Fancy Pants (47 page)
"That's the stupidest—"
"But you do care, don't you? You want to win so much you can bloody
well taste it. You want your son, too, but you're holding yourself back
from him just in case Teddy won't have you—my wonderful little boy who
wears his heart on his sleeve and would give anything in the world for
a father who respected him."
Dallie's face had paled, and his skin beneath her fingers was clammy.
"I respect him," he said sharply.
"As long as I live, I'll never forget
that day he came after me because he thought I was hurting you—"
"You're a whiner, Dallie—but you do it with so much style that
everybody lets you get away with it."
She released her grip, but she
didn't let up on him. "Well, the act's wearing thin. You're getting too
old
to keep slipping by on your good looks and charm."
"What the hell do you know about it?" His voice was quiet, slightly
hoarse.
"I know everything about it because I started out with some of those
same handicaps. But I grew up,
and I kicked my bloody life in the tail
until it did what I wanted."
"Maybe it was easier for you," he retorted. "Maybe you had a few breaks
thrown your way. I was on
my own when I was fifteen. While you were
taking walks in Hyde Park with your nanny, I was dodging my old man's
fists. When I was real little, you know what he used to do to me when
he got drunk? He used to turn me upside down and hold my head
underwater in the toilet."
Her face didn't soften with even a moment's sympathy. "Tough shit."
She saw that her coldness had infuriated him, but she didn't let up.
Her pity wasn't going to help him. At some point people either had to
throw off the wounds of their childhood or go through life permanently
crippled. "If you want to play games with yourself, that's your choice,
but don't play them with me, because I'll bloody well call your bluff."
She rose from the booth and then stared down at him, her voice frigid
with scorn. "I've decided to marry you."
"Forget it," he said, cold with fury. "I don't want you. I wouldn't
take you if you were gift wrapped."
"Oh, you want me all right. And it's not just because of Teddy. You
want me so badly it scares you. But you're afraid to fight. You're
afraid to put anything on the line for fear your head's going to get
dunked in that toilet again." She leaned forward slightly, resting one
hand on the table. "I've decided to marry you, Dallie." She gave him a
long, cool look of appraisal. "I'll marry you the day you win the
United States Classic."
"That's the stupidest—"
"But you have to win it, you bastard," she hissed. "Not third place,
not second place—first place."
He gave her a scornful, shaky laugh. "You're crazy."
"I want to know what you're made of," she said contemptuously. "I want
to know if you're good enough for me— good enough for Teddy. I haven't
settled for second rate in a long time, and I'm not going to start now."
"You've got a mighty high opinion of what you're worth."
She threw her napkin straight at his chest. "You bet I do. If you want
me, you'll have to earn me. And, mister, I don't come cheap."
"Francie—"
"You lay that first-place trophy at my feet, you bloody son of a bitch,
or don't bother to come near me again!"
Grabbing her purse, she swept past the startled diners at the front
tables and dashed out the door. The night had grown cold, but her anger
burned so hot that she didn't feel the chill. Stalking down the
sidewalk, she was propelled by fury, by hurt, and by fear. Her eyes
stung and she couldn't blink them rapidly enough to hold off the tears.
Two glistening drops beaded on the waterproof mascara that
coated her bottom lashes. How could she have fallen in love with him?
How could she have let such an absurd thing happen? Her teeth began to
chatter. For almost eleven years, she had felt nothing more than strong
affection for a handful of men, shadows of love that faded nearly as
quickly as they appeared. But now, just when her life was coming
together, she had once again let a second-rate golf pro break her heart.
Francesca passed through the next week with the feeling that something
bright and wonderful had slipped from her life forever. What had she
done? Why had she challenged him so cruelly? Wasn't half a pie better
than none? But she knew she couldn't live with half of anything, and
she didn't want Teddy to live that way either. Dallie had to start
taking risks, or he would be useless to them both—a will-o'-the-wisp
neither of them could ever count on. With every breath she took, she
mourned the loss of her lover, the loss of love itself.
he left for school, she tried to find consolation in the thought that
Dallie was as miserable as she. But she had trouble believing that
anyone who kept his emotions so carefully protected could have feelings
that ran all that deep.
Teddy drank his juice and then stuffed his spelling book into his
backpack. "I forgot to tell you. Holly Grace called last night and told
me to tell you that Dallie's playing in the U.S. Classic tomorrow."
Francesca's head shot up from the glass of juice she had started to
pour for herself. "Are you sure?"
"That's what she said. I don't see what the big deal is, though. He'll
only blow it. And, Mom, if you
get a letter from Miss Pearson, don't
pay any attention."
The pitcher of orange juice remained suspended in midair over
Francesca's glass. She shut her eyes
for a moment, willing her mind
away from Dallie Beaudine so she could concentrate on what Teddy
was
trying to tell her. "What kind of letter?"
Teddy fastened the zipper on his backpack, working with single-minded
concentration so he wouldn't have to look up at her. "You might get a
letter saying I'm not working up to my potential—"
"Teddy!"
"—but don't worry about it. My social studies project is due next week,
and I've got something so awesome planned that Miss Pearson's going to
give me about a million A-pluses and beg me to stay
in the class. Gerry
said—"
"Oh, Teddy. We have to talk about this."
He grabbed his backpack. "I've got to go or I'll be late."
Before she could stop him, he had raced out of the kitchen and she
heard the slam of the front door.
She wanted to climb back into bed and
pull the covers over her head so she could think, but she had a meeting
scheduled in an hour. She couldn't do anything about Teddy at the
moment, but if she hurried she would have time for a quick stop at the
studio where "China Colt" was being shot to make certain Teddy had
understood Holly Grace's message correctly. Was Dallie really playing
in the Classic? Had
her words actually touched him?
Holly Grace had already filmed the first scene of the day when
Francesca got there. In addition to a carefully positioned rip on the
front of her dress that revealed the top of her left breast, she had a
fake bruise on her forehead. "Rough day?" Francesca said, coming toward
her.
Holly Grace looked up from the script she was studying. "I got attacked
by this demented hooker who turns out to be a transvestite psychopath.
They're doing this great Bonnie and Clyde slow-motion shot
at the end
where I plug this guy with two bullets right through his silicone
implants."
Francesca barely heard her. "Holly Grace, is it true that Dallie's
playing in the Classic?"
"He told me he was, and I'm not too happy with you right now." She
tossed her script down on the
chair. "Dallie didn't give me any
details, but I gather that you handed him his walking papers."
"You might say that," Francesca replied cautiously.
A look of disapproval crossed Holly Grace's face. "Your timing stinks,
you know that? Would it have been too much for you to wait until after
the Classic before you did your number on him? If you'd set your mind
to it, I don't think you could have found a better way to screw him up."
Francesca began to explain, but then, with a sense of shock, she
realized that she understood Dallie
better than Holly Grace did. The idea was so startling, so new to her,
that she
could barely take it in. She made a few noncommittal comments, knowing
that if she tried to explain herself, Holly Grace would never
understand. Then she made a production out of looking at her watch and
rushing off.
As she left the studio, her thoughts were in a turmoil. Holly Grace was
Dallie's best friend, his first love, his soul mate, but the two of
them were so much alike that they had become blind to each other's
faults. Whenever Dallie lost a tournament, Holly Grace made excuses for
him, sympathized with him, and in general treated him like a child. As
well as Holly Grace knew him, she didn't understand how his fear of
failure was screwing up his golf. And if she didn't understand that,
she would never understand how that same fear was ruining his life.
in prestige until it was now considered the "fifth major"—right along
with the Masters, the British Open, the PGA, and the U.S. Open. The
course where the Classic was held had become legendary, a place to be
mentioned in the
same breath as Augusta, Cypress Point, and Merion.
Golfers called it the Old Testament and for good reason. The course was
one of the most beautiful in the South, lush with pines and ancient
magnolias. Beards of Spanish moss draped the oaks that served as a
backdrop to the small, perfectly manicured greens, and oyster-white
sand, soft as powder, filled the bunkers. When the day was still and
the sun warm, the fairways glistened with light so pure it seemed
heavenly. But the natural beauty of the course was part of its
treachery. While it warmed the heart, it could also lull the senses, so
that the bedazzled player didn't realize until a fraction of a second
too late that the Old Testament forgave no sins.
Golfers snarled at it and cursed it and swore they would never play it
again, but the best of them always came back, because those heroic
eighteen holes provided something that life itself could never deliver.
They provided perfect justice. The good shot was always rewarded, the
bad met with swift, terrible punishment. Those eighteen holes provided
no second chance, no time for jury-rigging, no opportunity to
plea-bargain. The Old Testament vanquished the weak,
while on the strong it bestowed glory and honor forever. Or at least
until the next day.
Dallie hated the Classic. Before he'd given up drinking and his game
had improved, he hadn't always qualified for it. The last few years,
however, he'd played well enough to find himself on the roster. Most of
the time he wished he'd stayed home. The Old Testament was a golf
course that demanded perfection, and Dallie damned well knew he was too
imperfect to live up to that kind of expectation. He told himself that
the Classic was a tournament like any other, but when this course
defeated him, it seemed to shrink his very soul.
Every part of him wished that Francesca had chosen another tournament
when she'd issued her challenge. Not that he was taking her seriously.
No way. As far as he was concerned, she had kissed him good-bye when
she'd thrown that little tantrum. Still, someone else was in the
announcers' booth when Dallie teed up at the first hole, taking a few
seconds to shoot a grin at a pretty little blonde who was smiling at
him from the front row of the gallery. He'd told the network honchos
they were going to have to wait a little bit longer for him and handed
back their contract unsigned. He just hadn't been able to sit this one
out. Not this year. Not after what Francesca had said to him.
The grip on his driver felt good in his hand as he addressed the ball,
solid and comforting. He felt loose. He felt fine. And he was damned
well going to show Francesca that she didn't know what she was talking
about. He hit a big booming drive that shot out into the
sky—rocket-driven, a NASA special. The gallery applauded. The ball sped
through space on its way to eternity. And then, at the very last
instant before it descended, it drifted ever so slightly . . . just
enough so that it missed the edge of the fairway and landed in a clump
of magnolias.
Francesca bypassed her secretary and dialed her contact in the sports
department directly, making her fourth call to him that afternoon.
"How's he doing now?" she asked when the male voice answered.
"Sorry, Francesca, but he lost another shot on the seventeenth hole,
which puts him at three over par.
It's only the first
round, so—assuming he survives the cut—he has three more rounds to go,
but this isn't the best way to start a tournament." She pressed her
eyes shut as he continued. "Of course, this isn't his kind of
tournament anyway, you know that. The Classic is high pressure, high
voltage. I remember when Jack Nicklaus owned the place." She barely
listened as he went on, reminiscing about his favorite game. "Nicklaus
is the only golfer in history who could regularly bring the Old
Testament to its knees. Year
after year, all through the seventies and
even into the early eighties, he'd come into the Classic and blow
everybody away, walking those fairways like he owned them, making those
tiny little greens beg for mercy with those superhuman putts of his..."
By the end of the day, Dallie was four over par. Francesca felt
heartsick. Why had she done this to
him? Why had she issued such a
ridiculous challenge? At home that night, she tried to read, but
nothing held her attention. She started to clean out the hall closet,
but she couldn't concentrate. At ten o'clock
that night, she began
phoning the airlines trying to find a late flight. Then she gently
awakened Teddy
and told him the two of them were taking a trip.
Holly Grace banged on the door of Francesca's motel room early the next
morning. Teddy had just gotten up, but since dawn Francesca had been
pacing the perimeters of the shabby little room that was the best
accommodation she could find in a town bursting at the seams with
golfers and their fans. She nearly threw herself into Holly Grace's
arms. "Thank God you're here! I was afraid something had happened."
Holly Grace deposited her suitcase just inside the door and sagged
wearily into the nearest chair. "I don't know why I let you talk me
into this. We didn't finish shooting until nearly midnight, and I had
to take a six a.m. flight. I barely got an hour's sleep on the plane
coming down here."
"I'm sorry, Holly Grace. I know this is an absolutely miserable thing
to do to you. If I didn't think it was so important, I'd never have
asked." She hoisted Holly Grace's suitcase to the foot of the bed and
opened the latches.
"While you're taking a shower, I'll get some fresh clothes out and
Teddy can pick up some breakfast for you at the coffee shop. I know
it's dreadful of me to rush you like this, but Dallie tees off in an
hour. I've got the passes ready. Just make sure he sees both of you
right away."
"I don't understand why you can't take Teddy to watch him play," Holly
Grace complained. "It's ridiculous to drag me all the way down here
just to escort your son to a golf tournament."
Francesca pulled Holly Grace to her feet and then pushed her toward the
bathroom. "I need some blind faith from you right now. Please!"
"But you do care, don't you? You want to win so much you can bloody
well taste it. You want your son, too, but you're holding yourself back
from him just in case Teddy won't have you—my wonderful little boy who
wears his heart on his sleeve and would give anything in the world for
a father who respected him."
Dallie's face had paled, and his skin beneath her fingers was clammy.
"I respect him," he said sharply.
"As long as I live, I'll never forget
that day he came after me because he thought I was hurting you—"
"You're a whiner, Dallie—but you do it with so much style that
everybody lets you get away with it."
She released her grip, but she
didn't let up on him. "Well, the act's wearing thin. You're getting too
old
to keep slipping by on your good looks and charm."
"What the hell do you know about it?" His voice was quiet, slightly
hoarse.
"I know everything about it because I started out with some of those
same handicaps. But I grew up,
and I kicked my bloody life in the tail
until it did what I wanted."
"Maybe it was easier for you," he retorted. "Maybe you had a few breaks
thrown your way. I was on
my own when I was fifteen. While you were
taking walks in Hyde Park with your nanny, I was dodging my old man's
fists. When I was real little, you know what he used to do to me when
he got drunk? He used to turn me upside down and hold my head
underwater in the toilet."
Her face didn't soften with even a moment's sympathy. "Tough shit."
She saw that her coldness had infuriated him, but she didn't let up.
Her pity wasn't going to help him. At some point people either had to
throw off the wounds of their childhood or go through life permanently
crippled. "If you want to play games with yourself, that's your choice,
but don't play them with me, because I'll bloody well call your bluff."
She rose from the booth and then stared down at him, her voice frigid
with scorn. "I've decided to marry you."
"Forget it," he said, cold with fury. "I don't want you. I wouldn't
take you if you were gift wrapped."
"Oh, you want me all right. And it's not just because of Teddy. You
want me so badly it scares you. But you're afraid to fight. You're
afraid to put anything on the line for fear your head's going to get
dunked in that toilet again." She leaned forward slightly, resting one
hand on the table. "I've decided to marry you, Dallie." She gave him a
long, cool look of appraisal. "I'll marry you the day you win the
United States Classic."
"That's the stupidest—"
"But you have to win it, you bastard," she hissed. "Not third place,
not second place—first place."
He gave her a scornful, shaky laugh. "You're crazy."
"I want to know what you're made of," she said contemptuously. "I want
to know if you're good enough for me— good enough for Teddy. I haven't
settled for second rate in a long time, and I'm not going to start now."
"You've got a mighty high opinion of what you're worth."
She threw her napkin straight at his chest. "You bet I do. If you want
me, you'll have to earn me. And, mister, I don't come cheap."
"Francie—"
"You lay that first-place trophy at my feet, you bloody son of a bitch,
or don't bother to come near me again!"
Grabbing her purse, she swept past the startled diners at the front
tables and dashed out the door. The night had grown cold, but her anger
burned so hot that she didn't feel the chill. Stalking down the
sidewalk, she was propelled by fury, by hurt, and by fear. Her eyes
stung and she couldn't blink them rapidly enough to hold off the tears.
Two glistening drops beaded on the waterproof mascara that
coated her bottom lashes. How could she have fallen in love with him?
How could she have let such an absurd thing happen? Her teeth began to
chatter. For almost eleven years, she had felt nothing more than strong
affection for a handful of men, shadows of love that faded nearly as
quickly as they appeared. But now, just when her life was coming
together, she had once again let a second-rate golf pro break her heart.
Francesca passed through the next week with the feeling that something
bright and wonderful had slipped from her life forever. What had she
done? Why had she challenged him so cruelly? Wasn't half a pie better
than none? But she knew she couldn't live with half of anything, and
she didn't want Teddy to live that way either. Dallie had to start
taking risks, or he would be useless to them both—a will-o'-the-wisp
neither of them could ever count on. With every breath she took, she
mourned the loss of her lover, the loss of love itself.
* * *
The following Monday as she poured Teddy a glass of orange juice beforehe left for school, she tried to find consolation in the thought that
Dallie was as miserable as she. But she had trouble believing that
anyone who kept his emotions so carefully protected could have feelings
that ran all that deep.
Teddy drank his juice and then stuffed his spelling book into his
backpack. "I forgot to tell you. Holly Grace called last night and told
me to tell you that Dallie's playing in the U.S. Classic tomorrow."
Francesca's head shot up from the glass of juice she had started to
pour for herself. "Are you sure?"
"That's what she said. I don't see what the big deal is, though. He'll
only blow it. And, Mom, if you
get a letter from Miss Pearson, don't
pay any attention."
The pitcher of orange juice remained suspended in midair over
Francesca's glass. She shut her eyes
for a moment, willing her mind
away from Dallie Beaudine so she could concentrate on what Teddy
was
trying to tell her. "What kind of letter?"
Teddy fastened the zipper on his backpack, working with single-minded
concentration so he wouldn't have to look up at her. "You might get a
letter saying I'm not working up to my potential—"
"Teddy!"
"—but don't worry about it. My social studies project is due next week,
and I've got something so awesome planned that Miss Pearson's going to
give me about a million A-pluses and beg me to stay
in the class. Gerry
said—"
"Oh, Teddy. We have to talk about this."
He grabbed his backpack. "I've got to go or I'll be late."
Before she could stop him, he had raced out of the kitchen and she
heard the slam of the front door.
She wanted to climb back into bed and
pull the covers over her head so she could think, but she had a meeting
scheduled in an hour. She couldn't do anything about Teddy at the
moment, but if she hurried she would have time for a quick stop at the
studio where "China Colt" was being shot to make certain Teddy had
understood Holly Grace's message correctly. Was Dallie really playing
in the Classic? Had
her words actually touched him?
Holly Grace had already filmed the first scene of the day when
Francesca got there. In addition to a carefully positioned rip on the
front of her dress that revealed the top of her left breast, she had a
fake bruise on her forehead. "Rough day?" Francesca said, coming toward
her.
Holly Grace looked up from the script she was studying. "I got attacked
by this demented hooker who turns out to be a transvestite psychopath.
They're doing this great Bonnie and Clyde slow-motion shot
at the end
where I plug this guy with two bullets right through his silicone
implants."
Francesca barely heard her. "Holly Grace, is it true that Dallie's
playing in the Classic?"
"He told me he was, and I'm not too happy with you right now." She
tossed her script down on the
chair. "Dallie didn't give me any
details, but I gather that you handed him his walking papers."
"You might say that," Francesca replied cautiously.
A look of disapproval crossed Holly Grace's face. "Your timing stinks,
you know that? Would it have been too much for you to wait until after
the Classic before you did your number on him? If you'd set your mind
to it, I don't think you could have found a better way to screw him up."
Francesca began to explain, but then, with a sense of shock, she
realized that she understood Dallie
better than Holly Grace did. The idea was so startling, so new to her,
that she
could barely take it in. She made a few noncommittal comments, knowing
that if she tried to explain herself, Holly Grace would never
understand. Then she made a production out of looking at her watch and
rushing off.
As she left the studio, her thoughts were in a turmoil. Holly Grace was
Dallie's best friend, his first love, his soul mate, but the two of
them were so much alike that they had become blind to each other's
faults. Whenever Dallie lost a tournament, Holly Grace made excuses for
him, sympathized with him, and in general treated him like a child. As
well as Holly Grace knew him, she didn't understand how his fear of
failure was screwing up his golf. And if she didn't understand that,
she would never understand how that same fear was ruining his life.
Chapter
32
Once it was first played in 1935, the United States Classic had grown32
in prestige until it was now considered the "fifth major"—right along
with the Masters, the British Open, the PGA, and the U.S. Open. The
course where the Classic was held had become legendary, a place to be
mentioned in the
same breath as Augusta, Cypress Point, and Merion.
Golfers called it the Old Testament and for good reason. The course was
one of the most beautiful in the South, lush with pines and ancient
magnolias. Beards of Spanish moss draped the oaks that served as a
backdrop to the small, perfectly manicured greens, and oyster-white
sand, soft as powder, filled the bunkers. When the day was still and
the sun warm, the fairways glistened with light so pure it seemed
heavenly. But the natural beauty of the course was part of its
treachery. While it warmed the heart, it could also lull the senses, so
that the bedazzled player didn't realize until a fraction of a second
too late that the Old Testament forgave no sins.
Golfers snarled at it and cursed it and swore they would never play it
again, but the best of them always came back, because those heroic
eighteen holes provided something that life itself could never deliver.
They provided perfect justice. The good shot was always rewarded, the
bad met with swift, terrible punishment. Those eighteen holes provided
no second chance, no time for jury-rigging, no opportunity to
plea-bargain. The Old Testament vanquished the weak,
while on the strong it bestowed glory and honor forever. Or at least
until the next day.
Dallie hated the Classic. Before he'd given up drinking and his game
had improved, he hadn't always qualified for it. The last few years,
however, he'd played well enough to find himself on the roster. Most of
the time he wished he'd stayed home. The Old Testament was a golf
course that demanded perfection, and Dallie damned well knew he was too
imperfect to live up to that kind of expectation. He told himself that
the Classic was a tournament like any other, but when this course
defeated him, it seemed to shrink his very soul.
Every part of him wished that Francesca had chosen another tournament
when she'd issued her challenge. Not that he was taking her seriously.
No way. As far as he was concerned, she had kissed him good-bye when
she'd thrown that little tantrum. Still, someone else was in the
announcers' booth when Dallie teed up at the first hole, taking a few
seconds to shoot a grin at a pretty little blonde who was smiling at
him from the front row of the gallery. He'd told the network honchos
they were going to have to wait a little bit longer for him and handed
back their contract unsigned. He just hadn't been able to sit this one
out. Not this year. Not after what Francesca had said to him.
The grip on his driver felt good in his hand as he addressed the ball,
solid and comforting. He felt loose. He felt fine. And he was damned
well going to show Francesca that she didn't know what she was talking
about. He hit a big booming drive that shot out into the
sky—rocket-driven, a NASA special. The gallery applauded. The ball sped
through space on its way to eternity. And then, at the very last
instant before it descended, it drifted ever so slightly . . . just
enough so that it missed the edge of the fairway and landed in a clump
of magnolias.
Francesca bypassed her secretary and dialed her contact in the sports
department directly, making her fourth call to him that afternoon.
"How's he doing now?" she asked when the male voice answered.
"Sorry, Francesca, but he lost another shot on the seventeenth hole,
which puts him at three over par.
It's only the first
round, so—assuming he survives the cut—he has three more rounds to go,
but this isn't the best way to start a tournament." She pressed her
eyes shut as he continued. "Of course, this isn't his kind of
tournament anyway, you know that. The Classic is high pressure, high
voltage. I remember when Jack Nicklaus owned the place." She barely
listened as he went on, reminiscing about his favorite game. "Nicklaus
is the only golfer in history who could regularly bring the Old
Testament to its knees. Year
after year, all through the seventies and
even into the early eighties, he'd come into the Classic and blow
everybody away, walking those fairways like he owned them, making those
tiny little greens beg for mercy with those superhuman putts of his..."
By the end of the day, Dallie was four over par. Francesca felt
heartsick. Why had she done this to
him? Why had she issued such a
ridiculous challenge? At home that night, she tried to read, but
nothing held her attention. She started to clean out the hall closet,
but she couldn't concentrate. At ten o'clock
that night, she began
phoning the airlines trying to find a late flight. Then she gently
awakened Teddy
and told him the two of them were taking a trip.
Holly Grace banged on the door of Francesca's motel room early the next
morning. Teddy had just gotten up, but since dawn Francesca had been
pacing the perimeters of the shabby little room that was the best
accommodation she could find in a town bursting at the seams with
golfers and their fans. She nearly threw herself into Holly Grace's
arms. "Thank God you're here! I was afraid something had happened."
Holly Grace deposited her suitcase just inside the door and sagged
wearily into the nearest chair. "I don't know why I let you talk me
into this. We didn't finish shooting until nearly midnight, and I had
to take a six a.m. flight. I barely got an hour's sleep on the plane
coming down here."
"I'm sorry, Holly Grace. I know this is an absolutely miserable thing
to do to you. If I didn't think it was so important, I'd never have
asked." She hoisted Holly Grace's suitcase to the foot of the bed and
opened the latches.
"While you're taking a shower, I'll get some fresh clothes out and
Teddy can pick up some breakfast for you at the coffee shop. I know
it's dreadful of me to rush you like this, but Dallie tees off in an
hour. I've got the passes ready. Just make sure he sees both of you
right away."
"I don't understand why you can't take Teddy to watch him play," Holly
Grace complained. "It's ridiculous to drag me all the way down here
just to escort your son to a golf tournament."
Francesca pulled Holly Grace to her feet and then pushed her toward the
bathroom. "I need some blind faith from you right now. Please!"
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