She bit back the urge to tell him she wasn’t much of an employee. “It’s perfect for me.” Desperation made it alarmingly easy to set aside her beliefs about golf courses destroying the environment.
As he led her outside to the snack shop to meet her supervisor, she could barely comprehend that she finally had a job. “Exclusive courses don’t have drink carts,” he sniffed. “But the members here can’t seem to wait for the turn to grab their next beer.”
Meg had grown up around horses, and she had no idea what “the turn” was. She didn’t care. She had a job.
When she got home later that afternoon, she parked behind an old storage shed she’d discovered in the undergrowth beyond the stone fence that surrounded the graveyard. It had long ago lost its roof, and vines, prickly pear, and dried grasses grew around its collapsing walls. She blew her curls off her sweaty forehead as she hauled her suitcase out of the trunk. At least she’d been able to hide her small stash of groceries behind some abandoned kitchen appliances, but even so, the constant packing and unpacking were wearing on her. As she lugged her possessions through the graveyard, she dreamed of air-conditioning and a place to stay where she wouldn’t have to erase her presence every morning.
It was nearly July, and the church felt hotter than ever. Dust motes flew as she turned on the overhead fans. They did nothing more than stir the air, but she couldn’t risk opening the windows, just as she tried to avoid turning the lights on after dark. It left her with nothing to do other than go to bed around the same time she used to head out for the evening.
She peeled down to her tank and underpants, slipped into her flip-flops, and let herself out the back door. As she wove through the graveyard, she glanced at the names on the tombstones. dietzel. meusebach. ernst. The hardships she faced were nothing compared with what those good Germans must have endured when they left the familiar behind to make a home in this hostile country.
A thicket of trees lay beyond the graveyard. On the other side, a wide creek fed by the Pedernales River formed a secluded swimming hole she’d discovered not long after she’d moved into the church. The clear water was deep at the center, and she’d started coming here every afternoon to cool off. As she dove in, she wrestled with the unhappy knowledge that Ted Beaudine’s fan club would try to get her fired as soon as they spotted her. She had to make sure she didn’t give them a reason beyond basic hatred. What did it say about her life that her highest aspiration was not to screw up driving a drink cart?
That night the choir loft was especially hot, and she tossed on the lumpy futon. She had to be at the country club early, and she tried to will herself to fall asleep, but just as she finally drifted off, a noise jarred her awake. It took a few seconds to identify the sound of the doors below opening.
She shot up in bed as the lights came on. Her travel alarm read midnight, and her heart pounded. She’d been prepared for Ted to show up at the church during the day while she was gone, but she’d never expected a nighttime visit. She tried to remember if she’d left anything out in the main room. She eased off the bed and sneaked a peek over the choir loft railing.
A man who was not Ted Beaudine stood in the middle of the old sanctuary. Although they were about the same height, his hair was darker, almost blue-black, and he was a few pounds heavier. It was Kenny Traveler, golf legend and Ted Beaudine’s best man. She’d met him and his British wife, Emma, at the rehearsal dinner.
Her heart kicked up another notch as she heard the crunch of a second set of tires. She lifted her head a little higher but couldn’t see any signs of abandoned clothes or shoes. “Somebody left the door unlocked,” Kenny said a few moments later as the person entered.
“Lucy must have forgotten to close up the last time she was here,” an unpleasantly familiar male voice replied. Barely a month had passed since his aborted wedding ceremony, but he uttered Lucy’s name impersonally.
She inched up her head again. Ted had wandered into the center of the sanctuary and stood before the place where the altar had once been. He wore jeans and a T-shirt instead of a robe and sandals, but she still half expected him to raise his arms and start addressing the Almighty.
Kenny was in his early forties, tall, well built, as exceptionally good-looking in his way as Ted. Wynette definitely had more than its fair share of male stunners. Kenny took one of the beers Ted handed him and carried it over to the far side of the room, where he sat against the wall between the second and third windows. “What does it say about this town that we have to sneak away to have a private conversation?” he said as he popped the top.
“It says more about your nosy wife than about the town.” Ted sat next to him with his own beer.
“Lady Emma does like to know what’s going on.” The way Kenny caressed his wife’s name spoke volumes about his feelings for her. “She’s been on my ass ever since the wedding to spend more quality time with you. Thinks you need the solace of male friends and all that bullshit.”
“That’s Lady Emma for you.” Ted sipped his beer. “Did you ask her what she meant by quality time?”
“Afraid to hear her answer.”
“No question she’s real big on book clubs these days.”
“You should never have appointed her the town’s cultural director. You know how seriously she takes things like that.”
“You need to get her pregnant again. She doesn’t have as much energy when she’s pregnant.”
“Three kids is enough. Especially our kids.” Once again, his pride shone through his words.
The men drank in silence for a while. Meg allowed herself a flicker of hope. As long as they didn’t wander into the back where her clothes were scattered, this could still turn out all right for her.
“You think he’ll buy the land this time?” Kenny said.
“Hard to tell. Spencer Skipjack’s unpredictable. Six weeks ago he told us he’d decided on San Antone for sure, but now here he is again.”
Meg had overheard enough conversations to know Spencer Skipjack was the owner of Viceroy Industries, the giant plumbing company, and the man they were all counting on to build some kind of local upscale golf resort and condo complex that would attract both tourists and retirees and rescue the town from its economic doldrums. Apparently Wynette’s only decent-size industry was an electronics company partially owned by Kenny’s father, Warren Traveler. But one company wasn’t enough to sustain the local economy, and the town was in bad need of jobs along with a fresh source of revenue.
“We have to show Spence the time of his life tomorrow,” Ted said. “Let him see what his future’ll be like if he chooses Wynette. I’ll wait until dinner to get down to business—lay out the tax incentives, remind him of the bargain he’ll be getting on that land. You know the drill.”
“If only we had enough acreage at Windmill Creek to bulldoze the place and put the resort there.” The way Kenny said it suggested this was something they’d frequently discussed.
“It would be a lot cheaper to build, that’s for sure.” Ted set his beer can aside with a thud. “Torie wanted to play with us tomorrow, so I told her if I saw her anywhere near the club, I’d have her arrested.”
“That won’t stop her,” Kenny said, “and having my sister show up is the last thing we need. Spence knows he can’t outplay us, but he’d hate getting beat by a woman, and Torie’s short game is practically as good as mine.”
“Dex is going to tell Shelby she has to keep Torie away.”
Meg wondered if Dex was short for Dexter, the name that Ted’s love nest at the inn had been registered under.
Ted leaned against the wall. “As soon as I got wind of Torie’s plan to fill out our foursome, I made Dad fly back from New York.”
“That’ll definitely pump up Spence’s ego. Playing with the great Dallas Beaudine.” Meg detected a trace of petulance in Kenny’s tone, and apparently Ted did, too.
“Stop acting like a girl. You’re almost as famous as Dad.” Ted’s smile faded, and he dropped hi
s hands between his bent knees. “If we don’t pull this off, the town’s going to suffer in more ways than I want to think about.”
“It’s time you let people know exactly how serious the situation is.”
“They already do. But for now, I don’t want anybody saying it out loud.”
Another silence fell as the men finished their beers. Finally, Kenny stood to leave. “This isn’t your fault, Ted. Things were already in the crapper before you let yourself get elected mayor.”
“I know that.”
“You’re not a miracle worker. All you can do is give it your best effort.”
“You’ve been married to Lady Emma too long,” Ted grumbled. “You sound just like her. Next thing, you’ll be inviting me to join your damn book club.”
The men kept on like that, jabbing at each other as they made their way outside. Their voices faded. A car engine roared to life. Meg sagged back on her heels and let herself breathe.
And then she realized the lights were still on.
The door opened again, and a single set of footsteps echoed on the pine floors. She peered down. Ted stood in the middle of the room, his thumbs tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. He gazed toward the place where the altar had been, but this time his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, offering her a rare glimpse of the unguarded man beneath the self-possessed exterior.
The moment passed quickly. He moved toward the door that led to the kitchen. Her stomach tightened with dread. A moment later, she heard a very loud, very angry curse.
She ducked her head and buried her face in her hands. The angry thud of feet echoed through the church. Maybe, if she stayed very quiet . . .
“Meg!”
Chapter Seven
Meg dashed toward the futon. “I’m trying to sleep up here,” she shouted, girding herself for battle. “Do you mind?”
Ted thundered up the steps to the loft, the floor trembling under his feet. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She sat on the edge of the futon and tried to look as though she’d just awakened. “Obviously, not sleeping. What’s up with you, anyway? Barging in here in the middle of the night . . . And you shouldn’t curse in church.”
“How long have you been staying here?”
She stretched and yawned, trying to pull off her cool act. It would have been easier to do if she were wearing something more impressive than pirate-skull panties and the happy printing company T-shirt left behind by one of the guests. “Do you have to yell so loud?” she said. “You’re disturbing the neighbors. And they’re dead.”
“How long?”
“I’m not sure. Some of those headstones date all the way back to the 1840s.”
“I’m talking about you.”
“Oh. I’ve been here for a while. Where did you think I’d been staying?”
“I didn’t think about it at all. And you know why? Because I didn’t give a damn. I want you out of here.”
“I believe you, but this is Lucy’s church, and she told me I could stay as long as I want.” At least she would have if Meg had ever asked her.
“Wrong. This is my church, and you’re leaving here first thing tomorrow and not coming back.”
“Hold on. You gave this church to Lucy.”
“A wedding present. No wedding. No present.”
“I don’t think that will hold up in a court of law.”
“There wasn’t a legal contract!”
“You’re either a person who stands by his word or you’re not. Frankly, I’m beginning to think not.”
His eyebrows slammed together. “It’s my church, and you’re trespassing.”
“You see it your way. I see it mine. This is America. We’re entitled to our opinions.”
“Wrong. This is Texas. And my opinion is the only one that counts.”
A lot truer than she cared to acknowledge. “Lucy wants me to stay here, so I’m staying.” She absolutely would want Meg to stay here if she knew about it.
He planted a hand on the loft railing. “At first it was fun torturing you, but the game’s gotten old.” He dipped into his pocket and withdrew a money clip. “I want you out of town tomorrow. This is going to speed you on your way.”
He removed the bills, stuck the empty clip back in his pocket, and fanned the money in his fingers so she could count it. Five one-hundred-dollar bills. She swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t carry so much cash.”
“Normally I don’t, but a local property owner dropped by City Hall after the bank closed and paid the balance on an old tax bill. Aren’t you glad I couldn’t leave all that money lying around?” He dropped the bills on the futon. “Once you get back in Daddy’s good graces, have him write me a check.” He turned toward the stairs.
She couldn’t let him have the last word. “That was an interesting scene I walked in on Saturday at the inn. Were you screwing around on Lucy through all of your engagement or only part of it?”
He turned back and let his eyes slip over her, deliberately lingering on the happy printing company logo across her breasts. “I’ve always screwed around on Lucy. But don’t worry. She never suspected a thing.”
He disappeared down the stairs. A few moments later, the church went dark and the front door snapped closed behind him.
She drove bleary-eyed to her job the next morning, the money burning a radioactive hole in the pocket of her revolting new khaki Bermuda shorts. With Ted’s five hundred dollars, she could finally get back to L.A. where she could hole up in a cheap motel while she landed a job. Once her parents saw that she was capable of working hard at something, surely they’d relent and help her get a genuine fresh start.
But no. Instead of making a run for the city limits with Ted’s money, she was sticking around to begin a dead-end job as a country-club drink-cart girl.
At least the uniform wasn’t as bad as her polyester maid’s dress, although it ran a close second. At the end of her interview, the assistant manager had handed over a preppy yellow polo shirt bearing the country-club logo in hunter green. She’d been forced to use her precious tip money to buy her own regulation-length khaki shorts as well as a pair of cheap white sneakers and some odious pom-pom sneaker socks she couldn’t bear looking at.
As she turned into the club’s service drive, she was furious with herself for being too stubborn to grab Ted’s money and run. If the cash had come from anyone else, she might have, but she couldn’t tolerate taking a penny from him. Her decision was all the more lamebrained because she knew he’d do his best to get her fired as soon as he discovered she was working at the club. She could no longer pretend, even to herself, that she knew what she was doing.
The employee parking lot was emptier than she’d expected at eight o’clock. As she headed into the club through the service entrance, she reminded herself she had to keep Ted and his cronies from spotting her. She made her way to the assistant manager’s office, but it was locked and the club’s main floor deserted. She went back outside. A few golfers were on the course, but the only employee in sight was a worker watering the roses. When she asked where everyone was, he replied in Spanish, something about people being sick. He pointed her toward a door on the club’s lower level.
The pro shop was decorated like an old English pub with dark wood, brass fixtures, and a low-pile navy-and-green-plaid carpet. Pyramids of golf clubs stood guard between racks of neatly organized golf clothes, shoes, and visors bearing the club logo. The shop was empty except for a clean-cut guy behind the counter who was frantically punching at his cell. As she came closer, she read his name tag. mark. He wasn’t quite her height, in his mid- to late twenties, with a slight build, neatly cut light brown hair, and good teeth—a former frat boy who, unlike her, was at home in a polo shirt emblazoned with a country-club logo.
As she introduced herself, he looked up from his cell. “You picked a heck of a day to start work here,” he said. “Tell me you’ve caddied before, or at least play the game.”
“No. I
’m the new cart girl.”
“Yeah, I understand. But you’ve caddied, right?”
“I’ve seen Caddy Shack. Does that count?”
He didn’t possess a great sense of humor. “Look, I don’t have time to screw around. A very important foursome is going to be here any minute.” After last night’s conversation, she didn’t need to think hard to identify the members of that important foursome. “I’ve just found out that all but one of our caddies is laid up with food poisoning, along with most of the staff. The kitchen put out some bad coleslaw yesterday for the employee lunch, and believe me, somebody’s going to lose a job over that.”
She didn’t like the direction of this conversation. Didn’t like it at all.
“I’m going to caddy for our VIP guest,” he said, coming out from behind the counter. “Lenny—he’s one of our regular loopers—hates coleslaw, and he’s on his way in now. Skeet’s caddying for Dallie, as usual, so that’s a big break. But I’m still short one caddy, and there’s no time left to find anybody.”
She swallowed. “That nice man watering the roses by the flagpole . . .”
“Doesn’t speak English.” He began steering her toward a door in the rear of the pro shop.
“Surely there’s somebody else on the staff who didn’t eat the coleslaw.”
“Yeah, our bartender, who has a broken ankle, and Jenny in billing, who’s eighty years old.” As he opened the door and gestured her through it, she felt him assessing her. “You don’t look like you’ll have any trouble carrying a bag for eighteen holes.”
“But I’ve never played golf, and I don’t know anything about it. I don’t even respect the game. All those trees chopped down and pesticides giving people cancer. It’ll be a disaster.” More than he could imagine. Only minutes earlier, she’d been contemplating how she’d stay out of Ted Beaudine’s sight. And now this.
“I’ll talk you through it. You do well, and you’ll earn a lot more than you can driving the drink cart. The fee for a beginning caddy is twenty-five dollars, but all these men are big tippers. You’ll get at least forty more.” He held the door open for her. “This is the caddy room.”