As they reached the practice range, she set down Ted's clubs and pulled out an iron marked with an S. He nearly tore off her hand wrenching it away from her. The men began to warm up at the practice tees, and she finally had a chance to study Spencer Skipjack, the plumbing giant. In his fifties, he had a rawboned, Johnny Cash sort of face, and a waistline that had begun to thicken but hadn't yet developed a paunch. Although he was clean-shaven, his jaw bore the shadow of a heavy beard. A straw Panama hat decked out with a snakeskin band sat on thick dark hair shot with gray. The black stone in his silver pinky ring glinted on his little finger, and an expensive chronometer encircled a hairy wrist. He had a big, booming voice and a demeanor that reflected both a powerful ego and the expectation of everyone's attention.
"I played Pebble last week with a couple of the boys from the tour," he announced as he pulled on a golf glove. "Picked up all the green fees. Played damn good, too."
"Afraid we can't compete with Pebble," Ted said. "But we'll do our best to keep you entertained."
The men began to hit their practice shots. Skipjack looked like an expert player to her, but she suspected he was out of his league competing against two golf pros and Ted, who'd won the U.S. Amateur, as she'd heard repeatedly. She sat on one of the wooden benches to watch.
"Get up," Mark hissed at her. "Caddies don't ever sit."
Of course not. That would make too much sense.
When they finally left the range, the caddies lagged behind the golfers, who were discussing their upcoming match. She pieced together enough to understand they were playing a team game called "best ball," in which Ted and Dallie would be matched up against Kenny and Spencer Skipjack. At the end of each hole, whichever player had the lowest score for that hole would win a point for his team. The team with the most points at the end won the match.
"How about a twenty-dollar Nassau to keep the game interesting?" Kenny said.
"Shit, boys," Skipjack countered, "me and my buddies play a thousand-dollar Nassau every Saturday."
"Against our religion," Dallie drawled. "We're Baptists."
Doubtful, since Ted's wedding had been at the Presbyterian church and Kenny Traveler was a Catholic.
When they reached the first tee, Ted came toward her, his hand out, his eyes venomous. "Driver."
"Since I was sixteen," she replied. "You?"
He reached past her, snatched off one of the head covers, and pulled out the longest club.
Skipjack teed up first. Mark whispered that the other players would have to give him a total of seven strokes overall to make the game fair. His shot looked impressive, but nobody said anything, so it must not have been. Kenny went next, then Ted. Even she could see the power and grace in his practice swing, but when it came time for the real thing, something went wrong. Just as he neared the point of impact, he lost his balance and sent the ball careening off to the left.
They all turned to look at her. Ted offered up his public Jesus smile, but the fires of hell burned in his eyes. "Meg, if you wouldn't mind . . ."
"What did I do?"
Mark quickly pulled her aside and explained that letting a couple of golf clubs rattle together during a player's swing was this big, whoppin' crime against humanity. Like polluting streambeds and screwing up wetlands didn't count.
After that Ted did his best to get her alone, but she managed to avoid him until the third hole when a crappy drive put him in a fairway sand trap-a bunker, they called it. The whole subservient routine of lugging his bag and being instructed to call him "sir"-which she'd so far managed to avoid-made it imperative that she strike first.
"None of this would have happened if you hadn't gotten me fired from the inn."
He had the audacity to look outraged. "I didn't get you fired. It was Larry Stellman. You woke him up from his nap two days in a row."
"That five hundred dollars you offered me is in the top pocket of your bag. I'll expect some of it back as a very generous tip."
He clenched his jaw. "Do you have any idea how important today is?"
"I was eavesdropping on your conversation last night, remember? So I know exactly what's at stake and how much you want to impress your hotshot guest today."
"And yet here you are."
"Yes, well, this is one disaster you can't blame on me. Although I can see you're going to."
"I don't know how you managed to talk your way into caddying, but if you think for one minute-"
"Listen up, Theodore." She slapped one hand on the edge of his bag. "I was coerced into this. I hate golf, and I don't have a clue what I'm doing. None whatsoever, got it? So I suggest you try really hard not to make me any more nervous than I already am." She stepped back. "Now stop talking and hit the damned ball. And this time I'd appreciate it if you hit it straight so I don't have to keep walking all over the place after you."