Fancy Pants (48 page)
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Francesca stood well back from the door asshe let Holly Grace and Teddy
out, making certain none of the people
milling around in the parking lot could see her clearly enough to
recognize her. She knew how fast news traveled, and unless it became
absolutely necessary, she had no intention of letting Dallie know she
was anywhere near. As soon as the two of them had disappeared,
she
rushed to the television so she could be ready and waiting for the
tournament coverage to begin.
Seve Ballesteros was leading the tournament after the first round, so
Dallie wasn't in the best of moods as he came off the practice green.
Dallie used to like Seve, until Francesca had started making cracks
about how good looking he was. Now just the sight of that dark-haired
Spaniard made him feel out of sorts. He looked over toward the leader
board and confirmed what he already knew, that Jack Nicklaus had ended
up at five strokes over par the day before, shooting a round even worse
than Dallie's own. Dallie felt a mean-spirited satisfaction. Nicklaus
was getting old; the years were finally doing what human beings
couldn't— putting an end to the incomparable reign of the Golden Bear
from Columbus, Ohio.
Skeet walked ahead of Dallie to the first tee. "There's a little
surprise for you over there," he said, gesturing toward his left.
Dallie followed the direction of his gaze and then grinned as he
spotted Holly Grace standing just behind the ropes. He began to walk
over to her, only to freeze in mid-stride as he recognized Teddy
standing at her side.
Anger rushed through him. How could one small woman be so vindictive?
He knew Francesca had sent Teddy and he knew why. She had sent the boy
to taunt him, to remind him of every nasty word she had hurled at him.
Normally he would have liked having Teddy watch him play, but not at
the Classic—not at a tournament where he had never done well. It
occurred to him that Francesca wanted Teddy to see him get beaten, and
the thought made him so furious he could barely contain himself.
Something of his feelings must have shown because Teddy looked down at
his feet and then back up again with that mulishly stubborn expression
that Dallie had grown to recognize all too well.
Dallie reminded himself that it wasn't Teddy's fault, but it still took
all of his self-control to walk over
and greet them. His fans in the
gallery immediately began asking him questions and calling out
encouragement. He joked with them a little bit, glad of the distraction
because he didn't know what to say to Teddy. I'm sorry I screwed
everything up for us—that's what he should say. I'm sorry I haven't
been able to talk to you, to tell you what you mean to me, to tell you
how proud I was when you protected your mama that day in Wynette.
Skeet was holding out his driver as Dallie turned away from the
gallery. "This is the first time ol' Teddy's going to see you play,
isn't it?" Skeet said, handing him the club. "Be a shame if he didn't
see your best game."
Dallie shot him a black look, and then walked over to tee up. The
muscles in his back and shoulders felt as tight as steel bands.
Normally he joked with the crowd before he hit, but today he couldn't
manage it. The club felt foreign in his hand. He looked over at Teddy
and saw the tight little frown in his forehead,
a frown of total
concentration. Dallie forced himself to focus his attention on what he
had to do—on
what he could do. He took a deep breath, eye on the ball,
knees slightly bent, drew back the club and then whipped it through,
using all the strength of his powerful left side. Airborne.
The crowd applauded. The ball fired out over the lush green fairway, a
white dot speeding against a cloudless sky. It began to descend,
heading directly toward the clump of magnolias that had done Dallie
in
the day before. And then, at the end, the ball faded to the right so
that it landed on the
fairway in perfect position. Dallie heard a wild Texas cheer from
behind him and turned to grin at Holly Grace. Skeet gave him a
thumbs-up, and even Teddy had a half-smile on his face.
* * *
That night, Dallie went to bed knowing he'd finally brought the OldTestament to its knees. While the tournament leaders had fallen victim
to a strong wind, Dallie had shot three under par, enough to make
up
for the disaster of the first day and push him way up on the leader
board, enough to show his son
just a little bit about how the old game
of golf was played. Seve was still in there, along with Fuzzy Zoeller
and Greg Norman. Watson and Crenshaw were out. Nicklaus had shot
another mediocre round, but the Golden Bear never gave up easily, and
he had scored just well enough to survive the cut.
As Dallie tried to fall asleep that night, he told himself to
concentrate on Seve and the others, not to
worry about Nicklaus. Jack
was eight over par, too far behind to be in contention and too old to
pull
off any of his miraculous last-minute charges. But as Dallie
punched his pillow into shape, he heard the Bear's voice whispering to
him as if he were standing right there in the room.
Don't ever count me
out, Beaudine. I'm not like you. I never quit.
* * *
Dallie couldn't seem to hold his concentration on the third day.Despite the presence of Holly Grace and Teddy, his play was mediocre
and he ended at three over par. It was enough to put him in a three-way
tie for second place, but he was two shots out of the lead.
By the end of the third day's play, Francesca's head ached from
watching the small motel television screen so intently. On CBS, Pat
Summerall began to summarize the day's action.
"Dallie Beaudine has never played well under pressure, and it seemed to
me he looked tight out there."
"The noise from the crowd obviously bothered him," Ken Venturi
observed. "You've got to remember that Jack Nicklaus was playing in the
group right behind Dallie, and when Jack is hot, like he was today, the
gallery goes wild. Every time those cheers went up, you'd better
believe the other players could hear, and they all knew Jack had made
another
spectacular shot. That can't help but shake up the tournament leaders."
"It'll be interesting to see if Dallie can change his pattern of
final-round defeats and come back tomorrow," Summerall said. "He's a
big hitter, he has one of the best swings on the tour, and he's always
been popular with the fans. You know they'd like nothing better than to
see him finally pull one out."
"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 asFrancesca 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 thesame 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."
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