Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(158)

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!”

Forty-five minutes later, Francesca stood well back from the door as she let Holly Grace and Teddy out, making certain none of the people milling around in the parking lot could see her clearly enough to recognize her. She knew how fast news traveled, and unless it became absolutely necessary, she had no intention of letting Dallie know she was anywhere near. As soon as the two of them had disappeared, she rushed to the television so she could be ready and waiting for the tournament coverage to begin.

Seve Ballesteros was leading the tournament after the first round, so Dallie wasn't in the best of moods as he came off the practice green. Dallie used to like Seve, until Francesca had started making cracks about how good looking he was. Now just the sight of that dark-haired Spaniard made him feel out of sorts. He looked over toward the leader board and confirmed what he already knew, that Jack Nicklaus had ended up at five strokes over par the day before, shooting a round even worse than Dallie's own. Dallie felt a mean-spirited satisfaction. Nicklaus was getting old; the years were finally doing what human beings couldn't— putting an end to the incomparable reign of the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio.

Skeet walked ahead of Dallie to the first tee. “There's a little surprise for you over there,” he said, gesturing toward his left. Dallie followed the direction of his gaze and then grinned as he spotted Holly Grace standing just behind the ropes. He began to walk over to her, only to freeze in mid-stride as he recognized Teddy standing at her side.

Anger rushed through him. How could one small woman be so vindictive? He knew Francesca had sent Teddy and he knew why. She had sent the boy to taunt him, to remind him of every nasty word she had hurled at him. Normally he would have liked having Teddy watch him play, but not at the Classic—not at a tournament where he had never done well. It occurred to him that Francesca wanted Teddy to see him get beaten, and the thought made him so furious he could barely contain himself. Something of his feelings must have shown because Teddy looked down at his feet and then back up again with that mulishly stubborn expression that Dallie had grown to recognize all too well.