The Mulligan (12 page)

“You're good, Bobbi. You know we're praying for you here. Grandpa asked about you today at lunchtime.”

I decide not to tell her about Mattie. My mother doesn't need to hear about her dying with Grandpa and all he is going through. She's in denial anyway, thinking her father isn't losing his mind and that she'll be able to continue to take care of him at home. Especially without Dad's help or income.

“Tell him I'll call soon, OK?” The unopened envelope in my lap calls me, so I cut the conversation short.

My mother never seems to notice—there's a lot she doesn't notice these days, and the guilt that I'm not around to help her sometimes swallows me whole. In the long run, though, what I'm doing here in Florida will help more than me being there taking care of Robert and helping Grandpa get dressed in the morning. I'm so sure of it I've given up what I love most to do it.

The last time I opened anything that was a true surprise was a gift for my sixteenth birthday. No one can keep anything secret from me, but that year Robert totally surprised me when he showed me a huge box. Where he'd hidden it, I still don't know. I'd checked the closets and underneath all the beds and found out that Mom and Dad were giving me the outfit I wanted from the mall.

“Try guessing first,” he'd said with a smirk across his face.

Yes, I love being surprised. Really surprised, and that's why I was often disappointed when no one ever did manage to do it to me. But this time, Robert outdid himself.

I tore open the box and stood back, my jaw turning to mush. The most beautiful oak chest stood before me. Robert had engraved my name on the lid with the date. I rubbed my hand over the smooth lid. “How? When?”

Let me say this. Robert is not a handy guy. That's what made this gift even more special. It seems he spent all his free periods in school in the shop department learning how to use tools without cutting his hands off just so he could surprise me.

I hugged his neck tightly, trying not to cry.

Why I thought of this particular gift right now as I sit with Mattie's letter in my lap I don't know. Maybe because she'd been a special part of my life the way Robert has been. Is still. Maybe Mattie needed me to remember her, and this is a way that I would.

I flip the envelope over and unglue the flap.

I'm not sure what I expect, but as I reach inside and feel the cool metal between my fingers, delight fills my thoughts. Mattie has given me a jewel. Actually, as I turn it over and over in my palm and take in each delicate detail of the necklace, I know she couldn't have left me a more marvelous gift.

A thin gold chain. A pendant covered in tiny diamonds and could it be? I bring the gift closer to my face. The design is shaped like a golf club. A tiny sparkling golf club. The initials M.M. (for Mattie Montrose, I guess) are engraved on the back.

Where did Mattie get a golf-club-shaped necklace and why?

My shoulders sink against my battered chair as I try to recall any bit of information from our conversations that told me she might have golfed.

Nothing. Or had I not been listening? Sometimes my neighbor went on and on. The most important tidbit I remember her saying is that she had a nephew named Bobby who'd been killed in a car accident. That's it. Nothing more comes to me.

I look down at the piece of jewelry in my hand and slip the chain over my head. The pendant falls to my chest. It's then that I realize I haven't looked inside the envelope to see if she's left me an explanation. I tear the envelope open and find what I need. Mattie has written me a short few words on a sticky note. A sticky note with flowers bordering it.

I've seen that pad on her kitchen table. I'd borrowed a sheet to write down one of her recipes that I'd loved. Now a page holds a few short words to me.

 

Bobbi,

Superman is a myth.

Mattie

 

Superman? So she's left me more advice. Advice I don't get. I smile knowing this note is so much like Mattie. But still, I'm not sure how she's connected to the necklace. A golf club, after all, isn't the first choice a woman makes when selecting something to decorate herself.

I go to bed that night with the necklace dangling from my bedside lamp. First thing in the morning, I dress in my favorite yellow polo shirt. I slip the chain over my head and tuck it inside my collar. I'll wear it for this tournament and think of Mattie.

 

 

 

 

13

 

Someone wants to sponsor me. A friend of the man who owns Bud's Sports has been watching the tournament and sees me place second with a whopping score of 66. My shots are some of the best I've ever made. I'm not sure if my good fortune has anything to do with Mattie's necklace nestled against my chest, but I do find that if I hold it between my fingers and concentrate, I hit better.

I might not be a Bible thumper like my twin, but I know enough not to believe in luck. God ordains every step we take: that much I believe, but I still can't help but think maybe Mattie's gift has given me the confidence I lacked.

The next day I get the call from the CEO at Bud's, a large sporting chain here in Florida. Would I be interested in wearing their logo in exchange for money? They'd heard from one of my teachers that my goal was to play professionally. They'd like to market their name via me.

It isn't a big brand name. But at least it's a way to earn money, and their logo doesn't totally rot. I can walk around the course with a brown bear on my hat and on the back of my shirt if it means moving toward my future.

After class the next day, I wait to talk with Drew. He was friendly enough at the tournament, but not like he used to be. He stands at the board writing out assignments for the next class.

“Do you mind if I talk with you a minute?”

He turns around and sets his marker to the side. His face shows no animosity, so I take a deep breath and nod to the chair next to his desk. “Mind if I sit?”

I don't get this man. I was sure when I started last summer there was an attraction between us, but something happened. Maybe for the best, but it has left me unsettled. I take the seat and he sits across from me.

“What's on your mind?” His blue eyes soften.

Oh. dear. I put my hands beneath my armpits and clear my thoughts. “I wondered if you are behind this offer I got from Bud's. If you are, I want to thank you.”

His shoulders rise. “You deserve it. Only wish it had come from a bigger company.”

“That's not how you felt the last time we played. What was that about?”

He turns away from me for an instant as though what he would say next is written on the backside of the classroom door. Drew isn't an easy man to get to know.

Mark has pretty much implied that. I pressed for more information, but Mark turned the conversation to himself and expertly put Drew off the table. The brothers came from the same area as I did, but Drew never wants to talk about himself or his past. Someone hinted that teaching was not what he wants to do. Play golf on tour had been his plan, but for some reason he didn't make it. I am hoping he will help me make it instead.

He runs his fingers through his thick hair and then sighs. “Listen, Bobbi. When you showed up in my classroom, I couldn't understand why on earth you would want to come here. It's not like we have a million females come through our doors—especially ones who golf as well as you. This school teaches you how to work in the golf industry. You should be playing every day, not hanging out in the classroom. When I first started to teach you, I saw what you have—it's something I never had no matter how much I practiced. And when I watched you throw away good shots, it made me mad.”

He pauses, giving me a moment to take in what he's saying. What would he think if he knew why I'm so obsessed with being good? My cheeks burn.

“You're going to make the pros and you're going to be a name to be reckoned with. But you can't let your guard down for a minute. And that means no social life at all.”

Is that a frown?

“What social life? I work out and practice. That's my life besides my part time job at the theater.”

He nods. “Good. If you can knock off the job, even better, but I know how tight funds can be when you're starting out. Can anyone in your family help?”

“No,” I say quickly.

“Sorry to hear that. You'll need all the support you can get.”

I look down at my shoes. They need a good polish. “My brother supports me.”

“He golfs, doesn't he?”

I lift my eyes. “He used to. He was pretty good until his…accident.” I hate that word but that's the term my family uses. It wasn't an accident. It was my fault.

Drew leans closer to his desk. I smell his aftershave. “Sorry to hear that. So you come from a family of golfers. That's good. They'll be behind you.”

“Sure. That kind of support goes much farther than money.” I chew on my lip. I hate lying.

But Drew has learned to keep quiet about his past and so can I.

“So are you going to take the deal with Bud's?”

“Why not? It might make the difference between affording Q-School or not.”

My mention of Q-School snaps his gaze to mine. “Are you ready? The competition will be stiff. There are only so many openings to go on tour.”

“I've done my homework. And speaking of homework, I'd better go.”

Drew follows me to the door. He bends down close to my face. I hold my stance as he speaks. “I'm sorry, Bobbi. You really can do this.”

If I could have danced down the hallway to my car, I would have. It means so much to know that Drew is behind me. Maybe someday…but I can't think like that now. I have a tournament to win. I reach for the pendant dangling down my chest.

Mattie. Who were you?

 

****

 

The jeweler I stop at on my way home hands me back the diamond-studded golf club. “It's a beauty. I would stick that in a vault somewhere.”

The necklace glitters in my palm. “A vault?

“A vault. Unless you want to take a chance of it being swiped from your neck.”

My head still can't make sense of the figure he quoted me for the value of Mattie's gift. If she had only cashed it in, she wouldn't have had to live in Golden Acres.

“Thanks again for the advice and appraisal,” I say and slip the necklace over my head where it belongs now. Mattie didn't leave it to me to stuff in some safety deposit box. She gave it to me to wear, and that's what I'll do.

On my drive home, I pass several other courses. A part of me wants to stop and see if they are offering any deals, but my stomach protests. Besides, it's hot out today. The heat inside of my trailer hits me with the force of a furnace since I've forgotten to turn down the air. Even though fall has arrived, the temperatures still haven't dropped. I reach for a carton of cottage cheese and smell it. Ugh. Time to hit the grocery store.

My supper will be a TV dinner I bought for two dollars. Not bad when the stuffing tastes as good as my mother's. While it heats up in the oven (I hate to nuke it), I change into my shorts. Another Friday. I look across to Mattie's place. The plants need watering and I have yet to make a sign as promised. I'll do it after I eat. But first I want to check something online.

Mattie Montrose.

Google doesn't let me down. Three full pages of stories about Mattie. I've hit pay dirt.

What I find surprises me, though. Story after story touts accolades about Mattie being a pro golfer eons ago—one of the top LPGA titlists! I whistle and hear it reverberate around the room. A pro? Mattie?

“You golfed and never said a word?” A million questions roll through my brain—starting with how she got so good. What was her secret? If only she'd told me while she was alive.

According to Mr. Google, Mattie won title after title and played until she was injured in a car accident. The article from the
Orlando Sentinel
went on to say that if Mattie hadn't been drinking, her sixteen-year-old nephew would still be alive.

“Bobby with a y. Oh, Mattie. Why didn't you tell me?” I shut down my laptop.

The article also stated that Mattie did community service as retribution. She gave talks to schools and eventually gave away potted plants to remind others
to stay grounded where God plants you
.

I don't chuckle at her slogan.

 

 

 

 

14

 

Even though I risk losing Mattie's necklace, I get into the habit of wearing it every place I go. I haven't been able to pin down when she got it and for what tournament, but I figure it was pretty darn special. I mean diamonds? Who gives away diamonds? I doubt I'd ever wear that many diamonds on my finger.

Exactly three days before the qualifying tournaments, Dan calls. He's in town and wants to meet at a restaurant in the Millennium Mall. It isn't my favorite place to go since it means dressing better than I might to go to the Ocoee mall, but I throw on some white khakis and a peach-colored top I'd bought before moving down to Florida.

Again, I add my necklace and a pair of fake stud earrings. I let my hair fall down to my shoulders and brush some blush on my tanned cheeks. My heart starts to beat faster when I pull into the parking lot and find a place near the entrance.

My watch says I have fifteen minutes before we're to meet. I lock my car and hurry across the roadway to enter near the fountains. I've forgotten to bring my phone with me, so I wait at a bench near the restaurant. While I sit, I study the other shoppers.

A woman about my age pushes a stroller past me with a child in it sucking on a pacifier. I smile at the baby, and then stop. What mother wants a stranger ogling her baby? I pass it off to my age and the impending clock-ticking effect or something like that. But will I ever have children of my own? I once tried to paint portraits and started a canvas with a mother and child, using a picture I'd found as my subject. I never finished it.