Call Me Irresistible (12 page)

Half an hour later, she stood outside the pro shop with a nauseating hip-length green caddy bib tied over her polo shirt, 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 assumed 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 gods 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 passing 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 assign 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 “hello,” 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.
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 damn 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 Nassau to keep the game interesting?” Kenny said.

“Shit, boys,” Skipjack countered, “me and my buddies play a thousand-dollar Nassau every Saturday.”

“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, snatched 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 nobody 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 hell 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 screwing 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 crappy 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 damned 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 massive, 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 shirt 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 . . .”

Ted and Dallie were now one hole down, but Ted put a good public face on it—no surprise. “We’ll make it up on the next hole.” The private glare he shot her sent a message she had no trouble interpreting.

“This is a ridiculous game,” she muttered a little over twenty minutes later after she once again took Ted out of competition by violating another ridiculous rule. Trying to be a good caddy, she’d picked up Ted’s ball to clean off some muck only to discover she wasn’t allowed to do that until it was on the green and marked. Like that made any sense.

“Good thing you birdied one and two, son,” Dallie said. “You sure do have some bad luck going for us.”

She saw no sense in ignoring the obvious. “I’m the bad luck.”

Mark shot her a warning glare for violating the no-talking rule and not calling Dallie “sir,” but Spencer Skipjack chuckled. “At least she’s honest. More than I can say for most women.”

It was Ted’s turn to send her a warning glare, this one forbidding her to comment on the idiocy of a man stereotyping an entire gender. She didn’t like the way Ted was reading her mind. And she really didn’t like Spencer Skipjack, who was a blowhard and a name-dropper.

“Last time I was in Vegas, I ran into Michael Jordan in one of the private rooms . . .”

She managed to survive the seventh hole without breaking any more rules, but her shoulders ached, her new sneakers were rubbing a blister on her little toe, the heat was getting to her, and she had eleven miserable holes to go. Being forced to lug around a thirty-five-pound bag of golf clubs for a six-foot-two athletic champion, who was perfectly capable of doing the job himself, seemed increasingly ludicrous. If these healthy, strong-bodied men were too lazy to carry their own clubs, why didn’t they take golf carts? The whole caddying thing made no sense. Except . . .