Free Food for Millionaires (26 page)

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OU’RE WASTING YOUR LIFE,”
Hugh Underhill said.

“You’re such an ass,” Casey replied sweetly. She batted her short eyelashes for comic effect.

Hugh smiled back charmingly. Cleaned four times a year by a hygienist he’d slept with years before, his teeth were bright and attractive. “Young lady, I’ve been called better things.”

“And you’ve been called far worse things.”

“Thanks, Casey Cat,” Hugh said. “You keep me honest.”

“No problem, Hedge,” Casey answered. “Somebody has to try.” She continued thumbing through the rack of pastel-colored golf shirts embroidered with the logo of Bronan Resorts.

Hugh was picking on her about her future. Knowing how broke she was, he had decided that the solution was for her to make more money. Pushing her to be a junior broker was his way of showing concern. Business school decisions would be mailed out this month, but with the exception of Kevin Jennings—whom she had no choice but to ask for a recommendation since he was her direct supervisor—no one else at the office knew she’d applied.

The salesclerk who worked at the pro shop had gone downstairs to fetch Hugh a windbreaker vest, so they were alone. The cherry-wood paneling made the place look like a judge’s chambers. As usual, Casey and Hugh were fifteen minutes early—one of the annoying qualities they shared. It was their macabre joke that they’d beat their deaths by a quarter of an hour. Secretly, they respected each other for it. However, Seamus, one of their foursome for today, the client they both liked, was running very late. He had missed his flight entirely. Walter was scouting about for a replacement. Otherwise, Hugh, Casey, and Brett Martin, another client, would make up a threesome. Hugh was not fond of Brett, who jangled coins in his pockets and gave unsolicited advice on your swing. Brett Martin was a nice guy, but a duffer.

Kearn Davis was hosting the Asian Technology Conference, which officially began tomorrow on Sunday after a sunrise breakfast. Yet the clients who wanted to play eighteen holes had come in that morning. Tee time was in thirty minutes.

Casey had tagged along, taking off a weekend from Sabine’s since the latter two weeks of April were expected to be slow, with hardly any commissions worth sticking around for. The boys—as she called the men she assisted on the desk—hadn’t known that she golfed, but when she’d mentioned in passing that she did, they’d shouted, Why the hell didn’t you say so before? Frankly, it had never occurred to her in her nearly three years of working at the desk to go away on a golfing trip with them when she herself wasn’t a broker. She didn’t even know she was allowed, and certainly no one had ever asked. When she popped up at La Guardia with her sweet Ping clubs that Jay had bought her with his first paycheck at Kearn Davis, Hugh widened his dark brown eyes.

“And I thought you were smoking us for a free vacation.”

“Maybe I am,” Casey retorted.

The panoramic view from the pro shop window was dazzling. The grounds below were carpeted with kelly green grass, and the sky above the horizon was half silver and lavender. From where she stood, she could see a couple of foursomes playing—spotless white carts lolling there waiting to ferry them to their next hole. Acres upon acres of nature manicured and coiffed like a rich second wife for the enjoyment of a few entitled individuals. She’d played at the great private clubs with Jay and his eating club friends whose fathers and mothers were members—Baltusrol, Winged Foot, Rockaway Hunt, Westchester. Virginia’s game was tennis, and Casey could keep up a modest rally, but without the precision and engagement she freakishly possessed in her golf game. Virginia said even her dull father thought golf was a snoozer. To the contrary, Casey wanted to say. There was a kind of geometry and physics in the game that she perceived visually yet could hardly articulate. She respected the game’s difficulty—its aesthetic design.

She’d learned by playing mostly on New Jersey public courses with Jay. When they’d first started to date, they’d cut classes in the afternoons just to play. Golf and sex: That had been their thing. Sometimes before and after. When she asked herself why she never told the boys about golf, the answer hit her. She missed him still. Golf was something Jay had taught her from scratch. He was a very fine teacher. After they broke up, giving the clubs away had crossed her mind. But he’d been so proud to buy them for her with the money he’d made from his first Wall Street job, his face bright with the surprise. Right away she had kissed him, because the gift had moved her. And seeing his happiness, she’d kissed him two more times, and they had ended up in bed, being late for a dinner with friends. It was such a curious thing when you thought back to someone you loved: It was possible to remember the unspoiled things, and doing so lit up a bit of the sober darkness in your heart, and all the while the memory of the hurting cast its own shadow, dimming your head with the nagging questions of ifs and why-nots.

The clerk returned and said they were out of the large-size vests. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” Hugh replied. “You tried.”

He made a face at the ladies’ racks of polo shirts and madras pants. Hugh disliked preppy clothing on women. It made them look like square, flat-chested little men. Women should be soft to touch, curvy in the waist and hips, and delicious smelling. Skinny, small-boned blondes who sailed and were sun-wizened in their twenties were not his cup of tea. He didn’t give two bits if that was old-fashioned. He liked a slim-waisted girl in a billowy dress, pearls on her throat; a little leg showing was fantastic. Matching bra and panties in a bad-girl color, even better. While her head was turned, Hugh checked Casey out. She was exceptionally feminine in her clothing. Her speech, however, was something else.

“The worst thing about women playing golf is the clothing,” Hugh pronounced.

“Does that mean you’re not getting me a shirt?”

“What? You want one?” he asked, irritated that Casey could disagree.

“You offering?” Casey raised an eyebrow.

“It all depends.” He smiled suggestively. Hugh was an alchemist: He could transform any comment into sex.

She never took his innuendos seriously, and it took about a hot second for her to come up with a sassy rebuttal.

“I hope I price out better than”—Casey read the tag—“fifty-seven fifty.”

Before he could reply, they heard Walter calling out.

“Seamus caught the later flight.” Walter was panting. He repeated the message from his voice mail. “So, Hedge, you’re still short one. You can play as a threesome. But I just saw Unu Shim from Gingko Tree Asset Management in the lobby. Didn’t know he was here today. Want me to get him? Shim-kin’s a good guy. You’d be a few minutes late, though. He’s gotta get his gear.”

“Isn’t anyone on time anymore?” Casey glanced at her watch. Even after four months, the Rolex still tended to startle her.

Hugh nodded at Walter, trying to be agreeable. “Okay, man, you make it happen. I’ll be at the first tee with sweetie over here.”

Casey smiled at Walter and elbowed Hugh.

At the foot of the long patio where the carts were parked, Unu Shim turned up only a few minutes late. He was not quite six feet, slight build, almost skinny. His eyes had the double fold that Casey didn’t have. When he smiled, radial lines formed near his temples. He was thirty or so. Like all the others, he wore khakis. His red shirt had come from a pro shop in Maui with a slogan embroidered on the unbanded golf sleeve. Small, knotty muscles lined the length of his arms. For a thin guy, he had Popeye forearms. His golf shoes hadn’t been cleaned since the last time he’d worn them; mud streaked his laces.

There were seven fully manned carts on the patio, and Casey, the only female, sat alone in one. She was in the driver’s seat, waiting to take the new guy. Seeing him approach the cart, she turned around to make room for his Callaway bag. Hugh had taken Brett and his noisy pockets in his cart. Unu ducked his head to get in.

“Casey, right?” Unu said. He held out his hand.

“Hey.” She shook his hand. Decent grip, palm damp. “You want to drive?” she asked him, smiling politely.

“No thanks,” he answered, puzzled as to why she didn’t recognize him. She was Casey Han, Ella’s friend. They’d met twice, and both times she’d barely talked to him, but especially at the wedding, where she had skipped out before making a toast. Was that almost two years ago? he wondered. The dad had some tussle with her boyfriend. Something like that—Ella had said. The boyfriend was history, but apparently she had zero interest in blind dates, although Ella was forever singing her hymns: creative, attractive, smart as a whip. Unu had figured that she was one of those Korean girls who hated Korean men. But she didn’t seem like that right now.

Today, she looked relaxed and cheerful, like a girl on a college golf team. Her face was slightly tanner than the last time he’d seen her, making her look healthier. There was a faint spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore a white golf shirt and a pair of Nantucket reds. Her white golf shoes looked new. Unu couldn’t have guessed that they cost four hundred dollars. She sported a Panama hat she’d had blocked at Manny’s Millinery and trimmed with a dark blue ribbon and one of her better-executed tailored bows.

“Good hat,” he said.

Touching the edge of her brim, she said, “It’s an original.” There was still some flirt in her tone left over from talking to Hugh.

“I bet,” he said, laughing. She was taller than he’d remembered.

“You know, you look amazingly familiar,” she said, then looked straight ahead. “I never say that, by the way.” Her comment wasn’t meant to sound like a come-on.

“I’m Ella’s cousin. Unu. We’ve met. Twice,” he said sheepishly.

“Oh.” Her happy expression vanished.

“It’s been almost two years. I was a groomsman at the wedding. And you—”

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she could bolt.

Casey turned on the ignition and started to drive, saying nothing. Yes, yes, yes, she thought to herself. Unu. His full name was Un-young Shim from Gingko Tree A.M. That was the name on the client list, which she had reviewed multiple times, but it never occurred to her that he could be Ella’s cousin Unu. There were three Shims she knew of when she picked up the calls at the desk. And Walter sometimes called Unu “Shim-kin.” Of course, of course. They must’ve at least said hello on the phone before she’d patched Walter through. This man had seen her pop Jay on the nose, carrying on like an insane person minutes after church service ended. He might have seen her dad shove Jay out of his way and would have remembered her taking off from Ella’s wedding before fulfilling her promised duties. If he thought she was violent, from a bigoted family, and lacked both personal decorum and loyalty, how could she blame him? Casey wanted to fold her arms over the steering wheel and drop her heavy head on them.

This was what she deserved for lying to Judith and Sabine about why she needed the weekend off. With no compunction, she’d told them that she was helping a friend move. If only she could be back in her apartment working on the leather fez assignment for her costume headwear class, bent over a sewing machine, the radio humming nearby. If only. If she hid in her hotel room until the conference was over, Kevin would be furious with her, but after this experience, she didn’t want to lie to another employer again. Casey pulled down the brim of her hat as if to shield herself from the bathing light of the Florida sun.

The first four holes passed quickly. Bizarrely, her game was brilliant. Shame could make you concentrate. Two birdies and two bogeys.

“Casey Cat is on fire!” Hugh laughed in a mixture of shock and delight after she sank another one. Both her long and short games were equally strong. Hugh was tickled by this surprise performance, not being the kind of broker who restrained his playing for the client’s sake. Besides, the two clients weren’t his anyway, and Casey was the assistant. Brett had been nearly struck dumb by her playing after the third hole, but his jingling had grown more persistent despite Unu’s curious stares. Unu, an excellent golfer, was a touch behind Casey and right there with Hugh: one bogey, two par, and his last was two over par. He’d been studying her swing.

The arc of it was just gorgeous, Unu thought. The girl’s posture when she was at rest was straighter than a club, and her profile was stiff. After he’d mentioned their prior meetings, she hadn’t said anything to him except whatever was necessary to avoid making their interaction weird. When she was quiet, he could feel the grief in her expression. Something was making her really sad, as though she were easy to hurt and would be easy to hurt again.

His ex-wife, Eunah, had been this way. Something about sad girls sort of got to him. At their first meeting arranged by a relative, shortly after he’d arrived in Seoul as an expatriate employee of Pearson Crowell, Eunah had appeared self-possessed and determined, like a young woman driving straight toward her destiny. He liked that about her; it made her seem different from the other girls, who giggled too much or were prettier but too shy. Their engagement was barely five months long, and soon after their marriage, her resolve for life dissipated quietly. Eunah did everything she was supposed to do, but there was a quality of performance about her, and he was starting to feel that nothing he could do or be would make her feel joy. She was always grateful to him, but that wasn’t necessarily happiness. She did not delight in his presence. Eunah thought he was a nice guy. Sometimes, desperate to make her laugh, he’d act the clown. He gave her expensive gifts, which she appreciated. His wife’s regret would come and go, and it infected their happiness, but Unu also had his very busy work, and he could not attend to her as much as he’d wanted to. He’d always believed there would be more time later. When he was recruited by Gingko Asset Management for a job in New York two years back, Eunah had said she couldn’t leave Korea.

“I don’t want to be an American. I don’t like bread.” She’d said this with enormous hesitation, knowing how odd it sounded considering she had married an American-born Korean who had warned her from the very first date that he fully intended to go back.