So much for playing the good soldier. She kept her voice low. “I grew up in Hollywood, so I understand ego-driven men like him better than you ever will.”
“That’s what you think.” He jammed the ball cap he was carrying on her head. “Wear a damn cap. We’ve got real sun here, not that watered-down California crap you’re used to.”
On the back nine, she knocked Ted and his father out of another hole because she yanked up a couple of weeds to give Ted a better shot. Yet even with the three holes she’d cost them—and Ted’s occasional errant shot when he tried too hard to conceal how pissed off he was at her—he was still highly competitive. “You’re playin’ a strange game today, son,” Dallie said. “Glimpses of brilliance paired with some mind-bogglin’ lunacy. I haven’t seen you play this good—or this bad—in years.”
“Heartbreak’ll do that to a man.” Kenny putted from the edge of the green. “Makes ’em go a little crazy.” His ball stopped a few inches short of the cup.
“Plus the humiliation of everybody in town still feeling sorry for him behind his back.” Skeet, the only caddy allowed to be on familiar terms with the players, brushed away some debris that had fallen on the green.
Dallie stepped up to his putt. “I tried to show him by example how to hold on to a woman. Kid didn’t pay attention.”
The men seemed to delight in poking fun at one another’s vulnerabilities. Even Ted’s own father. A test of manhood or something. If her girlfriends had gone after one another the way these guys did, somebody would have ended up in tears. But Ted merely delivered his leisurely smile, waited his turn, and sank his putt from ten feet away.
As the men walked off the green, Kenny Traveler, for a reason she couldn’t fathom, decided to tell Spencer Skipjack who her parents were. Skipjack’s eyes lit up. “Jake Koranda’s your father? Now that is really something. Here I thought you were caddying for money.” He shot a look between her and Ted. “You two a couple now?”
“No!” she said.
“Afraid not,” Ted said easily. “As you might guess, I’m still trying to recover from my broken engagement.”
“I don’t think they call it a broken engagement when you get dumped at the altar,” Kenny pointed out. “That’s more commonly known as a catastrophe.”
How could Ted be so worried about her embarrassing him today when his own friends were doing the job so well? But Skipjack seemed to be having the time of his life, and she realized their insider chatter made him feel as if he were one of them. Kenny and Dallie, for all their dumb-ass, good ol’ boy ways, had his number.
After the revelation of her famous parents, Skipjack wouldn’t leave her alone. “So what was it like growing up with Jake Koranda as a father?”
She’d heard that question a thousand times and still found it offensive that people didn’t also acknowledge her mother, who was just as accomplished as her father. She delivered her pat answer. “Both of my parents are just Mom and Dad to me.”
Ted finally realized she might have some value to him. “Meg’s mother is famous, too. She runs a big talent agency, but before that she was a famous model and actress.”
Her mother had appeared in exactly one film, Sunday Morning Eclipse, where she’d met Meg’s father.
“Wait a minute!” Spencer exclaimed. “Son of a— I had this poster of your mother on the back of my bedroom door when I was a kid.”
Another statement she’d heard a few zillion times too many. “Imagine that.” Ted slanted her another of his looks.
Skipjack didn’t stop talking about her famous parents until they approached the seventeenth hole. Thanks to some bad putting, Kenny and Skipjack were down one hole, and Skipjack wasn’t happy. He grew even unhappier when Kenny took a phone call from his wife before he teed off and learned that she’d cut her hand while she was gardening and had driven herself to the doctor to get a couple of stitches. It was apparent from Kenny’s end of the conversation that the injury was minor and his wife wouldn’t hear of him dropping out of the match, but from then on he was distracted.
Meg could see how much Skipjack wanted to win, just as she could see that it didn’t occur to either Ted or Dallie to back off, not even for the future of the town. Dallie had played consistently well, and Ted’s erratic play was now a thing of the past. She was getting the weird feeling that he might even be enjoying the challenge of making up the three holes she’d cost them.
Skipjack snapped at Mark for taking too long to hand over a club. He could feel his win slipping away and, along with it, the chance to brag that he and Kenny Traveler had beaten Dallie and Ted Beaudine on their home course. He even stopped pestering Meg.
All Team Beaudine had to do was miss a few putts, and they’d put Spencer Skipjack in a magnanimous mood for future negotiations, but they didn’t seem to get that. She couldn’t understand it. They should be catering to their guest’s enormous ego instead of playing as though only the outcome of the match mattered. Apparently they thought tossing jokes at one another and letting Skipjack feel like an insider was enough. But Skipjack was a sulker. If Ted wanted him to be receptive, he and his father needed to lose this match. Instead, they were pressing even harder to maintain their one-hole advantage.
Fortunately, Kenny came to life on the seventeenth green and sank a twenty-five-foot putt that tied up the teams.
Meg didn’t like the determined glint in Ted’s eye as he teed off on the final hole. He lined up his drive, adjusted his stance, and launched his swing . . . at the exact moment she accidentally on purpose dropped his bag of golf clubs . . .
Chapter Eight
The clubs landed with a crash. All seven men standing on the tee spun around to stare at her. She tried to look abashed. “Oops. Dang. Big mistake.”
Ted had pulled his drive into the far left rough, and Skipjack grinned. “Miz Meg, I sure am glad you’re not caddying for me.”
She stubbed her sneaker into the ground. “I’m really sorry.” Not.
And what did Ted do in response to her blunder? Did he thank her for reminding him of what was most important today? Conversely, did he stalk over and wrap one of his clubs around her neck as she knew he wanted to? Oh, no. Mr. Perfect was way too cool for any of that. Instead, he gave them his choirboy smile, wandered back to her with his easy lope, and righted the bag himself. “Now don’t you stress, Meg. You’ve just made the match more interesting.”
He was the best bullshit artist she’d ever known, but even if the others couldn’t see it, she knew he was furious.
They all set off down the fairway. Skipjack’s face was flushed, his golf shirt sticking to his barrel chest. She understood the game well enough by now to know what needed to happen. Because of his handicap, Skipjack got an extra stroke on this hole, so if everybody parred it, Skipjack would win the hole for his team. But if either Dallie or Ted birdied the hole, Skipjack would need a birdie himself to win the hole, something that seemed highly unlikely. Otherwise, the match would end in an unsatisfying tie.
Thanks to her interference, Ted was farthest from the pin, so he was up first for his second shot. Since no one was close enough to overhear, she could tell him exactly what she thought. “Let him win, you idiot! Can’t you see how much this means to him?”
Instead of listening to her, he drilled a four-iron down the fairway, putting him in what even she could see was perfect position. “Butthead,” she muttered. “If you birdie, you’ve just about guaranteed your guest can’t win. Do you really think that’s the best way to put him in a good mood for your odious negotiations?”
He tossed his club at her. “I know how the game is played, Meg, and so does Skipjack. He’s not a kid.” He stalked away.
Dallie, Kenny, and a glowering Skipjack put their third shots on the green, but Ted was only lying two. He’d abandoned common sense. Apparently losing a game was a mortal sin for those who worshipped in the holy cathedral of golf.
Meg reached Ted’s ball first. It perched on top of a big tuft of chemica
lly nurtured grass in perfect position to set up an easy birdie shot. She lowered his bag, contemplated her principles once again, then brought her sneaker down as hard as she could on the ball.
As she heard Ted come up behind her, she shook her head sadly. “Too bad. It looks like you landed in a hole.”
“A hole?” He pushed her aside to see his ball mashed deeply into the grass.
As she stepped back, she spotted Skeet Cooper standing on the fringe of the green watching her with his small, sun-wrinkled eyes. Ted gazed down at the ball. “What in the—?”
“Some kind of rodent.” Skeet said it in a way that let her know he’d witnessed exactly what she’d done.
“Rodent? There aren’t any—” Ted spun on her. “Don’t tell me . . .”
“You can thank me later,” she said.
“Problem over there?” Skipjack called from the opposite fringe.
“Ted’s in trouble,” Skeet called back.
Ted used up two strokes getting out of the hole she’d dug him into. He still made par, but par wasn’t good enough. Kenny and Skipjack won the match.
Kenny seemed more concerned about getting home to his wife than relishing the victory, but Spencer chortled all the way into the clubhouse. “Now that was a golf game. Too bad you lost it there at the end, Ted. Bad luck.” As he spoke, he was peeling away at a wad of bills to tip Mark. “Good job today. You can caddy for me anytime.”
“Thank you, sir. It was my pleasure.”
Kenny passed some twenties over to Lenny, shook hands with his partner, and took off for home. Ted dug into his own pocket, pressed a tip into her palm, then closed her fingers around it. “No hard feelings, Meg. You did your best.”
“Thanks.” She’d forgotten she was dealing with a saint.
Spencer Skipjack came up behind her, settled his hand into the small of her back, and rubbed. Way too creepy. “Miz Meg, Ted and his friends are taking me to dinner tonight. I’d be honored if you’d be my date.”
“Gosh, I’d like to, but—”
“She’d love to,” Ted said. “Wouldn’t you, Meg?”
“Ordinarily yes, but—”
“Don’t be shy. We’ll pick you up at seven. Meg’s current home is hard to find, so I’ll drive.” He gazed at her, and the flint in his eyes sent a clear message that told her she’d be looking for a new home if she didn’t cooperate. She swallowed. “Casual dress?”
“Real casual,” he said.
As the men walked away, she contemplated the evils of being forced on a date with an egotistic blowhard who was practically as old as her father. Bad enough by itself, but even more depressing with Ted watching her every move.
She rubbed her aching shoulder, then uncurled her fingers to check out the tip she’d received for spending four and a half hours hauling thirty-five pounds of golf clubs uphill and down in the hot Texas sun.
A one-dollar bill looked back at her.
Neon beer signs, antlers, and sports memorabilia decked out the square wooden bar that sat in the center of the Roustabout. Booths lined two of the honky-tonk’s walls, pool tables and video games another. On weekends, a country band played, but for now, Toby Keith blasted from the jukebox near a small, scarred dance floor.
Meg was the only woman at the table, which left her feeling a little like a working girl at a gentleman’s club, although she was glad neither Dallie’s nor Kenny’s wife was present, since both women hated her. She sat between Spencer and Kenny, with Ted directly across the table along with his father and Dallie’s faithful caddy, Skeet Cooper.
“The Roustabout’s an institution around here,” Ted said as Skipjack finished polishing off a platter of ribs. “It’s seen a lot of history. Good, bad, and ugly.”
“I sure do remember the ugly,” Skeet said. “Like the time Dallie and Francie had an altercation in the parking lot. Happened more’n thirty years ago, long before they were married, but people still talk about it today.”
“That’s true,” Ted said. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard that story. My mother forgot she’s half my father’s size and tried to take him down.”
“Damn near succeeded. She was a wildcat that night, I can tell you,” Skeet said. “Me and Dallie’s ex-wife couldn’t hardly break up that fight.”
“It’s not exactly the way they’re making it sound,” Dallie said.
“It’s exactly the way it sounded.” Kenny pocketed his cell after checking on his wife.
“How would you know?” Dallie grumbled. “You were a kid then, and you weren’t even there. Besides, you’ve got your own history with the Roustabout parking lot. Like the night Lady Emma got upset with you and stole your car. You had to run down the highway after her.”
“It didn’t take too long to catch up,” Kenny said. “My wife wasn’t much of a driver.”
“Still isn’t,” Ted said. “Slowest driver in the county. Just last week she caused a big backup out on Stone Quarry Road. Three people called me to complain.”
Kenny shrugged. “No matter how hard we all try, we can’t convince her that our posted speed limits are only polite recommendations.”
It had been going on like that all evening, the five of them entertaining Skipjack with their good ol’ boy patter, while Spence, as she’d been instructed to call him, soaked it in with a combination of amusement and the faintest hint of arrogance. He loved being courted by these famous men—loved knowing he had something they wanted, something he had it within his power to withhold. He dragged his napkin over his mouth to wipe off some barbecue sauce. “You’ve got strange ways in this town.”
Ted leaned back in his chair, as relaxed as ever. “We’re not hampered by a lot of bureaucracy, that’s for sure. People around here don’t see the sense in all kinds of red tape. If we want to make something happen, we go ahead and do it.”
Spence smiled at Meg. “I think I’m about to hear a paid political announcement.”
It was long past time. She was bone tired and wanted nothing more than to curl up in her choir loft and go to sleep. After her disastrous caddying round, she’d spent the rest of the day on the drink cart. Unfortunately, her immediate boss was a stoner kid with minimal communication skills and no idea how her predecessor had set up the beverages. How was she to know that the club’s female golfers were addicted to diet Arizona iced tea and got huffy if it wasn’t waiting for them by the fourteenth tee? Still, that hadn’t been as bad as running out of Bud Light. In a curious case of mass self-delusion, the club’s overweight male golfers seemed to have concluded the word light meant they could drink twice as much. Their bellies should have pointed out their faulty reasoning, but apparently not.
The most surprising part of today, however, was how much she hadn’t hated it. She should have detested working at a country club, but she loved being outside, even if she wasn’t allowed to drive all over the course the way she wanted and had to stay parked at either the fifth or fourteenth tee. Not getting fired was a bonus.
Spence tried to sneak a surreptitious look down the top she’d fashioned from one length of the rehearsal-dinner silk wrap she now wore with jeans. All evening, he’d been touching her, tracing a bone on her wrist, caressing her shoulder, the small of her back, feigning curiosity over her earrings as an excuse to rub her lobe. Ted had taken in every touch and, for the first time since they’d met, seemed happy she was around. Spence leaned in too close. “Here’s my dilemma, Miz Meg.”
She edged nearer Kenny, something she’d been doing all evening until she was practically in his lap. He seemed oblivious, apparently so used to women hitting on him that it no longer registered. But Ted was registering, and he wanted her to stay put, right where Skipjack could paw her. Since his easy smile never changed, she didn’t know how she knew this, but she did, and the next time she got him alone, she intended to tell him to add “pimp” to his big, impressive résumé.
Spence toyed with her fingers. “I’m looking at two sweet pieces of property—one on the outskirts
of San Antone, a city that’s a hotbed of commercial activity. The other in the middle of nowhere.”
Ted hated cat-and-mouse games. She knew because he leaned farther back in his chair, as unruffled as a man could be. “The most beautiful part of nowhere anybody’s ever seen,” he said.
And one they wanted to destroy with a hotel, condos, manicured fairways, and pristine greens.
“Don’t forget there’s a landing strip not twenty miles out of town.” Kenny fingered his cell.
“But not much else to speak of,” Spence said. “No upscale boutiques for the ladies. No nightclubs or fine dining.”
Skeet scratched his jaw, his nails rasping over the graying stubble. “I don’t see that’s much of a disadvantage. All it means is people’ll spend more money at your resort.”
“When they’re not coming into Wynette to get their fix of small-town Americana,” Ted said. “The Roustabout, for example. This is the real thing—no phonied-up national franchise with mass-produced steer horns hanging on the wall. We all know how much rich people appreciate authenticity.”
An interesting observation coming from a multimillionaire. It occurred to her that everybody at this table was filthy rich except her. Even Skeet Cooper must have a couple of million tucked away from all the prize money he’d earned caddying for Dallie.
Spence curled his hand over Meg’s wrist. “Let’s dance, Miz Meg. I need to work off my dinner.”
She didn’t want to dance with him, and she extracted her hand with the excuse of reaching for her napkin. “I don’t understand exactly why you’re so eager to build a resort. You’re already the head of a big company. Why make your life more complicated?”
“Some things a man’s destined to do.” It sounded like a line from one of her father’s worst movies. “You ever heard of a guy named Herb Kohler?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Kohler Company. Plumbing. My biggest rival.”
She didn’t pay much attention to bathroom fixtures, but even she’d heard of Kohler, and she nodded.
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