Grabbing her purse, she swept past the startled diners at the front tables and dashed out the door. The night had grown cold, but her anger burned so hot that she didn't feel the chill. Stalking down the sidewalk, she was propelled by fury, by hurt, and by fear. Her eyes stung and she couldn't blink them rapidly enough to hold off the tears. Two glistening drops beaded on the waterproof mascara that
coated her bottom lashes. How could she have fallen in love with him? How could she have let such an absurd thing happen? Her teeth began to chatter. For almost eleven years, she had felt nothing more than strong affection for a handful of men, shadows of love that faded nearly as quickly as they appeared. But now, just when her life was coming together, she had once again let a second-rate golf pro break her heart.
Francesca passed through the next week with the feeling that something bright and wonderful had slipped from her life forever. What had she done? Why had she challenged him so cruelly? Wasn't half a pie better than none? But she knew she couldn't live with half of anything, and she didn't want Teddy to live that way either. Dallie had to start taking risks, or he would be useless to them both-a will-o'-the-wisp neither of them could ever count on. With every breath she took, she mourned the loss of her lover, the loss of love itself.
The following Monday as she poured Teddy a glass of orange juice before he left for school, she tried to find consolation in the thought that Dallie was as miserable as she. But she had trouble believing that anyone who kept his emotions so carefully protected could have feelings that ran all that deep.
Teddy drank his juice and then stuffed his spelling book into his backpack. "I forgot to tell you. Holly Grace called last night and told me to tell you that Dallie's playing in the U.S. Classic tomorrow."
Francesca's head shot up from the glass of juice she had started to pour for herself. "Are you sure?"
"That's what she said. I don't see what the big deal is, though. He'll only blow it. And, Mom, if you
get a letter from Miss Pearson, don't pay any attention."
The pitcher of orange juice remained suspended in midair over Francesca's glass. She shut her eyes
for a moment, willing her mind away from Dallie Beaudine so she could concentrate on what Teddy
was trying to tell her. "What kind of letter?"
Teddy fastened the zipper on his backpack, working with single-minded concentration so he wouldn't have to look up at her. "You might get a letter saying I'm not working up to my potential-"
"Teddy!"
"-but don't worry about it. My social studies project is due next week, and I've got something so awesome planned that Miss Pearson's going to give me about a million A-pluses and beg me to stay
in the class. Gerry said-"
"Oh, Teddy. We have to talk about this."
He grabbed his backpack. "I've got to go or I'll be late."
Before she could stop him, he had raced out of the kitchen and she heard the slam of the front door.
She wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head so she could think, but she had a meeting scheduled in an hour. She couldn't do anything about Teddy at the moment, but if she hurried she would have time for a quick stop at the studio where "China Colt" was being shot to make certain Teddy had understood Holly Grace's message correctly. Was Dallie really playing in the Classic? Had
her words actually touched him?
Holly Grace had already filmed the first scene of the day when Francesca got there. In addition to a carefully positioned rip on the front of her dress that revealed the top of her left breast, she had a fake bruise on her forehead. "Rough day?" Francesca said, coming toward her.
Holly Grace looked up from the script she was studying. "I got attacked by this demented hooker who turns out to be a transvestite psychopath. They're doing this great Bonnie and Clyde slow-motion shot
at the end where I plug this guy with two bullets right through his silicone implants."
Francesca barely heard her. "Holly Grace, is it true that Dallie's playing in the Classic?"
"He told me he was, and I'm not too happy with you right now." She tossed her script down on the
chair. "Dallie didn't give me any details, but I gather that you handed him his walking papers."
"You might say that," Francesca replied cautiously.
A look of disapproval crossed Holly Grace's face. "Your timing stinks, you know that? Would it have been too much for you to wait until after the Classic before you did your number on him? If you'd set your mind to it, I don't think you could have found a better way to screw him up."
Francesca began to explain, but then, with a sense of shock, she realized that she understood Dallie
better than Holly Grace did. The idea was so startling, so new to her, that she could barely take it in. She made a few noncommittal comments, knowing that if she tried to explain herself, Holly Grace would never understand. Then she made a production out of looking at her watch and rushing off.
As she left the studio, her thoughts were in a turmoil. Holly Grace was Dallie's best friend, his first love, his soul mate, but the two of them were so much alike that they had become blind to each other's faults. Whenever Dallie lost a tournament, Holly Grace made excuses for him, sympathized with him, and in general treated him like a child. As well as Holly Grace knew him, she didn't understand how his fear of failure was screwing up his golf. And if she didn't understand that, she would never understand how that same fear was ruining his life.
Chapter 32
Once it was first played in 1935, the United States Classic had grown in prestige until it was now considered the "fifth major"-right along with the Masters, the British Open, the PGA, and the U.S. Open. The course where the Classic was held had become legendary, a place to be mentioned in the
same breath as Augusta, Cypress Point, and Merion. Golfers called it the Old Testament and for good reason. The course was one of the most beautiful in the South, lush with pines and ancient magnolias. Beards of Spanish moss draped the oaks that served as a backdrop to the small, perfectly manicured greens, and oyster-white sand, soft as powder, filled the bunkers. When the day was still and the sun warm, the fairways glistened with light so pure it seemed heavenly. But the natural beauty of the course was part of its treachery. While it warmed the heart, it could also lull the senses, so that the bedazzled player didn't realize until a fraction of a second too late that the Old Testament forgave no sins.
Golfers snarled at it and cursed it and swore they would never play it again, but the best of them always came back, because those heroic eighteen holes provided something that life itself could never deliver. They provided perfect justice. The good shot was always rewarded, the bad met with swift, terrible punishment. Those eighteen holes provided no second chance, no time for jury-rigging, no opportunity to plea-bargain. The Old Testament vanquished the weak, while on the strong it bestowed glory and honor forever. Or at least until the next day.
Dallie hated the Classic. Before he'd given up drinking and his game had improved, he hadn't always qualified for it. The last few years, however, he'd played well enough to find himself on the roster. Most of the time he wished he'd stayed home. The Old Testament was a golf course that demanded perfection, and Dallie damned well knew he was too imperfect to live up to that kind of expectation. He told himself that the Classic was a tournament like any other, but when this course defeated him, it seemed to shrink his very soul.
Every part of him wished that Francesca had chosen another tournament when she'd issued her challenge. Not that he was taking her seriously. No way. As far as he was concerned, she had kissed him good-bye when she'd thrown that little tantrum. Still, someone else was in the announcers' booth when Dallie teed up at the first hole, taking a few seconds to shoot a grin at a pretty little blonde who was smiling at him from the front row of the gallery. He'd told the network honchos they were going to have to wait a little bit longer for him and handed back their contract unsigned. He just hadn't been able to sit this one out. Not this year. Not after what Francesca had said to him.