Call Me Irresistible Part 7

"I'm not sure. Some of those headstones date all the way back to the 1840s."

"I'm talking about you. you."

"Oh. I've been here for a while. Where did you think I'd been staying?"

"I didn't think about it at all. And you know why? Because I didn't give a d.a.m.n. I want you out of here."

"I believe you, but this is Lucy's church, and she told me I could stay as long as I want." At least she would have if Meg had ever asked her.

"Wrong. This is my church, and you're leaving here first thing tomorrow and not coming back."

"Hold on. You gave this church to Lucy."

"A wedding present. No wedding. No present."

"I don't think that will hold up in a court of law."

"There wasn't a legal contract!"

"You're either a person who stands by his word or you're not. Frankly, I'm beginning to think not."

His eyebrows slammed together. "It's my church, and you're trespa.s.sing."

"You see it your way. I see it mine. This is America. We're ent.i.tled to our opinions."

"Wrong. This is Texas. And my opinion is the only one that counts."

A lot truer than she cared to acknowledge. "Lucy wants me to stay here, so I'm staying." She absolutely would want Meg to stay here if she knew about it.

He planted a hand on the loft railing. "At first it was fun torturing you, but the game's gotten old." He dipped into his pocket and withdrew a money clip. "I want you out of town tomorrow. This is going to speed you on your way."

He removed the bills, stuck the empty clip back in his pocket, and fanned the money in his fingers so she could count it. Five one-hundred-dollar bills. She swallowed hard. "You shouldn't carry so much cash."

"Normally I don't, but a local property owner dropped by City Hall after the bank closed and paid the balance on an old tax bill. Aren't you glad I couldn't leave all that money lying around?" He dropped the bills on the futon. "Once you get back in Daddy's good graces, have him write me a check." He turned toward the stairs.

She couldn't let him have the last word. "That was an interesting scene I walked in on Sat.u.r.day at the inn. Were you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around on Lucy through all of your engagement or only part of it?"

He turned back and let his eyes slip over her, deliberately lingering on the happy printing company logo across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I've always screwed around on Lucy. But don't worry. She never suspected a thing."

He disappeared down the stairs. A few moments later, the church went dark and the front door snapped closed behind him.

She drove bleary-eyed to her job the next morning, the money burning a radioactive hole in the pocket of her revolting new khaki Bermuda shorts. With Ted's five hundred dollars, she could finally get back to L.A. where she could hole up in a cheap motel while she landed a job. Once her parents saw that she was capable of working hard at something, surely they'd relent and help her get a genuine fresh start.

But no. Instead of making a run for the city limits with Ted's money, she was sticking around to begin a dead-end job as a country-club drink-cart girl.

At least the uniform wasn't as bad as her polyester maid's dress, although it ran a close second. At the end of her interview, the a.s.sistant manager had handed over a preppy yellow polo s.h.i.+rt bearing the country-club logo in hunter green. She'd been forced to use her precious tip money to buy her own regulation-length khaki shorts as well as a pair of cheap white sneakers and some odious pom-pom sneaker socks she couldn't bear looking at.

As she turned into the club's service drive, she was furious with herself for being too stubborn to grab Ted's money and run. If the cash had come from anyone else, she might have, but she couldn't tolerate taking a penny from him. Her decision was all the more lamebrained because she knew he'd do his best to get her fired as soon as he discovered she was working at the club. She could no longer pretend, even to herself, that she knew what she was doing.

The employee parking lot was emptier than she'd expected at eight o'clock. As she headed into the club through the service entrance, she reminded herself she had to keep Ted and his cronies from spotting her. She made her way to the a.s.sistant manager's office, but it was locked and the club's main floor deserted. She went back outside. A few golfers were on the course, but the only employee in sight was a worker watering the roses. When she asked where everyone was, he replied in Spanish, something about people being sick. He pointed her toward a door on the club's lower level.

The pro shop was decorated like an old English pub with dark wood, bra.s.s fixtures, and a low-pile navy-and-green-plaid carpet. Pyramids of golf clubs stood guard between racks of neatly organized golf clothes, shoes, and visors bearing the club logo. The shop was empty except for a clean-cut guy behind the counter who was frantically punching at his cell. As she came closer, she read his name tag. mark. He wasn't quite her height, in his mid- to late twenties, with a slight build, neatly cut light brown hair, and good teeth-a former frat boy who, unlike her, was at home in a polo s.h.i.+rt emblazoned with a country-club logo.

As she introduced herself, he looked up from his cell. "You picked a heck of a day to start work here," he said. "Tell me you've caddied before, or at least play the game."

"No. I'm the new cart cart girl." girl."

"Yeah, I understand. But you've caddied, right?"

"I've seen Caddy Shack. Caddy Shack. Does that count?" Does that count?"

He didn't possess a great sense of humor. "Look, I don't have time to screw around. A very important foursome is going to be here any minute." After last night's conversation, she didn't need to think hard to identify the members of that important foursome. "I've just found out that all but one of our caddies is laid up with food poisoning, along with most of the staff. The kitchen put out some bad coleslaw yesterday for the employee lunch, and believe me, somebody's going to lose a job over that."

She didn't like the direction of this conversation. Didn't like it at all.

"I'm going to caddy for our VIP guest," he said, coming out from behind the counter. "Lenny-he's one of our regular loopers-hates coleslaw, and he's on his way in now. Skeet's caddying for Dallie, as usual, so that's a big break. But I'm still short one caddy, and there's no time left to find anybody."

She swallowed. "That nice man watering the roses by the flagpole..."

"Doesn't speak English." He began steering her toward a door in the rear of the pro shop.

"Surely there's somebody else on the staff who didn't eat the coleslaw."

"Yeah, our bartender, who has a broken ankle, and Jenny in billing, who's eighty years old." As he opened the door and gestured her through it, she felt him a.s.sessing her. "You don't look like you'll have any trouble carrying a bag for eighteen holes."

"But I've never played golf, and I don't know anything about it. I don't even respect the game. All those trees chopped down and pesticides giving people cancer. It'll be a disaster." More than he could imagine. Only minutes earlier, she'd been contemplating how she'd stay out of Ted Beaudine's sight. And now this.

"I'll talk you through it. You do well, and you'll earn a lot more than you can driving the drink cart. The fee for a beginning caddy is twenty-five dollars, but all these men are big tippers. You'll get at least forty more." He held the door open for her. "This is the caddy room."

The cluttered s.p.a.ce held a sagging couch and some metal folding chairs. A bulletin board displaying a no gambling sign hung above a folding table scattered with a deck of cards and some poker chips. He turned on the small television and pulled a dvD from the shelf. "This is the training video we show the kids in the junior caddy program. Watch it till I come back to get you. Remember to stick close to your player, but not close enough to distract him. Keep your eye on the ball, his clubs clean. Carry a towel at all times. Fix his divots on the fairway, his ball marks on the green-watch me. And don't talk. Not unless one of the players talks to you."

"I'm not good at not talking."

"You'd better be today, especially when it comes to your opinions about golf courses." He stopped at the door. "And never address a club member as anything other than 'sir' or 'mister.' No first names. Ever."

She slumped onto the sagging couch as he disappeared. The training video came on. No way was she calling Ted Beaudine "sir." Not for all the tip money in the world.

Half an hour later, she stood outside the pro shop with a nauseating hip-length green caddy bib tied over her polo s.h.i.+rt, doing her best to make herself invisible by hiding behind Mark. Since she had him by at least two inches, it wasn't going well. Fortunately, the approaching foursome was too engrossed in a conversation about the breakfast they'd just finished and the dinner they planned to consume that night to notice her.

With the exception of a man she a.s.sumed to be Spencer Skipjack, she recognized them all: Ted; his father, Dallie; and Kenny Traveler. And with the exception of Spencer Skipjack, she couldn't remember ever seeing so much male perfection grouped together, not even on a red carpet. None of these three G.o.ds of golf showed signs of hair transplants, shoe lifts, or subtle dabs of bronzer. These were Texas men-tall, lean, steely-eyed, and rugged-manly men who'd never heard of male moisturizers, chest waxes, or paying more than twenty dollars for a haircut. They were the genuine article-the archetypal American hero civilizing the West with a set of golf clubs instead of a Winchester.

Other than possessing the same height and build, Ted and his father didn't look much alike. Ted had amber eyes, while Dallie's were a brilliant blue, undimmed by the pa.s.sing years. Where Ted had angles, Dallie's edges had been smoothed. His mouth was fuller than his son's, almost feminine, and his profile softer, but they were both stunners, and with their easy strides and confident bearing, no one could mistake them for anything other than father and son.

A grizzled man with a graying ponytail, small eyes, and a pressed-over nose came out of what she'd learned was the bag room. This could only be Skeet Cooper, the man Mark had told her was Dallie Beaudine's best friend and lifelong caddy. As Mark strode over to the group, she dipped her head, dropped to one knee, and pretended to tie her shoe. "Good morning, gentlemen," she heard Mark say. "Mr. Skipjack, I'll be caddying for you today, sir. I've heard you have quite a game, and I'm looking forward to watching you play."

Until this precise moment she hadn't thought far enough ahead to ponder exactly which player Mark would a.s.sign her to.

Lenny, the coleslaw-hating caddy, wandered out. He was short, weather-beaten, and tooth challenged. He picked up one of the enormous golf bags resting against the bag rack, slung it over his shoulder as if it were a summer jacket, and headed straight for Kenny Traveler.

That left ... But of course she'd end up caddying for Ted. With her life in free fall, what else could she expect?

He still hadn't spotted her, and she began retying her other sneaker. "Mr. Beaudine," Mark said, "you're breaking in a new caddy today ..."

She set her jaw, conjured up her father in his most menacing screen role as Bird Dog Caliber, and stood.

"I know Meg will do a good job for you," Mark said.

Ted went absolutely still. Kenny regarded her with interest, Dallie with open hostility. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and made Bird Dog meet the frozen amber eyes of Ted Beaudine.

A muscle ticked in the corner of his jaw. "Meg."

As long as Spencer Skipjack was within earshot, she realized Ted couldn't say what he wanted to. She nodded, smiled, but didn't offer even a simple "h.e.l.lo," nothing that would force her to call him "sir." Instead, she headed for the rack and hoisted the remaining bag.

It was exactly as heavy as it looked, and she staggered ever so slightly. As she heaved the wide strap across her shoulder, she tried to figure out how she was going to lug this thing over five miles of a hilly golf course in the blazing Texas sun. She'd go back to college. Finish her bachelor's and then get a law degree. Or a degree in accounting. But she didn't want to be a lawyer or an accountant. She wanted to be a rich woman with an unlimited checking account that allowed her to travel all over the world, meet interesting people, take in the local crafts, and find a lover who wasn't either crazy or a jerk.

The group began moving toward the practice range to warm up. Ted tried to lag behind so he could rip her a new one, but he couldn't get away from his honored guest. She trotted after them, already breathing hard from the weight of the bag.

Mark sidled up next to her and spoke softly. "Ted's going to want his sand wedge when he gets to the range. Then his nine-iron, seven-iron, probably his three, and finally his driver. Remember to clean them off when he's done. And don't lose his new head covers."

All these instructions were starting to jumble together. Skeet Cooper, Dallie's caddy, glanced over at her and studied her with his beady eyes. Beneath his ball cap, his grizzled ponytail fell well below his shoulders, and his skin reminded her of sun-dried leather.

As they reached the practice range, she set down Ted's clubs and pulled out an iron marked with an S. S. He nearly tore off her hand wrenching it away from her. The men began to warm up at the practice tees, and she finally had a chance to study Spencer Skipjack, the plumbing giant. In his fifties, he had a rawboned, Johnny Cash sort of face, and a waistline that had begun to thicken but hadn't yet developed a paunch. Although he was clean-shaven, his jaw bore the shadow of a heavy beard. A straw Panama hat decked out with a snakeskin band sat on thick dark hair shot with gray. The black stone in his silver pinky ring glinted on his little finger, and an expensive chronometer encircled a hairy wrist. He had a big, booming voice and a demeanor that reflected both a powerful ego and the expectation of everyone's attention. He nearly tore off her hand wrenching it away from her. The men began to warm up at the practice tees, and she finally had a chance to study Spencer Skipjack, the plumbing giant. In his fifties, he had a rawboned, Johnny Cash sort of face, and a waistline that had begun to thicken but hadn't yet developed a paunch. Although he was clean-shaven, his jaw bore the shadow of a heavy beard. A straw Panama hat decked out with a snakeskin band sat on thick dark hair shot with gray. The black stone in his silver pinky ring glinted on his little finger, and an expensive chronometer encircled a hairy wrist. He had a big, booming voice and a demeanor that reflected both a powerful ego and the expectation of everyone's attention.

"I played Pebble last week with a couple of the boys from the tour," he announced as he pulled on a golf glove. "Picked up all the green fees. Played d.a.m.n good, too."

"Afraid we can't compete with Pebble," Ted said. "But we'll do our best to keep you entertained."

The men began to hit their practice shots. Skipjack looked like an expert player to her, but she suspected he was out of his league competing against two golf pros and Ted, who'd won the U.S. Amateur, as she'd heard repeatedly. She sat on one of the wooden benches to watch.

"Get up," Mark hissed at her. "Caddies don't ever sit."

Of course not. That would make too much sense.

When they finally left the range, the caddies lagged behind the golfers, who were discussing their upcoming match. She pieced together enough to understand they were playing a team game called "best ball," in which Ted and Dallie would be matched up against Kenny and Spencer Skipjack. At the end of each hole, whichever player had the lowest score for that hole would win a point for his team. The team with the most points at the end won the match.

"How about a twenty-dollar Na.s.sau to keep the game interesting?" Kenny said.

"s.h.i.+t, boys," Skipjack countered, "me and my buddies play a thousand-dollar Na.s.sau every Sat.u.r.day."

"Against our religion," Dallie drawled. "We're Baptists."

Doubtful, since Ted's wedding had been at the Presbyterian church and Kenny Traveler was a Catholic.

When they reached the first tee, Ted came toward her, his hand out, his eyes venomous. "Driver."

"Since I was sixteen," she replied. "You?"

He reached past her, s.n.a.t.c.hed off one of the head covers, and pulled out the longest club.

Skipjack teed up first. Mark whispered that the other players would have to give him a total of seven strokes overall to make the game fair. His shot looked impressive, but n.o.body said anything, so it must not have been. Kenny went next, then Ted. Even she could see the power and grace in his practice swing, but when it came time for the real thing, something went wrong. Just as he neared the point of impact, he lost his balance and sent the ball careening off to the left.

They all turned to look at her. Ted offered up his public Jesus smile, but the fires of h.e.l.l burned in his eyes. "Meg, if you wouldn't mind ..."

"What did I do?"

Mark quickly pulled her aside and explained that letting a couple of golf clubs rattle together during a player's swing was this big, whoppin' crime against humanity. Like polluting streambeds and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up wetlands didn't count.

After that Ted did his best to get her alone, but she managed to avoid him until the third hole when a c.r.a.ppy drive put him in a fairway sand trap-a bunker, they called it. The whole subservient routine of lugging his bag and being instructed to call him "sir"-which she'd so far managed to avoid-made it imperative that she strike first.

"None of this would have happened if you hadn't gotten me fired from the inn."

He had the audacity to look outraged. "I didn't get you fired. It was Larry Stellman. You woke him up from his nap two days in a row."

"That five hundred dollars you offered me is in the top pocket of your bag. I'll expect some of it back as a very generous tip."

He clenched his jaw. "Do you have any idea how important today is?"

"I was eavesdropping on your conversation last night, remember? So I know exactly what's at stake and how much you want to impress your hotshot guest today."

"And yet here you are."

"Yes, well, this is one disaster you can't blame on me. Although I can see you're going to."

"I don't know how you managed to talk your way into caddying, but if you think for one minute-"

"Listen up, Theodore." She slapped one hand on the edge of his bag. "I was coerced into this. I hate golf, and I don't have a clue what I'm doing. None whatsoever, got it? So I suggest you try really hard not to make me any more nervous than I already am." She stepped back. "Now stop talking and hit the d.a.m.ned ball. And this time I'd appreciate it if you hit it straight so I don't have to keep walking all over the place after you."

He gave her a murderous look totally out of place with his saintly reputation and yanked a club from his bag, proving he was perfectly capable of dealing with his own equipment. "As soon as this is over, you and I are going to have our final reckoning." He struck the ball with a ma.s.sive, rage-fueled swing that sent sand flying. The shot bounced ten yards in front of the green, rolled up the slope to the pin, hung on the lip of the cup, and dropped in.

"Impressive," she said. "I didn't know I was such a good golf coach."

He threw the club at her feet and stalked away as the other players called out their congratulations from across the fairway.

"How 'bout you toss some of that luck my way?" Skipjack's Texas drawl couldn't be genuine, since he was from Indiana, but he was clearly a man who liked to be one of the boys.

On the next green, she was the caddy closest to the flag. As Ted lined up his putt, Mark sent her a subtle nod. She'd already learned her lesson about not making sudden moves, so even though everybody started to yell, she waited until Ted's ball hit the flag and dropped in before she pulled the pin from the cup.

Dallie groaned. Kenny grinned. Ted lowered his head, and Spencer Skipjack crowed. "Looks like your caddy just took you out of this hole, Ted."

Meg forgot she was supposed to be mute-along with efficient, cheerful, and subservient. "What did I do?"

Mark had gone pale from his forehead to his polo s.h.i.+rt logo. "I'm really sorry about that, Mr. Beaudine." He addressed her with grim patience. "Meg, you can't let the ball hit the pin. It's a penalty."

"The player gets penalized for a caddy's mistake?" she said. "That's stupid. The ball would have gone in anyway."

"Don't feel bad, honey," Skipjack said cheerfully. "It could have happened to anybody."

Because of his handicap, Skipjack got an extra stroke, and he didn't try to hold back his glee after they'd all putted out. "Looks like my net birdie just won us the hole, partner." He slapped Kenny on the back. "Reminds me of the time I played with Bill Murray and Ray Romano at Cypress Point. Talk about characters ..."