Damn, Red.” Throwing off his doubts, Sean grinned until his face ached. Finally. Sure, Maura would tell him it wasn’t practical to go chasing after a game, and Derek would warn him he wasn’t ready, but Sean didn’t care. This was the break he’d been waiting and hoping for. Another chance at the sport he loved. He’d arrived in the States too late to compete in Q School, in which golfers earned—or requalified for—their PGA card, and he’d resigned himself to waiting another year to go through the process. But Red was one of the best in the business, and he was putting Sean on the fast track.

  “Damn is right. I’m having Gail messenger the contracts over, and I’ll call you tomorrow with all the details.”

  Sean was still grinning when the clubhouse door opened and shut.

  “What’s funny?” asked Greg Duncan, the high school golf coach.

  “Did you know there’s a way to make up your porn-star name?” Sean didn’t want to say anything to Duncan about his news. It would seem too much like gloating. Greg Duncan was a damned fine golfer who wanted his PGA card with a hunger that was palpable. He’d competed in Q School a few times but never advanced past sectional competitions. The guy needed a break, but that was golf for you. A heartless game, like Red always said.

  “Uncle Sean?” Stomping his muddy shoes on the bristled mat, his nephew, Cameron, called to him from the doorway. “Hey, Coach.”

  “Hey, Cameron.” Greg Duncan dropped his spikes in his locker and slammed it shut. “I’m out of here. See you Sunday, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the parking lot.

  Cameron Holloway bore an almost eerie resemblance to Derek. He had the same sandy-colored hair and intense eyes, the same lanky frame that moved with surprising grace, the same startling talent at swinging a club. He was the best thing that had happened to the local golf team in years. And from the looks of him—cheeks reddened by the wind, hair damp, shoes muddy—he’d been out practicing.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Um, my mom was supposed to pick me up a half hour ago, but I guess she forgot.” He looked sullen as he said it. “She forgets everything lately.”

  Sean bore no love for his former sister-in-law, who had taken Derek to the cleaners and back in the divorce, but it didn’t seem right to let Cameron badmouth her. “She probably got delayed in the rain,” he suggested. There were a lot of things Sean envied about Derek, but he sure as hell didn’t envy his brother’s crazy-ass ex-wife. Crystal was enough to drive anyone bonkers.

  “Naw, she just forgot, and she’s not answering her cell phone. Neither is my Dad.”

  Sean dug in his pocket for his keys. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Meet me in the parking lot.” Sean told Duffy, the greenskeeper, that he was taking off and went out to his truck. Cameron was loading in his clubs, a set of Callaways with graphite shafts, which were better quality clubs than some of the well-heeled doctors at Echo Ridge played. The clubs were hand-me-downs from Derek, who got a new set every year from his sponsor.

  Sean reminded himself that his brother had earned his success, stroke by stroke, tournament by tournament. He deserved every perk that came his way. And Sean…well, he got what he deserved, too.

  As they pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the steep, winding road, he said, “Why don’t you call your mom, tell her you got a ride home with me so she doesn’t come looking for you.”

  Cameron took out his phone and thumbed in the number. “She still won’t answer.”

  “Just tell her voice mail.”

  There was a silence, then Cameron said, “It’s me. You were late picking me up, so Uncle Sean is giving me a ride home. See you.”

  Sean glanced sideways at him. “That tone was borderline rude.”

  “It’s over-the-border rude to leave me stranded.”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “There’s always an explanation.”

  “You shouldn’t be rude to your mother.”

  “What do you care?”

  Sean ignored the question and turned on the radio. Nickel Creek was playing “Angels Everywhere.” He tried to remember if, at fifteen, he’d been so angry all the time. He was pretty sure he hadn’t. Then again, he’d had nothing to be angry about. He’d been a happy-go-lucky kid, obsessed with golf and girls, in that order. All these years later, a hell of a lot had changed. Maybe he ought to be angry right along with his nephew. But he still had golf and girls on his mind.

  “Did you play a round this afternoon?” he asked by way of making conversation.

  “Nope. I hit three buckets of balls and practiced chip shots. There’s a tournament this weekend against Portland Prep.”

  “So how’s your game?”

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Good enough to win this weekend.” He spoke with confidence, not vanity.

  “That’s good, then.”

  “I guess.”

  Sean wondered why the boy didn’t show a little more enthusiasm, but he figu
red it wasn’t his business to ask.

  As he turned into the tree-shaded, manicured subdivision where Crystal lived, it occurred to him that he’d never been to the house on Candlewood Street. While he was married, Derek had lived here for years, but Sean had never visited the house his brother had shared with his beauty-queen wife. Sean had been overseas, playing on the Asian Tour, and hadn’t come back to the States until circumstances forced him to.

  He knew the house, though. It was the biggest and oldest in Saddlebrook Acres, an area of large, elegant houses built in the era of the timber barons. When he and Derek were kids, they used to ride their bikes past this very house, admiring the vast lawn and the gleaming white cupola, the wraparound porch.

  “Someday I’m going to live there” became the boyhood vow. Yet oddly, the vow had come from Sean, not Derek. It was a place of permanence and splendor, the sort of place a person could imagine spending a whole life. But somewhere along the way, he’d set that dream aside, finding a far different sort of life as a professional golfer. And somehow, Derek had appropriated the dream Sean had come to see as an impossibility.

  For a long time, Sean’s half brother made it all come together—the career, the family, the house, everything. From Sean’s perspective, it all seemed to work like a charm. He couldn’t believe Derek had managed to blow it. You’d think, with all of this at stake, Derek could have kept his pecker in his pants at that tournament in Monte Carlo. But, Sean supposed, that was Derek’s business. Judging by the way she’d cleaned him out in the divorce settlement, Crystal Baird Holloway was no picnic to live with. Still…

  Sean flicked a sideways glance at Cameron. He was a good enough kid even as he navigated the rocky shoals of his parents’ split. Sure, he had an attitude these days, but who wouldn’t, being shuffled back and forth between houses on alternate weeks. It was the one issue in the divorce agreement on which Derek would not budge. He wanted his kids fifty percent of the time, and his lawyer, whose fees made even Derek shudder, secured joint custody.

  “So how’s school?” he asked Cameron, trying to shorten the gap of silence between them.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Sean grinned over the arch of the steering wheel. “Bad question. I ought to know better than to ask how school’s going.”

  “I don’t mind it.”

  Communication in the form of meaningful conversation had never been a forte in the family, Sean reflected. Apparently Cameron was carrying on the tradition.

  Sean pulled into the smooth asphalt drive of the house on Candlewood Street. He had every intention of dropping Cameron off and heading home for a quick shower and a bite to eat before going back to work. But some indefinable impulse made him shut off the engine and get out.

  “I’ll grab your clubs,” he offered, opening the tailgate of the truck.

  “Thanks.” Cameron shouldered his backpack and went to unlock the side door.

  Sean followed him inside, leaning the clubs against the wall of a small mudroom crowded with shoes in varying sizes, a fold-up baby stroller, a selection of umbrellas and hats, and a basket filled with gloves and mittens. From somewhere in the house, a distant beeping sound pierced the silence.

  “Answering machine,” Cameron said. “I’d better go check it.”

  They stepped into the kitchen, and Sean took it all in with a glance. This was the house of his boyhood dreams, but he’d never been inside it. Now here he was, and the whole place seemed to enfold him. The cluttered kitchen had a wooden floor and glass-front cabinets filled with Martha Stewart–style green glassware. A refrigerator was plastered with a calendar, various lists and kids’ artwork. As he followed Cameron to the front entranceway, he noticed wood paneling, an imposing staircase, framed pictures of the kids everywhere.

  Cameron hit Play on the machine. The first message was from someone who identified herself as Lily. “Hello, Crystal, I was just calling to see how you’re doing. I hope you think the meeting went all right, so call me.”

  “Charlie’s teacher,” Cameron explained.

  She did sound sort of prim and proper, Sean thought, picturing a blue-haired woman with bifocals. “You don’t want to tangle with a woman like that,” he said, nudging Cameron.

  Next: “Crystal, this is Jane Coombs…” In the background, fussy baby noises punctuated the message. “I was expecting Derek to pick Ashley up this afternoon, but he seems to be running late. Anyway, I have a class to teach tonight, so I’d appreciate it if you’d come and get Ashley as soon as you get this message.”

  “Oh, Mom’s going to love that,” Cameron said.

  The third message was from someone RSVPing for Ashley’s birthday party. It seemed strange, like planning a party in a war zone. Sean’s younger niece had been born into the turmoil of an exploding marriage, but of the three kids, she was the least affected, too young to understand what she’d lost.

  Then Charlie had called the machine. “Pick me up,” said a petulant voice. “I’m at Lindsey’s house and you said you’d pick me up and you’re still not here. Pick me up, you’re late.”

  The final message was nearly unintelligible, but Sean could tell it was from a girl who was more articulate at giggling than at speaking. Clearly, she wanted to talk to Cameron. Just as clearly, he was mortified that she’d called for him. Sean could see the heat of embarrassment in Cameron’s red ears, his averted gaze, his hands pushing into the pockets of his jeans.

  “End of messages,” said the mechanical voice in the machine.

  Sean felt a weird tightening of his gut. “Call your mother again.”

  Cameron shrugged and dialed the phone. “No answer,” he said.

  “Now your dad.”

  As he held the phone to his ear a second time, Cameron showed the first sign of worry—a small tick in his jaw. “No answer,” he said again. “I’ve already left them messages.”

  “Any idea where they might be?”

  “Nope.”

  It figured. Kids tended not to keep tabs on their parents. Now what? Sean wondered.

  The phone rang, startling them both. Cameron snatched it up.

  “Hello?” His face flashed momentarily with hope, then fell. “Oh, hi, Jane. No, my mom’s not here. You can drop Ashley off with me, I guess, since I’m home.” A pause. “You’re welcome.” He hung up. “I have a ton of homework, but I won’t get anything done now,” Cameron said. “Ashley’s a pain in the neck to babysit.”

  Sean’s tiny niece was so cute you’d have to be made of stone not to like her. Babysitting her, though, was another issue entirely. The prospect of looking after a barely verbal toddler was terrifying to Sean. “I bet your mother will be home any minute,” he said.

  Cameron shrugged again.

  “What about Charlie?” Sean asked.

  “Sounds like she wants to come home.”

  “Any idea who Lindsey is? Where she lives?”

  “Nope.” Cameron looked at the small screen on the phone. “The number’s on caller ID.”

  “I’d better give them a call.” Sean punched in the number. A woman’s voice answered, and for a moment he blanked, then said, “Ma’am, this is Charlie Holloway’s uncle, Sean Maguire. I’m calling about my niece.”

  “Oh! I’m Nancy Davenport. Would you like to speak with Charlie?”

  “Actually, I was just calling to let you know…I’m afraid her mother might not be there to pick her up. She’s been…delayed. Charlie’s brother is here with me, so I’ll come and get her.”

  “That’s no problem,” the woman said. “I’ll run her home. I haven’t started dinner yet.”

  Sean thanked her and hung up. He looked at Cameron.

  “No clue,” the boy said, but his gaze shifted to the door and then to the floor, a little too quickly. “My mom’s always got something going on. She probably forgot to tell anybody.”

  Sean wandered into the kitchen. He studied the calendar clipped with magnets to the refrigerator. The current date had a notation. “Conf. w/Lil
y & D., 3:15 p.m.”

  “What do you make of this?” he asked Cameron.

  “Lily—the teacher on the answering machine. Miss Robinson. She was my third-grade teacher and now Charlie’s in her class. Maybe there was a conference with her. Charlie’s been doing lousy in school all year.” Cameron rolled his eyes. “How does a kid flunk third grade, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  They waited. Talked golf a little, just to fill the silence and maybe distract themselves. “So you have a tournament coming up this weekend,” Sean observed, noting the team calendar stuck to the refrigerator with magnets.

  Cameron turned away.

  “Don’t bowl me over with your enthusiasm, okay?” Sean said.

  The kid hunched his shoulders even more. “My coach is a dick, okay?”

  “Greg Duncan? He seems all right to me.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Sean dug in his pocket and took out an Indian head penny. “This was my good luck charm. I’ve used it as a ball marker since I was younger than you.”

  Cameron turned, took the penny and examined it. “That’s cool.”

  “You want to borrow it?”

  “You just said it’s your good luck charm.”

  “Was. I said ‘was.’ It kind of deserted me.”

  Cameron nodded. He knew about the fiasco that had brought Sean home. “Did you like playing over there, in Japan and Indonesia and stuff?”

  “Sure, while it lasted.” Sean tried to imagine what he’d be doing in his old life as a tour professional in Asia. Once he’d started seeing Asmida, he used to play in Malaysia every chance he got. After a round, there would be far too much drinking and plenty of mindless, gratifying sex in opulent hotel rooms or in expensive cars. It didn’t last, of course. How could something like that last? Especially, he remembered with a twinge of pain, with the daughter of a yakuza mobster? No one could ever accuse him of having good judgment, that was for sure. Derek often ragged on him about mapping out a career plan. Of course, in order to do that, Sean needed a career.