Six Strokes Under (14 page)

"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.

 
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 good 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."

"Shhh ... It's okay." He pulled me back close to him. He kissed me, first gently, then with the fierce passion I remembered from our one night together. He ran his hands through my curls and down my back and over the curve of my buttocks. I hugged him tightly, filled with a mixture of piercing excitement and dread. He fumbled with the top button of my jeans and loosened the shirt from my pants. I traced the line of his jaw with my index finger. Kissing me again, he slid his hands under my T-shirt and massaged my back. All the while, one small, sober section of my brain looked on in disbelief.

"You're so beautiful, Cassie," he whispered. "Even more beautiful than you were back then." He unhooked my bra and cradled the soft weight of my breasts in his hands, brushing my nipples with his thumbs. Then the beeper in Max's back pocket shrilled. He pulled away, leaving my brassiere draped around my neck, while he sheepishly studied the number on the display window.

"It's Brenda," he said, his voice flat. I yanked my shirt down over my hips. He sat down abruptly, his shoulders sagging. For several moments, he was silent.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I came over to apologize for being a boor. Now what can I say? The truth is, as much as I wish it were different, I guess I should never have come."

I straightened my clothes, confused and drunk. "Just get the fuck out, Max." I had no pity for the agony in his face.

"I'm really sorry if I hurt you. I'm more sorry that what should have been a beginning had to end."

"Nice closing statement, Counselor." I walked to the door and jerked it open. "You didn't even bother with the fucking Boone's Farm Apple Wine this time."