The Mulligan (20 page)

Yes, my answer has arrived.

Dear Bobbi,

Please tell your friend that we would love one of her paintings. Keep us informed as when to meet you at the mall. Her work is amazing.

Amazing.
My chest puffs. I sit back in my chair with a smile growing on my face. Soon though, sadness swirls through, replacing my joy. I gave up painting to save my family. What was I thinking? I read the email again. It's only a means to make money—not a career. Not a passion. A way to keep me golfing.

I can live with that.

I have to.

 

****

 

After class, instead of practicing, I rush home to set up my newly purchased easel. It isn't as nice as my old one, but it will have to do. I face the patio where I can watch my new neighbors move into Mattie's house.

Her necklace is cool between my breasts. I pull it out and study the string of diamonds set along the shaft. Did Mina ever forgive her mother for her accident? I let the pendant drop against my shirt.

I think of my grandfather and swallow the lump that rises in my throat. How long before he's gone? How long before I'm thinking of him in Heaven?

All these thoughts of Heaven and death are doing me no good. I mix together some colors and stare at my readied canvas. In order to paint a scene from memory, I need to transport myself back—back home to where I'm sitting by the river, watching the water rush over the shiny rocks.

My time travel doesn't take long. It never does. Robert says it's my gift—the ability to put myself in a scene and then to paint it for others to see. I shove his reminder away and focus.

I'm there, my toes floating in the cool water, the sun warming the back of my neck. Overhead, crows caw to each other while robins flit through the canopy of oak trees. My hand moves. Soft strokes outline the scene I see so clearly before me. Hours pass. I forget I'm hungry until my stomach reminds me.

I glance at the clock above the TV.

How long have I been gone? This isn't the first time I've left the present when I paint, but it's the first time that it's happened for so long. I set down my brush and blink hard.

I don't believe what I see.

I've painted my best work ever.

 

 

 

 

23

 

I don't have long. Q-School is in five days. Since I returned from Thanksgiving, I've managed to sell two paintings, a record for me in such a short period of time. The couple who bought my first painting loved it so much they asked if the artist would paint one for the woman's parents for Christmas.

“I'm sure that can be done.” I also fessed up and gave them my business card, admitting I was the artist. They didn't seem to mind.

Actually, they laughed about it and then quizzed me on why I didn't tell them right from the beginning.

“I wanted you to see my work first,” I told them. Their check burned in my pocket. I can't believe they gave me three hundred dollars for the painting, declaring it was far better than the original one they fell in love with at the store.

We had met by the fountain, and as I unwrapped my work, my tongue refused to form words. I had never before experienced such pain about selling a particular painting, but this one…well, it felt special to me. Maybe it's because I miss my home so much. I'm not sure. I'd even added a rocky path that led to the tree house. Even though I saw my scenes, I usually added something to them. This time, I added the tree house even though it belonged on the other side of the river in our yard. I wanted this couple to experience what I do whenever I return home—to feel the way the river pulls at my soul and the way the trees beckon me to join them in nature.

“It's beautiful.” The woman had stared hard at my work, her gaze not moving from the scene.

It's the reaction I had hoped for.

“It's as though I'm there. I can even imagine how the river might cool my bare toes.”

My heart skipped and I let my smile come.

It went too easy.

If only my golf was as good as my paintings.

Drew pulls me aside after class. “You haven't been practicing as much. Have you thought about what I suggested?”

My shoulders hunch around my books. “I'm ready for Daytona. And no, I haven't thought about your offer. I'm going to see this through, and I'd appreciate your support when I do.”

“I'll be there. I told you I would.” His eyes give him away. He doesn't like that I'm killing myself like I am. I'm glad I don't tell him about my painting. He'd use it to pound in his theory to me that I'm not meant to be a golfer.

“I'm heading to the range. Want to tag along and give me pointers?”

“Can't. I have something to do.” He glances down the hallway.

“OK, well, I'll see you tomorrow then.”

Drew's attention is focused elsewhere. He nods and heads down the hallway toward the school administrator's office. I watch as he stops before the door, checks his watch, and then enters.

“Hey, want to hit some?” The guy who sits behind me comes up in front of me. It's the first time Jake has asked me to play.

I pull my thoughts from Drew. “Sure. I was headed to the driving range but wouldn't mind going nine rounds.”

We walk to the course with our bags and tee off. Jake drives his over 280 yards.

“You're good, Jake. I should have been watching you at the tournaments.”

He steps back so I can take my swing. I don't get nervous anymore when I play with my classmates like I once did. I've beaten most of them already, and even though Jake is good, I know I'm better. I position my feet and loosen my shoulders. The day is warm, not at all like Novembers back home. Overhead, a few clouds fill the otherwise blue sky. I focus on a spot two hundred and fifty yards ahead of me. I swing.

“Sorry, Bobbi. Not sure I'd even want to count that one.”

I can't believe my shot. I shade my eyes. My ball has gone left about a hundred yards into a bunker. A tremor shoots through my stomach. This can't be. I couldn't have hit the ball so badly.

“Want to take another shot?”

“No. We'll count it.” I step back from the tee, my legs shaking from disappointment. Have I lost my edge? Q-School is only days away. A rookie player could hit better than I just did.

I climb into the cart next to Jake, shielding my face from his stare. Everyone in my class knows I'm trying out for the tour. His hand covers mine. “I won't say anything. You had a bad shot. Happens to all the pros.”

Sympathy doesn't help. Instead, I want to bawl. What kind of pro lets one shot throw her? Me. I do. I stink as a golfer and I should know it.

Jake takes off in the cart and we find my ball first. I'm usually never in a sand bunker so hitting a ball out of one will be a challenge.

“I've got this one. Give me one shot and I'll be back in the play,” I say as I climb out and grab my wedge. Two shots. Two shots it takes to get out and even close to the green. Maybe I shouldn't have stayed up so late last night finishing the painting. Maybe I should have practiced every day instead of trying to make rent money. But what choice do I have? I can't ask my father for money so soon after he's come back home. What a way to look like a failure. I can't even earn enough money to keep myself going? And my student loan doesn't come in until January with the next semester.

I improve as our game progresses but nowhere near the standards I should be.

Jake waves good-bye as I pack my clubs into the trunk of my car.

The school parking lot is nearly empty except for Drew's vehicle. What's he doing here so late?

I lock my car and go into the empty building. My shoes echo in the hallway as I make my way to his office. “Drew? Are you here?” I poke my head around the door frame. His office light is on, but he's nowhere in sight. “Drew?”

“What are you doing here?”

His voice startles me from behind. I spin around and see him holding two empty boxes in his hands.

“I noticed your car. What are
you
doing here?”

He edges around me and sets the boxes on his desk. “What's it look like? Packing.”

“Packing?”

“Starting to. By the end of the semester, I'll be history.” One side of his lip rises, and then his full mouth opens into a grin. “Thanks to you.”

I drop into the chair in front of the desk. “What do you mean ‘Thanks to you'?”

He sits across from me and locks his fingers together. “I don't want to spend the rest of my life doing something I don't love. You were right. I went home that night and thought about what you're doing, and I don't want to do the same thing.”

“Is that some sort of compliment? Cause if it is, it doesn't feel like it. So you're quitting teaching?”

“Take it how you want. I know I love to golf and I'm going to try it again.”

I want to yelp and throw my arms around him. Instead, I smile. “I'm happy for you. It's what you should do.”

“Sometimes making the right decision isn't always easy. I'll have to use my savings to get in shape again and practice non-stop before spring when I try out. And then if I make it, which I plan to, my life begins again.”

“I can't believe you're actually quitting and doing this. I'm so happy for you. I mean it. We might even run into each other now and then.”

Drew's mouth turns down. Gone is that cute grin. I know what's coming. “So you aren't letting it go?”

“My parents are coming to see me play at Daytona. I plan to make them proud. It's what I have to do.”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Bobbi. Learn from me and my wasted years.”

“You weren't at my house on Thanksgiving.” My voice falls into a valley. “You didn't see the look of gratitude my mother gave me when she told me how much my golfing means to them. How my golf decision has put our family back together.” I look away not wanting to see pity on his face or worse—judgment.

“So that's how it is.”

“That's how it is.”

He reaches across the desk to touch my hand. Warmth floods my face. I look down and see each individual hair on the back of his hand. It takes everything in me to not flip mine over and grasp his. What is it about Drew? We will never have a future together, especially now that we've made our career choices. But each time I'm near him I think,
what if
?

His fingers move and Drew clasps my hand in his. I bite my lip and look into his face. His eyes tell me what I've wondered all along. He has feelings for me.

“I'd like to stay in touch if we can.” His voice is powerful. It reaches inside my heart and stomach and anything else it can get and squeezes tight—so tight I can't breathe.

“Sure.”

Sure? It's the only dumb word I can manage. My focus is on my hand and how it feels in his embrace. I wriggle my finger. One finger. He squeezes tighter. I don't know how I will get out of this room without falling apart.

He makes it easier. Drew rises from his chair still holding my hand and tugs me to my feet in front of him.

I'm ready to faint with the rush of emotions I have kept down about him, but right now, they all seem to be rising to the surface at once.

“I'm sorry I wasn't more attentive to you. I'm your teacher and I have this whole set of rules in my head even though we're both adults.”

“Yes, we're adults.” Thanks for reminding me. I'm acting like a twelve-year-old. You know that feeling you get right before something happens? You know it's going to happen and you can't stop it and don't want to? Well, I get it.

Right before Drew bends over and lays a huge kiss on my lips.

I kiss him back.

I even remember to shut my eyes.

It is that good.

 

****

 

I decide to take a night off from painting. It isn't that I don't want it, it's because I can't stop thinking about Drew and how he kissed me and how we parted. Sure, I will see him a few more weeks and at Daytona, but our relationship is now forever changed. He kissed me. He told me he cares about me. He walked me to my car with his arm around my shoulder and I let him. I even let him kiss me again before I opened my car door. Right there in public in the parking lot. I let him kiss me knowing that our future together stinks. That probably there will be no future, as he'll be on one tour and I'll be on another.

I don't always act or think with my head. Robert can attest to that. He reminds me all the time of some of the dumb decisions I've made. Funny thing is, he backs this golf decision. Thinking of my brother makes me want to call him. I find my phone buried under my books and dial home.

Mom answers. “Bobbi? I'm so glad you called. I was going to call you.” Her voice is faint, high-pitched—not her usual I-miss-you-honey voice. I sit on my couch. Expectation grips my chest.

“What's wrong? Something's wrong.”

“I was going to call you after…after I got back from the hospital. I'm headed there now.”

“Mom, who's at the hospital? Tell me!”

“It's Grandpa. Honey, he's not good. I need to go. I'll call you soon as I know more.” The phone goes dead. I hold it in my hand and start to redial, but end the call. Something major has happened to Grandpa, and I'm sitting here mooning over a kiss.

I pace my living room, circling the stool and watching the clock. How long does it take to get to the hospital? My mother has a cell—she could call me while she's waiting on news. Did Grandpa fall again? When you're alone, you imagine the worst. I do because my mother sounded like it is the worst.

I'm stuck in Florida while my grandfather lies dying in a hospital. Is this how my life will be when I'm on tour? Too far away to be there when my family needs me? I glance at the calendar. Five more days until Daytona. If I drive all night I can be home in seventeen hours. I can check on Grandpa and then catch a flight to Daytona in time.