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He fiddled with the saltshaker, looking a little less relaxed. “They had the pin placement all screwed up yesterday or I would have done better. It threw me off. And there was a hell of a lot more crowd noise than there should have been. One son of a bitch clicked his camera just when I got to the top of my backswing. Damn, I hate that.”
She was surprised that he felt the need to explain himself to her, but by now she was also too familiar with the patterns of his professional career to believe any of his excuses. They chatted for a while about Teddy, and then he asked her to save some time for him that week. “I'm going to be in the city for a while. They want to give me some lessons on how to find the red light on the camera.”
She gazed at him sharply, her good mood evaporating. “You're going to take the announcing job they offered you?”
He didn't quite look at her. “My bloodsucker's bringing me the contracts to sign tomorrow.”
Their food arrived, but Francesca had lost her appetite. What he was about to do was wrong—more wrong than he seemed to realize. There was an air of defeat about him, and she hated the way he wouldn't look at her. She probed at a shrimp with her fork and then, unable to contain herself, confronted him. “Dallie, you should at least finish the season. I don't like the idea of your quitting like this with the Classic only another week away.”
She could see his tension as his jaw set and he stared at a point just above the top of her head. “I have to hang up my clubs sooner or later. Now is as good a time as any.”
“Television announcing will be a wonderful career for you someday, but you're only thirty-seven. Lots of golfers still win major tournaments at your age or older. Look what Jack Nicklaus did at the Masters last year.”
His eyes narrowed and he finally looked at her. “You know something, Francie. I liked you a hell of a lot more before you turned into such a damned golf expert. Did it ever occur to you that I've got enough people telling me how to play, and I goddamn well don't need another one?”
Caution told her the moment had come to back off, but she couldn't do it, not when she felt that she had something important at stake. She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and then met his hostile gaze head on. “If I were you, I'd win the Classic before I quit playing.”
“Oh, you would, would you?” A small muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I would.” She dropped her voice until it was a barely audible whisper and looked him straight in the eye. “I'd win that tournament just so I knew I could do it.”
His nostrils flared. “Since you barely know the difference between a driver and a one-iron, I'd be mighty interested in watching you try.”
“We're not talking about me. We're talking about you.”
“Sometimes, Francesca, you are the most ignorant woman I've ever known in my entire life.” Banging down his fork, he looked at her and thin, hard lines formed brackets around his mouth. “For your information, the Classic is one of the toughest tournaments of the year. The course is a killer. If you don't hit the greens in just the right spot, you can go from a birdie to a bogey without even seeing it coming. Do you have any idea who's playing in the Classic this year? The best damned golfers in the world. Greg Norman will be there. They call him the Great White Shark, and it's not just because of his white hair—it's because he loves the taste of blood. Ben Crenshaw's playing—he putts better than anybody on the tour. Then there's Fuzzy Zoeller. 01' Fuzzy cracks jokes and acts like he's taking a Sunday walk in the woods, but all the time he's figuring out how deep he can dig your damned grave. And your buddy Seve Ballesteros is going to show up, muttering in Spanish under his breath and plowing right through everybody who gets in his way. Then we come to Jack Nicklaus. Even though he's forty-seven, he's still capable of blowing every one of us right out of the running. Nicklaus isn't even human, Francie.”
“And then there's Dallas Beaudine,” she said quietly. “Dallas Beaudine who has played some of the best opening rounds in tournament golf, but always falls apart at the end. Why is that, Dallie? Don't you want it badly enough?”
Something seemed to snap inside him. He pulled his napkin from his lap and wadded it on the table. “Let's get out of here. I'm not hungry anymore.”
She didn't budge. Instead, she hugged her arms over her chest, lifted her chin, and silently dared him to try to move her. She was going to have it out with him once and for all—even if it meant losing him. “I'm not going anywhere.”
At that exact moment Dallie Beaudine finally seemed to comprehend what he had only dimly perceived as he'd watched a pair of incomparable four-carat diamond studs sail out into the depths of a gravel quarry. He finally understood her strength of will. For months now, he had chosen to ignore the deep intelligence that lay behind her green cat's eyes, the steely determination hidden beneath that sassy smile, the indomitable strength at the heart of the woman who sat across from him so absurdly packaged as a frivolous ball of fluff. He had let himself forget that she had come to this country with nothing—not even much strength of character—and that she had been able to look every one of her weaknesses straight in the eye and overcome them. He had let himself forget that she had turned herself into a champion, while he was still only a contender.
He saw that she had no intention of leaving the restaurant, and the sheer force of her will staggered him. He felt a moment of panic, as if he were a child again and Jaycee's fist was headed right for his face. He felt the Bear breathing down his neck. Watch it, Beaudine. She's got you now.
And so he did the only thing he could—the only thing he could think of that might distract this bullheaded
, bossy little woman before she sliced him apart.
“I swear, Francie, you've put me in such a bad mood, I'm thinking about changing my plans for tonight.” Surreptitiously, he slid his napkin back into his lap.
“Oh? What plans did you have?”
“Well, all this nagging has almost made me change my mind, but—what the hell—I guess I'll ask you to marry me anyway.”
“Marry you?” Francesca's lips parted in astonishment.
“I don't see why not. At least I didn't until a few minutes ago when you turned into such a damn nag.”
Francesca leaned back into the booth, possessed by an awful feeling that something inside her was breaking apart. “You don't just blurt out a marriage proposal like that,” she said shakily. “And with the exception of a nine-yeàr-old boy, we don't have a single thing in common.”
“Yeah, well I'm not so sure about that anymore.” Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, he drew out a small jeweler's box. Extending it toward her, he flipped open the lid with his thumb, revealing an exquisite diamond solitaire. “I bought this from a guy I went to high school with, but I think it's only fair to tell you he spent some time as an unwilling guest of the state of Texas after he walked into a Piggly Wiggly with a Saturday night special in his hand. Still, he told me he found Jesus in prison, so I don't think the ring's hot. But I suppose you can't be too sure about that sort of thing.”
Francesca, who had already taken note of Tiffany's distinctive robin's-egg blue packaging, was paying only the vaguest attention to what he was saying. Why hadn't he mentioned anything about love? Why was he doing it like this? “Dallie, I can't take that ring. I—I can't believe you're even suggesting it.” Because she didn't know how to say what was really on her mind, she threw out all the logical impediments between them. “Where would we live? My job is in New York; yours is everywhere. And what would we talk about once we got out of the bedroom? Just because there's this—this cloud of lust hanging between us doesn't mean we're qualified to set up housekeeping together.”
“Jeez, Francie, you make everything so complicated. Holly Grace and I were married for fifteen years, and we only set up housekeeping in the beginning.”
