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“But the real story here today is Jack Nicklaus,” Ken Venturi concluded. “At 47 years of age, the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio, has shot an unbelievable sixty-seven—five under par—putting him in a three-way tie for second place, right along with Seve Ballesteros and Dallas Beaudine....”
Francesca flipped off the set. She should have been happy that Dallie was one of the tournament leaders, but the final round was always his weakest. From what had happened in today's round, she had to conclude that Teddy's presence alone wouldn't be enough to spur him on. She knew stronger measures were called for, and she bit down on her bottom lip, refusing to let herself consider how easily the only strong measure she had been able to think of could backfire.
“Just stay away from me,” Holly Grace said the next morning as Francesca hurried after her and Teddy across the country club lawn toward the crowd that surrounded the first tee.
“I know what I'm doing,” Francesca called out. “At least I think I do.”
Holly Grace spun around as Francesca caught up with her. “When Dallie sees you, it's going to ruin his concentration for good. You couldn't have come up with a better way to blow this final round for him.”
“He'll blow it for himself if I'm not there,” Francesca insisted. “Look, you've coddled him for years and it hasn't worked. Do it my way for a change.”
Holly Grace whipped off her sunglasses and glared at Francesca. “Coddled him! I never coddled him in my life.”
“Yes, you have. You coddle him all the time.” Francesca grabbed Holly Grace's arm and began pushing her toward the first tee. “Just do what I asked you. I know a lot more about golf than I used to, but I still don't understand the subtleties. You've got to stick right by me and translate every shot he makes.”
“You're crazy, do you know that—”
Teddy cocked his head to one side as he observed the argument taking place between his mother and Holly Grace. He didn't often see grown-ups argue, and it was interesting to watch. Teddy's nose was sunburned and his legs were tired from having walked so much the past two days. But he was looking forward to today's final round, even though he got a little bored standing around waiting for the players to hit. Still, it was worth the wait because sometimes Dallie walked over to the ropes and told him what was going on, and then everybody smiled at him and knew that he was a pretty special kid, since he was getting so much of Dallie's attention. Even after Dallie had made some bad shots the day before, he'd walked over and talked to Teddy, explaining what had happened.
The day was sunny and mild, the temperature too warm for his Born-to-Raise-Hell sweat shirt, but Teddy had decided to wear it anyway.
“There's going to be hell to pay over this,” Holly Grace said, shaking her head. “And why couldn't you put on slacks or shorts like a normal person wears to a golf tournament? You're attracting all kinds of attention.”
Francesca didn't bother to tell Holly Grace that was exactly what she'd intended when she'd pulled on this tomato red slip of a dress. The simple cotton jersey tube dipped low at the neck, gently cupped her hips, and ended well above her knees in a saucy little polka-dot flounce. If she'd calculated right, the dress, along with her unmatched silver “angst” earrings, should just about drive Dallas Beaudine crazy.
In all his years of tournament golf, Dallie had seldom played in the same group as Jack Nicklaus. The few times he had, the round had been a disaster. He had played in front of him and behind him; he'd eaten dinner with him, shared a podium with him, exchanged a few golf stories with him. But he'd seldom played with him, and now Dallie's hands were shaking. He told himself not to make the mistake of confusing the real Jack Nicklaus with the Bear in his head. He reminded himself that the real Nicklaus was a flesh and blood human being, vulnerable like everybody else, but it didn't make any difference. Their faces were the same and that was all that counted.
“How you doin' today, Dallie?” Jack Nicklaus smiled pleasantly as he walked onto the first tee, his son Steve behind him acting as his caddy. I'm going to eat you alive, the Bear in Dallie's head said.
He's forty-seven years old, Dallie reminded himself as he shook Jack's hand. A man of forty-seven can't compete with a thirty-seven-year-old at the top of his form.
I won't even bother spitting out your bones, the Bear replied.
Seve Ballesteros was back by the ropes talking to someone in the crowd, his dark skin and chiseled cheekbones catching the attention of many of the women who made up Dallie's gallery. Dallie knew he should be more worried about Seve than about Jack. Seve was an international champion, considered by many to be the best golfer in the world. His driving was as powerful as any on the tour, and he had an almost superhuman touch around the greens. Dallie forced his attention away from Nicklaus and walked over to shake Seve's hand—only to stop cold in his tracks when he saw who Ballesteros was talking to.
At first he couldn't believe it. Even she couldn't be this evil. Standing there in a bright red dress that looked like underwear, and smiling at Seve like he was some sort of Spanish god, was Miss Fancy Pants herself. Holly Grace stood on one side of her looking miserable, and Teddy was on the other. Francesca finally tore her attention away from Seve and looked toward Dallie. She gave him a smile that was as cool as the inside of a frosted beer mug, a smile so lofty and superior that Dallie wanted to go right over and shake her. She tipped her head slightly, and her silver earrings caught the sun. Lifting her hand, she pushed chestnut tendrils away from her ears, tilting her head so that her neck formed a perfect curve and preening for him—preening, for God's sake! He couldn't believe it.
Dallie began to stalk toward her to choke her to death, but he had to stop because Seve was coming toward him, hand extended, all flashing eyes and Latin charm. Dallie hid behind a phony Texas grin and gave Seve's hand a couple of pumps.
Jack was up first. Dallie was so aggravated he was barely aware that Nicklaus had hit until he heard the crowd applaud. It was a good drive—not quite as long as the behemoth drives of his youth, but in perfect position. Dallie thought he saw Seve sneak a look at Francesca before he teed up. His hair glinted blue-black in the morning light, a Spanish pirate come to plunder American shores, and maybe walk off with a few of their women while he was at it. Seve's lean body wound tightly as he drew back the club and hit a long drive out to the center of the fairway, where it rolled ten yards past Nicklaus and came to a stop.
Dallie sneaked a glance at the gallery, only to wish he hadn't. Francesca was applauding Seve's drive enthusiastically, bouncing up on tiptoes in a pair of tiny red sandals that didn't look as if they would make it through three holes of walking, much less eighteen. He snatched his driver from Skeet's hand, his face dark as a thundercloud, his emotions even darker. Taking his stance, he was hardly even thinking about what he was doing. His body went on automatic pilot as he stared down at the ball and visualized Francesca's beautiful little face imprinted right on the top of the Titleist trademark. And then he swung.
He didn't even know what he'd done until he heard Holly Grace's cheer and his vision cleared enough to see the ball fly out two hundred ninety-five yards and roll to a stop well beyond Seve's drive. It was a great shot, and Skeet slapped him jubilantly on the back. Seve and Jack nodded in polite acknowledgment. Dallie turned toward the gallery and nearly choked at what he saw. Francesca had her snooty little nose tilted up in the air, as if she were ready to expire from boredom, as if she were saying in that exaggerated way of hers, “Is that the absolute best you can do?”
“Get rid of her,” Dallie snarled under his breath at Skeet.
Skeet was wiping the driver with a towel and didn't seem to hear. Dallie marched over to the ropes, his voice full of venom but pitched low enough so that he couldn't be overheard by anyone except Holly Grace. “I want you to get off this course right now,” he told Francesca. “What the hell do you think you're doing here?”
Once again she gave him that lofty, superior smile. “I'm just reminding you what the stakes are, darling.”
“You're crazy!” he exploded. “In case you're too ignorant to have figured it out, I'm in a three-way tie for second place in one of the biggest tournaments of the year, and I don't need this kind of distraction.”
Francesca straightened, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear, “Second place isn't good enough.”
Afterward Dallie figured that no jury in the world would have convicted him if he'd strangled the life out of her right there on the spot, but his playing partners were moving off the tee, he had another shot coming up, and he couldn't spare the time.
For the next nine holes he made that ball beg for mercy, ordered it to follow his wishes, punished it with every ounce of his strength and every morsel of his determination. He willed his putts into the cup on one sure stroke. One stroke—not two, not three! Each shot was more awesome than the last, and every time he turned to the gallery, he saw Holly Grace talking furiously to Francesca, translating the magic of what he was doing, telling Miss Fancy Pants that she was seeing golf history being made. But no matter what he did, no matter how astounding his shot, how breathtaking his putts, how heroically he was playing—every goddamn time he looked at her, Francesca seemed to be saying, “Is that the best you can do?”
