Table For Five. Susan WiggsЧитать онлайн книгу.
the baby isn’t yours.”
part two
The beauty of a strong, lasting commitment is often best understood by men incapable of it.
—Murray Kempton
chapter 6
Friday
5:00 p.m.
And here’s the challenger, Sean Maguire, aiming for the green and a possible eagle putt. No one in the crowd is breathing as the challenger selects a Titleist forged-iron pitching wedge, assuming his famous stance. An easy, athletic swing, a flawless follow-through and…he’s on, ladies and gentlemen. He’s on the green and rolling twenty, fifteen, ten! He’s just ten feet from the hole, and that’s one putt away from a historic win. Not only will he take home one million dollars and the championship trophy, but he’ll also be having sex with identical blond twins who magically turn into beer and pizza at midnight. Ladies and gentlemen, you can hear a pin drop as the challenger steps up to address the ball. All that stands between him and victory is ten feet of putting green. This should be no trouble for the legendary Maguire. He adjusts his stance, glides into his famous backswing, preparing to make history. Smoothly the club head descends toward the ball, flawlessly aimed, and—
“Hey, mister.”
Sean’s arm jerked and the head of the putter missed. The golf ball bobbled away from the hole. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he straightened up and scowled at the kid, who stood at the edge of the practice screen.
“Yeah?” Sean immediately regretted the annoyance in his tone. The wide-eyed kid was probably a fan, asking for the autograph of the legendary Sean Maguire. “What can I do for you?”
“You got change for a dollar?”
Great. He scrounged the change from his pocket. He had only thirty-five cents. The coins felt light and insubstantial in his hand.
He leaned down and grabbed the ball from the rain-soaked green. His four o’clock lesson hadn’t shown, probably due to the weather, so he’d passed the time practicing his own game. To what end, he had no idea.
“What do you need, kid?”
“Change for the Coke machine.” He shuffled his feet and, probably prodded by some latent lesson from Mom, added, “Please, mister.”
“You can call me Sean.”
“Really?”
“I just said you could. I can make change in the clubhouse.” He jerked his head toward the long, low building. His place of employment. He’d capped off his stellar career as a professional golfer right where he’d started, here at Echo Ridge.
As the kid fell in step with him, Sean asked, “What’s your name?”
“Russell Clark.”
They shook hands and kept walking.
“Hey, want to know how to figure out your porn-star name?”
“My what?”
“You know, your porn-star name. Porn stars never use their own names.”
The kid was ten years old if he was a day. What did he know about porn stars? “Is this something you ask all strangers, or just me?”
Russell shrugged, so Sean said, “Okay, sure. Sure. I’m dying to know.”
“Tell me the name of the street you live on.”
“Ridgetop Avenue.” In yet another nondescript apartment. He’d never lived in a place he actually cared about.
“Now tell me the name of the first pet you ever had.”
“When I was about your age, I had a shepherd mutt named Duke.”
The kid roared with laughter. “Then your porn-star name’s Duke Ridgetop.”
Oh, that’s brilliant, thought Sean. Just brilliant. “Maybe he’ll pay my bills for me.”
“Guess what mine is. Betcha can’t guess.”
“You’re right. I can’t. What is it?”
“Pepper McRedmond. Cool, huh?” Russell laughed and slapped his thigh.
“Whatever tees you up, kid.”
Inside the clubhouse, Sean made change and then Russell scurried off to the Coke machine. Kids belonged to an alien nation, Sean thought. He’d never understand them. Shaking his head, he noticed his weekly paycheck in his in-box. He stuffed it in his jacket pocket without even looking at the amount. He knew he ought to be grateful for steady money, but hell, he used to tip his caddie more than that amount after just one round. Used to.
Sean checked the time. He was finished here for the day, but in three hours he’d be back in the bar upstairs, fixing Manhattans and cosmopolitans for local lawyers and leather-skinned retirees. It was hardly worth going home in between. Maura, his girlfriend, was at the hospital until late, and early in the morning, she had to drive to Portland for a seminar. Sean was surprised to feel a twinge of sentiment; he would miss her, he thought. These days, he didn’t trust his own judgment about women.
With this current rotation, she tended to crawl into bed and sleep when she wasn’t working, anyway. They didn’t exactly live together, but lately they’d slept at his place every single night, and item by item, her things were migrating over to his apartment. Two days ago, she’d brought her CD collection and a picture of her family. This was as close to a permanent arrangement as Sean had ever had with a woman. Well, almost.
He looked around the clubhouse, where a few groups of golfers milled around, comparing scores and tallying up debts. Due to the storm, there weren’t many of them. Only the diehards were out in weather like they’d had this afternoon. Sean listened to them laughing and talking, and it made him remember that golf was supposed to be fun. A game. He missed those days.
In the locker room, he changed out of his chinos and club-logo windbreaker—Echo Ridge didn’t permit jeans—and slipped on his favorite Levi’s.
His cell phone rang, and when he recognized the number of the incoming call, his pulse sped up. “Yeah?” he said.
“Hello to you, too, pretty boy.” The voice of Harlan “Red” Corliss, Derek’s agent, was broad and smooth with a smile.
“You sound happy with yourself.” Cocking his head to hold the phone, Sean transferred the things from the pockets of his work pants to his jeans.
“What are you doing next Saturday, Maguire?” Red asked.
Sean dropped his keys and clutched the phone hard. “You got me in the Redwing tournament.”
“That I did. I have a few sponsors’ exemptions and I used one just for you, kid.”
Tournament play. It used to be what Sean lived for, what defined him. He used to be a rising star, a hero of the game. Now here he was, shadowed by disgrace, nobody’s hero. No matter what he did, he could still feel the sick sense of shame and guilt that had shrouded him like a pall.
“Hello?” Red asked when the pause drew out too long. “You’re not worried about your game, are you?”
Sean prowled back and forth in the clubhouse. “The talent’s intact.”
“Forget talent. You have a talent that’s almost freakish. So big deal. Forget you know how to hit a ball at all and work your ass off.” Red was quiet for a moment. “It’s not that, is it?”
“You know it’s not, Red.”
“Look, you can’t worry about that. You didn’t cheat. You were set up. It’ll be ancient history before you know it. Hell, it’s already ancient history.”
Sean leaned his forehead against the locker door. It didn’t matter that he’d been set up.