The Mulligan (19 page)

Robert puts his arms around me and pulls me into a warm hug. I try to force my tears to disappear but they don't. Robert understands. We've talked about our broken family for years. Now that we're a real family again—neither of us wants to risk breaking it.

I sleep little that night. When morning shakes me out of bed, I remember my lunch date with Drew. I can't think of a way to get out of it. He's my teacher, too, not just a friend. The water from my hot shower pours over my head. My fingers ache along with my lower back. What if I get arthritis and have to quit golfing early in my career? I flex my toes, checking my body from top to bottom. Of course, I'm fit. Why would God let it be otherwise now that I have taken His course for my life?

“
For I know the plans…
” an old verse pops unbidden into my mind.
Do you really, God?
If He did, why do I feel like I do now?

My hair hangs wet around my shoulders. Drooping like my spirits. I remind myself that this whole plan was my own idea—no one else's. Not God's either, but evidently He likes it enough to make it work. When I go downstairs, my parents are sitting at the dining room table drinking coffee.

“There you are. I wondered when I'd see you today.” My father rises from his seat and greets me with an unexpected hug. No, he isn't a hugger, so when I get one, the motion takes me by surprise.

“I have a lunch date with a friend.”

I look at my mother. Is that lipstick she's wearing? Also gone is the baggy sweatshirt. Instead, she wears a silky blue sweater, the one I bought her for Christmas last year. What happened when I went to bed? She's transformed herself into a younger, prettier version of my mother.

“Will you be home for dinner? We're having roast beef.” A twinkle actually forms in her eyes. Roast beef is my father's favorite meal. It has been ever since I can remember. Whenever he takes us out to dinner, he orders the roast beef, peas, and mashed potatoes and gravy. I can guess what dessert will be.

“And we're having apple pie for dessert,” she adds.

Of course.

“I'm not sure. I'll call you with an update.”

Disappointment rings her eyes, but she smiles, anyway. That's my mother, the everlasting peacekeeper. My father could rob a bank, and she would explain away his motives with the ease of a psychiatrist.

The skies make me blink from brightness when I go outside to my mother's car. She has been generous to let me use her sedan on my break. I dig through her CDs until I find the one I want and insert it into the dash. I have a short ride to River Bend, but I want to clear my mind. The scene in my dining room tells me my plan is working. My parents appear happy again. So why am I not happy?

A squirrel runs across the road. I brake instinctively, not wanting to hit it. The car skids to the left. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and take my foot off the brake. After a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I press the gas pedal, my heart throbbing in my chest along with the beat of the music. Accidents take only seconds. I know that from experience.

By the time I reach the restaurant, my shoulders have stopped aching and my breathing has slowed.

Drew is waiting by the door, wearing a forest green jacket. Funny, I expected to see him in khakis and a golf shirt. Instead, the collar of a sweater peaks out near his chin.

“Good to see you.” He draws close as I get out of the car. We haven't talked much since I began in earnest to practice for Q-School. I've been aware of his glances when I walk down the hall at school, though.

“You, too. Here, I mean. How's it feel being home?”

“Strange. I haven't been back in a while. Cold, too.” His grin lightens his eyes. Maybe it's just the sun that has decided to shine through the clouds. Either way, he looks adorable. Drew takes my hand in his. There are no other customers in the parking lot right now. It's only the two of us.

“How are you doing with your family?”

I shrug, my thoughts still focused on the way his fingers entwine mine. Deep warmth travels from my gut upward. This is not a feeling I want to have now, not with so much riding on my golf. I untangle our hands. Immediately, I see the effect my gesture brings to him. He raises his brows.

“My father moved back home.”

“That's a good sign, right?”

“If he means it, yes.” I turn toward the entrance. I would rather talk inside. I've found that our town is small enough that everyone knows your business if you are dumb enough to share it in public. Our booth will give us more privacy.

He follows me to where our waitress seats us. I order my usual. Burger and fries. Drew orders the same. As we wait, he crosses his arms on the table. I know what he wants. He wants me to pick up where we left off and spill my guts about my decision.

“Do you think you'll qualify?”

“I have to. Besides, I want to.” I sip from the water the waitress brings us. “What about you, Drew? What are your future plans? How long are you going to teach instead of doing what you really want to do?”

My question makes him sit back. Folds ripple in his forehead. I've hit a nerve. Should I even be asking him about his private life? But he started with me.

“I enjoy teaching.”

“Right.”

“Where else can I get free golf?” A smirk appears on his lips. He knows I won't stop until I get answers.

“Life is about free golf,” I say. “Nothing but.”

“What would you have me doing instead?”

“Oh, sure, put it on me. You know what you should be doing. You're the one who should be qualifying at Q-School, getting ready to go back on tour and playing like we both know you can.” How did I get this bold? I want to take back my statement, but it's too late.

He's already reacting. His cheeks color. “That's not an option.”

“Like me quitting golf isn't an option.”

We sit in our own silences, sipping our water until our meal arrives.

Drew takes a bite of his burger, swallows, and pushes it aside. “I'll make you a deal.” His face is tense, his mouth taunt. I put my fry down. Whatever he's going to say, I'm sure it will be totally out of character for him. Drew has never looked so determined in the months I've known him.

“I'm listening.”

He exhales a long breath. “You stop qualifying for Q-School, and I'll go back on tour.”

 

 

 

 

22

 

Good-byes tear me up. Today is no exception. Mom has decided to drive me to the airport with Robert while Dad stays with Grandpa. First, I say good-bye to my grandfather who is resting in his chair by the window. He's wearing his comfortable plaid shirt today tucked into a pair of tan pants. I imagine how he must have looked on the golf course years ago. The word
debonair
pops into my brain. My grandfather still slicks his head of white hair back each morning with tedious care.

I bend down in front of him. His skin sags around his chin. His attention is focused on me. I believe he is with me 100 percent this morning. “I'm headed back to Florida now, Grandpa. I'll see you at Christmas.”

His smile warms me. “Florida? I remember a few good tournaments down that way. Seems like I won a few of them, too.” He winks and catches my hand in his larger fist. “You take care, Bobbi-girl. I want you to come home to us.”

I want to come home, too. But not yet.

“I'll be back before you can blink,” I say, repeating the phrase he always said to me when I was young and not liking the idea of him crisscrossing the country.

Next, I go up to my father. He's waiting by the back door holding my suitcase. “So, I'll see you and Mom in Daytona?”

“Planning on it. Wouldn't miss seeing you make the tour.” His smile makes my stomach lurch.

I take my bag and get into the waiting car.

Robert is sitting up front so he can stretch his legs.

I don't mind. I prefer being alone right now. The bare trees pass by as we roll down the road toward the highway. Winter has never been my favorite season. When I painted, I loved to paint the vivid spring and summer scenes. Maybe I don't like winter because it was winter the first time my father left us. The day before Christmas. I didn't know or understand what he was doing then—I only remember opening presents with my mother and brother at Grandpa's house without him.

Within an hour, we reach the airport. My good-byes to Robert and my mother take place quickly. I don't like seeing their tears. I wipe my eyes and hurry to board. Thank goodness no one sits next to me. They wouldn't have found me to be good company.

I have three weeks to prepare to compete in the most strenuous contest of my life. Drew's challenge comes back to me as does Arthur's about the bookstore. If it wasn't for the look on my mother's face yesterday morning, I would jump on either. Now I no longer have a choice. I need to say good-bye to my painting career forever.

 

****

 

“Are you kidding me?” My jaw hangs at least five inches.

“Sorry, kid. But business demands it.”

The man I'm staring at is my boss—or my former boss—where I work at the theater. He's dressed in his white shirt and black pants as usual. I spot an oil stain probably dripped there from the popcorn I've seen him steal.

“But I need this job.”

“Not enough business. Try some of the other stores in the mall. They might be hiring for the season. You can turn in your uniform over there.” He points to the familiar employee lounge and edges away from me. He's never been that good of a boss, but at least he gave me hours that worked with my schedule.

What will I do now? I need practice time but also a way to make money to pay my rent and eat. I toss the jacket on the pile of dirty uniforms. Grabbing my purse, I stalk out of the theater vowing to never return.

Garland and red paper bells decorate the mall. Santa and his female photographer are busy enticing parents and their screaming kids. I shuffle past the food court, unaware of my direction. Why would they fire me over lazy Eddie who eats all the leftover tacos? I stomp the tiles a little harder. The recession has hit Florida hard. Getting another job might be near impossible. I had applied at all the retailers before getting the movie job, so I know my odds at success are low. Or zero.

I hear the voice before I see where it's coming from. “It's gorgeous. We have to buy it for the living room.” Shrill mixed with excitement. A woman wearing designer clothes clutches her husband's sleeve while pointing to the painting propped on the easel. I'm standing in front of the art store.

“It is pretty amazing, isn't it?” Her husband doesn't sound as convinced.

The amazing picture they drool over is not amazing. A river scene with trees that looks like a four-year-old child has painted them. I edge closer.

“Look at the price tag. Two hundred dollars.” The woman tips her head toward him. Her lips roll into a pout and she lets loose a long sigh. “I love it.”

“Let's see if they'll go lower.” He tugs her arm, leading her into the store where a perky saleswoman waits behind the counter. I step closer to read the artist's name. No one I recognize. But then a thought seizes me.

As the couple exits the store empty handed, I draw close, my mouth shakes but my determination drives me.

“Excuse me, but I noticed your appreciation for that painting.”

The woman, who appears to be my mother's age, stops, glancing again at the work in question. “Yes, but they won't come down in their price.”

“I don't want to seem nosy or anything, but I know an artist who could paint something better than that for much less.”

The man's eyebrows rise. He suspects me of conning them. I give them my most trusting smile. “If you'll give me your email address, I could have her send you sample pictures of her work. I know you'll be pleased.”

“She does landscapes? I want one of a river.” The woman digs into her purse for a pen. She pulls out a scrap of paper and scribbles.

“That's her specialty.” I think of all the river landscapes I've done. I'm sure I can paint from memory. Right now, I need them to agree to at least see my work. If I can sell a painting for 175 dollars, I can pay for a month's worth of groceries.

Her husband nods as she gives me the information. “I'll have her send you pictures tonight. Will that work? If you like her paintings, she'll work one up and I'll bring it to you here in two weeks.”

“That would be great. I can't wait to see what she's done. Tell her thank you from us.” They smile and move away from me. I stand with the paper in my hand, convinced I did what I had to do. The clerk in the art store glares my way so I move toward the fountain, sitting on the stone wall. My hands shake as I place the number in my purse. Did I really peddle my work in a mall?

Robert tells me I don't think through what I do. If he had been with me today, he would have stopped my little transaction, telling me I don't have time to paint. Actually, I haven't picked up a brush in months, not since I decided I should be a golfer. But if it brings in money, then my reasons for doing it are good.

On my way home I stop at an art supply store. I carefully select a canvas and brushes and paints. I spend almost what I will make, but I plan to look at this as a start. When I get home, I print out new business cards from my computer. These I will hand out to anyone I meet. But before I go to bed, I pull up pictures I've taken of my best work and email it to the couple—Mr. and Mrs. Shore.

I can hardly fall asleep. Tomorrow I may have my first commissioned work.

 

****

 

I wake early, the morning light filters through my blinds. Getting out of bed has never been my forte but today I look forward to seeing if I have a new job. I turn on my computer and wait for the screen to appear.