The Mulligan (5 page)

“No, not at all! Hurry and take the dang test and call me back.” I don't need to tell her that. I've always been the first person she calls with news. Guilt still gnaws at me that I didn't call her right after I decided to come to school here. Instead, I'd kept my plans a secret and told only my family.

My mother cried the entire day until my father returned for dinner. She tried to get him on her side, to convince me to stay, but it backfired. He had only shrugged and said, “She's over eighteen. She can do what she wants.”

“So that's my news, but what about you? Are you happy there?”

She knows me too well. “I'm doing OK.”

“I stopped to see Robert the other day. He told me he's making good progress in therapy and hopes to be on his feet soon. But I'm sure you know all that.” She pauses, waiting for me to respond.

I don't know what to say. Getting on your feet doesn't mean running laps and having the stamina to play eighteen rounds of golf every day.

“I'll be calling him soon for an update. I'm glad he's feeling good about it.”

We make more small talk and I remind her to call me when she knows something about the pregnancy. When I hang up, the closeness we once shared almost paralyzes me with sadness.

 

****

 

A quick snack fills me after which I drive over to the range behind the school. A golf course borders the school property. As a student, I can use the range anytime I want. Today few students appear to have the same need I do—to practice instead of enjoying life. I drag my golf bag over to the far right and prop it next to me. I've gotten fairly good with my driver and want to try a new stance to make sure the ball fades to the right when I want it to.

But first, I need a bucket of balls. It looks as though the guy who usually gives them out isn't behind the counter yet. I check my watch. No, I'm not too early. After tapping my foot for a firm five minutes (cooling my jets, my father used to say), I spot a good-looking guy coming toward me.

Good-looking in that non-jock sort of way with longish blond hair and wearing an oversized polo shirt. I can't help but think of my mother's favorite old-time actor. I lean against the counter and wait. But the closer he comes, the more certain I am I know this guy. My memory is usually pretty good but nothing comes to me.

“Morning. Need a bucket?”

His voice is familiar, too. I try not to stare at his rugged good looks but can't stop myself. “Thanks. Are you new here?”

Two dimples peak at my question. “Good observation. I started a few weeks back. I haven't seen you here before. Maybe because they normally keep me stationed at the carts. They must have wanted to give me a break today.” He flashes a smile again showing even white teeth. The kind of teeth I would willingly pay for if I could be guaranteed mine would look like his. And still my brain nudges me. Where do I know him from?

“Are you from around here?”

He reaches over and fills the bucket. When he stands back up, a flicker of recognition crosses his surfer-boy features. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

A surge of satisfaction fills me. I have never forgotten a face before. “I'm from Pennsylvania. And you?”

“No kidding. Me, too,” he says, openmouthed. Again that knock-her-head-over-her-heels smile. “Whereabouts?”

When I say Wyoming County, he spits into the grass. “Hey, neighbor. Me, too. Out by the lake.”

Considering there is only one lake close to where I live, I picture the exact spot. “The one with the pavilion, right?” I'd painted several of my best scenes there, in fact, celebrated many special occasions there, too. The last one when Robert had saved enough money to attend Q-School. We had a huge picnic and invited all of our friends. My mother grilled chicken and Dad acted like he was king for the day, going around to everyone and getting soda and making sure they had enough food.

I push down the desire to grab his hand and dance around the greens. Someone from back home.

“I'm Mark. So where did we meet?” He seems as intrigued as I am as to the details of our paths crossing and leans against the counter, one hand dangling close to his side. And oh, his eyes.

“Bobbi.” I hold out my hand. His grip is strong. “My father owns an accounting business.”

“Naw, do my own taxes. Ever roller skate?”

“Not in years.” My brain whirls with possibilities. School? A restaurant? Church? And then the moment. Of course, I'd been so mad that morning that I'd not been in the mood to joke about staying out so late. “I remember now. Did you work at a hardware store?”

His eyes twinkle—maybe savoring the same shared memory? “You were one angry woman.” A burly chuckle follows. “I couldn't make that key fast enough.”

I laugh. “I can't believe this. What are you doing down here?”

His face flushes and I'm sure it is not from the wicked heat. “I moved down to live with my brother.”

“And what did you do up north?” Now that I've found a kindred spirit I'm not about to let him go. I think of my mother's comment to me before I left home. ‘Watch those strangers down there. They won't be anything like here.' What will my mother say when she finds out I've met someone from home?

“I worked in a hardware store.” Again his dimples flash. “But not the one you met me in. I worked there a few years, and then got a job as a manager closer to home. And you? What brings you here?”

I nod toward the U-shaped building that houses the school. “I attend school here.” I suppress the urge to tell him the rest. People tend to look at me as though I'm crazy when I tell them I'm a golfer and not doing what I dream of doing every night. Too many have gone as far as to try to talk me out of it. “Going to make it my career.”

He lets loose a low whistle. The kind Robert makes whenever he accuses me of showing off. “You must know my brother, then. He's a teacher here. Drew. I think he teaches golf psychology or something strange like that. The guy's hooked on this game. Went on tour and everything and now does this.”

My heart does a flip when he mentions Drew. Of course. The blue eyes. “He's my golf instructor. I didn't know he'd been on tour. He never mentioned that.”

“He might not. He blew his shot at fame because of something that happened to him. One thing I know about golf is that most of the game is played between here.” He points two fingers above his ears. “Not on the field. Let something bother you and boom…might as well throw in the clubs.”

Before I have a chance to respond, two more students come up for balls. Stepping back, I wait a few minutes, but then grab my bucket, not wanting to appear too eager. “I'll see you later,” I call and get a return wave. I move over to the driving range but find my thoughts are centered on Drew. Have I met him before, too?

I hit my first ball. No, I would have remembered him.

Another student comes up next to me. “Hey, Bobbi. Want to play later?”

Nate's a nice guy. He's built well and stands taller than Robert. I like the sound of his voice and the way his face lights when he laughs. But he isn't Drew. I turn him down and continue my drives.

 

 

 

 

5

 

It's good I enjoy movies, considering free ones are the only benefit to my new job at the mall. My open palm waits for the ticket stubs from an older couple. Action flick. By now I have become pretty good at guessing what movie most people come to see. My game helps pass the time and monotony of this job, but at least I'm working. Some of the guys in my class are still looking. But a few weeks ago, I'd driven around and ended up at the Ocoee mall and this theater. As luck would have it, an employment sign caught my eye and I was hired on the spot.

“Enjoy the show,” I say to a couple of teenagers who try to hide a bag of chocolate candy beneath the girl's jacket. Like she needs a coat in this weather. I was told not to say anything unless it is obvious since the theater also sells candy. Three dollars a box. I'd be down at the dollar store, too, bringing in my licorice sticks. So I let it go and act as though I'd not noticed anything. Fifteen minutes more and my shift ends, anyway. I am also fortunate to get shifts on Saturday afternoon and only two evenings a week leaving me time to practice.

“I'll take over. You can take off for the day,” my manager says with one of those practiced smiles people use who think they are better than you are.

Smiling back, I shrug out of my little blue vest and go to the employee area where I've locked my purse. I have yet to explore this mall. Today will be as good a time as any. I know it contains the usual anchor department stores and a few clothing stores for younger teens—sizes I couldn't wear when I was twelve. I buy a root beer at the food court and work my way up and down the aisles. Sellers in booths hawk perfume, incense, and hairpieces only Mattie would wear. About halfway down, I come to an abrupt halt.

In front of me is a store that sells art. Not just any art, but landscapes painted in enticing colors. My breath rushes out from the longing that overtakes me. My stomach coils with intensity, and my heart unfurls in pleasure as my lungs fill with the familiar scent. I'm transported back to my studio, surrounded by palettes of paint and creamy canvases stretched across their frames.

“May I help you?” A young salesman sporting facial hair that might, on a good day, pass for a goatee approaches me.

I shake my head. No, he can't help me. No one can. I've created my own world, one in which I've decided to be the hero our family needs to save it from further pain and disappointment. And that means I no longer paint. But can it hurt to look?

“I'm only looking.” I say this to him in a casual way so he'll leave me alone and return to his post by the front.

He tilts his head as though pointing me in the direction I should go, but I need no assistance that way, either. I move toward the river scenes as though on autopilot.

“Are you an artist?”

Unwanted tears form in my eyes. I blink. Before, when a stranger asked me that question, I was thrilled to be able to nod and say, “Yes, I'm an artist. It's what I do. It's my passion.” But today I can only give the truth. “Not anymore.”

My eager salesman shrinks back as though my answer discounts me. I notice it isn't because of my no longer being an artist, but so he can capture the next couple who wanders into the showroom.

Packed rows draw me to a section that showcases the better works. An easel holding one particular painting catches my eye. I study the delicate brushstrokes. A familiar scene. I read the title.
A Susquehanna Day Dream.
I peer closer to read the artist's name. Sarah Adams.

Sarah? Not Sarah. Yet the proof rests before me. When I worked in Art's gallery back home, Sarah had brought in a few of her paintings, but Art refused to take them on consignment. “They aren't good enough for our store,” he explained to me after Sarah left in tears.

What made the whole scene awkward for me is I knew Sarah. We attended the same high school and shared the same desk in art class. I'd always been a little jealous (OK, maybe a lot) of her work so when she got turned down, I didn't feel as broken-hearted as I should have for her.

But obviously she'd not let that rejection stop her determination. She'd improved—really improved. Her color choices capture not only my artist's sense of design and depth but make me smile. She followed her dream and didn't give up.

“It's one of our store's best sellers. This artist has become popular for this kind of work. Can I interest you in a purchase?”

I bite back a laugh. If he knew how little money I had in my wallet, he'd probably kick me out of the store.

“It's beautiful. But I'll have to think about it.”

Not one to be put off, he reaches behind him and comes back with a colorful brochure. Perhaps that's why he was voted salesman of the month. I'd noticed his bright ribbon attached to his pocket with the distinction. “Take one of our brochures in case you change your mind. There is an excellent write-up in this about the artist.”

With no other choice but to take the offered information, I tuck it into my purse. My phone chooses that moment to vibrate, giving me a good reason to slip away. I dig for it and bring it out to find Amanda's name on the display.

“Hey, I've been waiting for your call. So am I an aunt?” I move toward the center courtyard area where a merry-go-round is entertaining a host of young children in line to experience it. “You never called back. Did you take the test?”

“We decided I should get a professional opinion before I told anyone. Yes! I'm pregnant! Can you believe it? My heart about stopped when they called me. I tried to get you yesterday, but decided I didn't want to leave a message. This means you need to come home for my shower this winter.”

I stop by the toy train and move toward an empty bench. My best friend is having a baby. “Oh wow! Does it feel unreal? It's not like we've been out of school all that long.”

“Long enough. You're going to be twenty-three in a few weeks, in case you've been so busy and have forgotten. Will you be coming home? Don't they give you a break sometime soon?”

I nod and search for a clean place to sit. A pile of cold french-fries litters one seat and it looks as though someone lost their soda all over the other bench.

I honestly haven't thought about my birthday.

“My semester ends in two weeks. I don't know if I'll have the money to drive back up or not. I started a job at a theater a while ago. I'm not sure if they'll give me the time off.”

I dread being alone on my birthday, but the truth is I might have to be. Last year's birthday celebration comes into focus as tired moms herd their children away from the machines that sell cheap toys. Last year my mother baked two cakes, Robert's favorite chocolate peanut butter one and my white one with white icing. She'd invited everyone we knew for smoked corn and barbecued chicken.