Fancy Pants

Chapter 31

Dallie had an excellent view of Central Park from his hotel room, but he impatiently turned away from

the window and began pacing the floor. He had tried to read on the plane flying into JFK, but had found that nothing held his attention, and now that he had reached his hotel he felt claustrophobic. Once again he had let a tournament victory get away from him. The thought of Francesca and Teddy sitting in front of the television and watching him lose was just about more than he could stand.

But the loss of the tournament wasn't all that was bothering him. No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he couldn't stop thinking about Holly Grace. They'd made up since their fight at the farmhouse and she hadn't mentioned anything about using him for stud service again, but some of the spunk had gone out of her, and he didn't like that one bit. The more he thought about what had happened to her,

the more he wanted to put his fist through Gerry Jaffe's face.

He tried to forget about Holly Grace's troubles, but an idea had been nagging at the back of his mind

ever since he'd gotten on the plane, and now he found himself picking up the piece of paper that held Jaffe's address. He'd gotten it from Naomi Perlman less than an hour ago, and since then he had been trying to make up his mind whether or not to use it. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was already seven-thirty. He was going to meet Francie at nine for dinner. He was tired and jagged, in no mood to be reasonable, and certainly in no condition to try to straighten out Holly Grace's troubles. Still, he found himself tucking Jaffe's address into the pocket of his navy blue sport coat and heading down to the lobby to get a cab.

Jaffe lived in an apartment building not far from the United Nations. Dallie paid the driver and began walking toward the entrance, only to see Gerry coming out through the front door.

Gerry spotted him immediately, and Dallie could tell by the expression on his face that he'd received better surprises in his life. Still, he managed a polite nod. "Hello, Beaudine."

"Well, if it isn't Russia's best friend," Dallie replied.

Gerry lowered the hand he had been extending for a shake. "That line's starting to wear thin."

"You're a real bastard, you know that, Jaffe?" Dallie said slowly, not seeing any need for preliminaries.

Gerry had a hot temper of his own, but he managed to turn his back on Dallie and begin walking off down the street. Dallie, however, had no intention of letting him get away so easily, not when Holly Grace's happiness was at stake. For some reason she wanted this guy, and he just might be able to give her a shot at having him.

He began to move forward and soon fell in step next to Gerry. It was dark and there were few people on the street. Garbage cans lined the curb. They passed the grate-covered windows of a bakery and a jeweler.

Gerry picked up his pace. "Why don't you go play with your golf balls?" he said.

"As a matter of fact, I was just stopping by to have a little talk with you before I went to see Holly Grace." It was a lie. Dallie had no intention of seeing Holly Grace that night. "Do you want me to give

her your regards?"

Gerry stopped walking. The glow from a streetlight fell on his face. "I want you to stay away from Holly Grace."

Dallie still had yesterday's defeat on his mind, and he wasn't in the mood for subtlety, so he went in for

a swift, merciful kill. "Now, that would be kind of hard for me to do. It's just about impossible to get a woman good and pregnant if you're not right there on top of the job."

Gerry's eyes turned black. His hand shot out and he grabbed the front of Dallie's sport coat. "You tell

me right now what you're talking about."

"She's determined to have a baby, is all," Dallie said, not making any attempt to get away, "and only

one of us seems to be man enough to do the job."

Gerry's olive skin paled as he released Dallie's jacket. "You fucking son of a bitch."

Dallie's answering drawl was soft and menacing. "Fucking is something I'm real good at, Jaffe."

Gerry ended two decades of dedicated nonviolence by drawing back his fist and slamming it into Dallie's chest. Gerry wasn't much of a fighter and Dallie saw the blow coming, but he decided to let Jaffe have

his one shot because he knew damn well he wasn't going to give him another. Righting himself, Dallie started back toward Gerry. Holly Grace could have this son of a bitch if she wanted him, but first he

was going to rearrange his face.

Gerry stood with his arms at his sides, his chest heaving, and watched Dallie coming at him. When Dallie's fist caught him in the jaw, he flew across the sidewalk and banged into the garbage cans,

sending them clattering out into the street. A man and woman coming down the sidewalk saw the fight and rapidly turned back. Gerry got up slowly, lifting the back of his hand to wipe the blood that was flowing from his lip.

Then he turned and began to walk away.

"Fight me, you son of a bitch," Dallie called after him.

"I won't fight," Gerry called back.

"Well, now, aren't you a prime example of American manhood? Come on and fight. I'll give you another free punch."

Gerry kept walking. "I shouldn't have hit you in the first place, and I won't do it again."

Dallie rapidly closed the distance between them, jerking Gerry around by his shoulder. "For Christ's sake, I just told you I was getting ready to knock up Holly Grace!"

Gerry's fists clenched at his side, but he didn't move.

Dallie grabbed the front of Gerry's bomber jacket and pushed him against a light post. "What the hell's wrong with you? I'd have fought an army for that woman. Can't you even fight one person?"

Gerry looked at him contemptuously. "Is that the only way you know how to solve a problem? With

your fists?"

"At least I try to solve my problems. All you've done is make her miserable."

"You don't know jackshit, Beaudine. I've been trying for weeks to talk to her, but she won't see me.

The last time I managed to get past the guards at ihe studio, she called the cops on me."

"Did she, now?" Dallie smiled unpleasantly and slowly let go of Gerry's jacket. "You know something?

I don't like you, Jaffe. I don't like people who act like they have all the answers. Most of all, I don't like smug do-gooders who make all kinds of noble noises about saving the world but screw over the people who care about them."

Gerry was breathing harder than Dallie, and he had trouble getting out his words. "This doesn't have anything to do with you."

"Anybody who gets tangled up in Holly Grace's life sooner or later runs into me. She wants a baby,

and for some reason that I sure as hell can't figure out, she wants you, too."

Gerry leaned back against the light post. For a moment his head dropped, and then he lifted it again, his eyes dark with misery. "Tell me why it's such a goddamn crime not to want to bring a kid into this world. Why does she have to be so stubborn? Why can't it just be the two of us?"

Gerry's obvious pain touched Dallie, but he did his best to ignore it. "She wants a baby, is all."

"I'd be the worst father in the world. I don't know anything about being a father."

Dallie's laugh was soft and bitter. "You think any of us do?"

"Listen, Beaudine. I've had enough of people nagging me about this. First Holly Grace, then my sister, and then Francesca. Now you're on my case, too. Well, it's none of your goddamn business, do you understand me? This is between Holly Grace and me."

"Answer a question for me, Jaffe," Dallie said slowly.

"How are you going to go about living the rest of your life knowing that you let the best thing that ever happened to you get away?"

"Don't you think I'm trying to get through to her?" Jaffe cried out. "She won't even talk to me, you

crazy son of a bitch! I can't even get into the same room with her."

"Maybe you're not trying hard enough."

Gerry's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "Just leave me the hell alone. And stay away from Holly Grace. The two of you are old worn-out history, and if you even think about touching her, I'll come

after you, do you understand me?"

"I'm trembling in my boots," Dailie replied with deliberate insolence.

Gerry looked him straight in the eye and there was such menace on the man's face that Dailie actually experienced a moment of grudging respect.

"Don't underestimate me, Beaudine," Gerry said, his tone flat and hard. He held Dallie's gaze for several long moments without flinching, and then he walked away.

Dailie stood watching him for a while; then he headed back down the sidewalk. As he stepped off the curb to hail a cab, a faint, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Francesca had agreed to meet Dallie at nine o'clock at a neighborhood restaurant they both liked that served southwestern food. She slipped into a black cashmere T-shirt and zebra-patterned slacks. Impulsively, she fastened a pair of wildly asymmetrical silver earrings to her earlobes, taking devilish pleasure in wearing something outrageous to tease him. It had been a week since she had seen him, and she was in the mood to celebrate. Her agent had concluded nearly three months of difficult negotiations and the network had finally given in. Beginning in June, "Francesca Today" would be a monthly special instead of a weekly series.

When she arrived at the restaurant, she saw Dailie sitting in a high-backed booth at the rear away from the crowd. Spotting her, he stood and for a fraction of a moment, a puppy dog grin flashed over his face, an expression more appropriate to a teenage boy than a grown man. Her heart gave a queer thump in response.

"Hey, honey."

"Hey, Dallie."

She had attracted a great deal of attention as she walked through the restaurant, so he gave her only the briefest of kisses when she reached him. As soon as she sat, however, he leaned across the table and did the job right. "Damn, Francie, it's good to see you."

"You, too." She kissed him again, closing her eyes and enjoying the heady sensation of being near him.

"Where'd you get those earrings? Ace Hardware?"

"They're not earrings," she retorted loftily, settling back into the booth. "According to the artist who

made them, they're free-form abstractions of conceptualized angst."

"No kidding. Well, I sure hope you had them exorcised before you put them on."

She smiled, and his eyes seemed to drink in her face, her hair, the shape of her breasts underneath her cashmere T-shirt. Her skin began to feel warm. Embarrassed, she pushed her hair back from her face. Her earrings jangled. He gave her a crooked grin, as if he could see every one of the erotic images that flashed through her head. Then he settled back in his chair, his navy sport coat falling open over his shirt. Despite his smile, she thought he looked tired and troubled. She decided to postpone telling him the good news about her contract until she found out what was bothering him.

"Did Teddy watch the tournament yesterday?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What'd he say?"

"Not too much. He wore the cowboy boots you gave him, though, and this unbelievably hideous sweat shirt that I can't believe you bought."

Dallie laughed. "I'll bet he loves that sweat shirt."

"When I tucked him in that night, he was wearing it with his pajama bottoms."

He smiled again. The waiter approached, and they turned their attention to the blackboard that listed the day's specials. Dallie opted for chili-spiced chicken with a side helping of barbecued beans. Francesca hadn't been hungry when she arrived, but the delicious smells of the restaurant had piqued her appetite and she decided on grilled shrimp and a small salad.

He fiddled with the saltshaker, looking a little less relaxed. "They had the pin placement all screwed up yesterday or I would have done better. It threw me off. And there was a hell of a lot more crowd noise than there should have been. One son of a bitch clicked his camera just when I got to the top of my backswing. Damn, I hate that."

She was surprised that he felt the need to explain himself to her, but by now she was also too familiar with the patterns of his professional career to believe any of his excuses. They chatted for a while about Teddy, and then he asked her to save some time for him that week. "I'm going to be in the city for a while. They want to give me some lessons on how to find the red light on the camera."

She gazed at him sharply, her good mood evaporating. "You're going to take the announcing job they offered you?"

He didn't quite look at her. "My bloodsucker's bringing me the contracts to sign tomorrow."

Their food arrived, but Francesca had lost her appetite. What he was about to do was wrong-more wrong than he seemed to realize. There was an air of defeat about him, and she hated the way he wouldn't look at her. She probed at a shrimp with her fork and then, unable to contain herself, confronted him. "Dallie, you should at least finish the season. I don't like the idea of your quitting like this with the Classic only another week away."

She could see his tension as his jaw set and he stared at a point just above the top of her head. "I have

to hang up my clubs sooner or later. Now is as good a time as any."

"Television announcing will be a wonderful career for you someday, but you're only thirty-seven. Lots

of golfers still win major tournaments at your age or older. Look what Jack Nicklaus did at the Masters last year."

His eyes narrowed and he finally looked at her. "You know something, Francie. I liked you a hell of a

lot more before you turned into such a damned golf expert. Did it ever occur to you that I've got enough people telling me how to play, and I goddamn well don't need another one?"

Caution told her the moment had come to back off, but she couldn't do it, not when she felt that she had something important at stake. She toyed with the stem of her wineglass and then met his hostile gaze

head on. "If I were you, I'd win the Classic before I quit playing."

"Oh, you would, would you?" A small muscle ticked in his jaw.

"I would." She dropped her voice until it was a barely audible whisper and looked him straight in the eye. "I'd win that tournament just so I knew I could do it."

His nostrils flared. "Since you barely know the difference between a driver and a one-iron, I'd be mighty interested in watching you try."

"We're not talking about me. We're talking about you."

"Sometimes, Francesca, you are the most ignorant woman I've ever known in my entire life." Banging down his fork, he looked at her and thin, hard lines formed brackets around his mouth. "For your information, the Classic is one of the toughest tournaments of the year. The course is a killer. If you don't hit the greens in just the right spot, you can go from a birdie to a bogey without even seeing it coming. Do you have any idea who's playing in the Classic this year? The best damned golfers in the world. Greg Norman will be there. They call him the Great White Shark, and it's not just because of his white hair-it's because he loves the taste of blood. Ben Crenshaw's playing-he putts better than anybody on the tour. Then there's Fuzzy Zoeller. Ol' Fuzzy cracks jokes and acts like he's taking a Sunday walk in the woods, but all the time he's figuring out how deep he can dig your damned grave. And your buddy Seve Ballesteros is going to show up, muttering in Spanish under his breath and plowing right through everybody who gets in his way. Then we come to Jack Nicklaus. Even though he's forty-seven, he's still capable of blowing every one of us right out of the running. Nicklaus isn't even human, Francie."

"And then there's Dallas Beaudine," she said quietly. "Dallas Beaudine who has played some of the best opening rounds in tournament golf, but always falls apart at the end. Why is that, Dallie? Don't you want it badly enough?"

Something seemed to snap inside him. He pulled his napkin from his lap and wadded it on the table. "Let's get out of here. I'm not hungry anymore."

She didn't budge. Instead, she hugged her arms over her chest, lifted her chin, and silently dared him to try to move her. She was going to have it out with him once and for all-even if it meant losing him.

"I'm not going anywhere."

At that exact moment Dallie Beaudine finally seemed to comprehend what he had only dimly perceived as he'd watched a pair of incomparable four-carat diamond studs sail out into the depths of a gravel quarry. He finally understood her strength of will. For months now, he had chosen to ignore the deep intelligence that lay behind her green cat's eyes, the steely determination hidden beneath that sassy smile, the indomitable strength at the heart of the woman who sat across from him so absurdly packaged as a frivolous ball of fluff. He had let himself forget that she had come to this country with nothing-not even much strength of character-and that she had been able to look every one of her weaknesses straight in the eye and overcome them. He had let himself forget that she had turned herself into a champion, while he was still only a contender.

He saw that she had no intention of leaving the restaurant, and the sheer force of her will staggered him. He felt a moment of panic, as if he were a child again and Jaycee's fist was headed right for his face. He felt the Bear breathing down his neck. Watch it, Beaudine. She's got you now.

And so he did the only thing he could-the only thing he could think of that might distract this bullheaded, bossy little woman before she sliced him apart.

"I swear, Francie, you've put me in such a bad mood, I'm thinking about changing my plans for tonight." Surreptitiously, he slid his napkin back into his lap.

"Oh? What plans did you have?"

"Well, all this nagging has almost made me change my mind, but-what the hell-I guess I'll ask you to marry me anyway."

"Marry you?" Francesca's lips parted in astonishment.

"I don't see why not. At least I didn't until a few minutes ago when you turned into such a damn nag."

Francesca leaned back into the booth, possessed by an awful feeling that something inside her was breaking apart. "You don't just blurt out a marriage proposal like that," she said shakily. "And with the exception of a nine-year-old boy, we don't have a single thing in common."

"Yeah, well I'm not so sure about that anymore." Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, he drew out

a small jeweler's box. Extending it toward her, he flipped open the Ud with his thumb, revealing an exquisite diamond solitaire. "I bought this from a guy I went to high school with, but I think it's only fair to tell you he spent some time as an unwilling guest of the state of Texas after he walked into a Piggly Wiggly with a Saturday night special in his hand. Still, he told me he found Jesus in prison, so I don't think the ring's hot. But I suppose you can't be too sure about that sort of thing."

Francesca, who had already taken note of Tiffany's distinctive robin's-egg blue packaging, was paying only the vaguest attention to what he was saying. Why hadn't he mentioned anything about love? Why was he doing it like this? "Dallie, I can't take that ring. I-I can't believe you're even suggesting it." Because she didn't know how to say what was really on her mind, she threw out all the logical impediments between them. "Where would we live? My job is in New York; yours is everywhere. And what would we talk about once we got out of the bedroom? Just because there's this-this cloud of lust hanging between us doesn't mean we're qualified to set up housekeeping together."

"Jeez, Francie, you make everything so complicated. Holly Grace and I were married for fifteen years, and we only set up housekeeping in the beginning."

Anger began to form a haze inside her head. "Is that what you want? Another marriage like the one you had with Holly Grace? You go your way and I go mine, but every few months we get together so we

can watch a few ball games and have a spitting contest. I won't be your buddy, Dallas Beaudine."

"Francie, Holly Grace and I never had a spitting contest in our lives, and it can't have escaped your

notice that boy of ours is technically a bastard."

"So is his father," she hissed.

Without losing a beat, he shut the Tiffany box and slipped it back in his pocket. "All right. We don't have to get married. It was just a suggestion."

She stared at him. Seconds ticked by. He lifted a forkful of chicken to his mouth and slowly began to chew.

"Is that it?" she asked.

"I can't exactly force you."

Anger and hurt rose up so far inside her she thought she would choke. "That's all, then? I say no, and

you pick up your toys and go home?"

He took a sip of his club soda, the expression in his eyes as abstract as the silver earrings at her lobes. "What do you want me to do? The waiters would throw me out if I got down on my knees."

His sarcasm in the face of something so important to her was like a knife through her ribs. "Don't you know how to fight for anything you want?" she whispered fiercely.

The silence that came over him was so complete that she knew she had hit a raw nerve. Suddenly she

felt as if the scales had dropped from her eyes. That was it. That was what Skeet had been trying to

tell her.

"Who said I wanted you? You take everything too seriously, Francie."

He was lying to her, lying to himself. She felt his need as much as she felt her own. He wanted her, but he didn't know how to get her and, more important, he wasn't even going to try. What did she expect,

she asked herself bitter'y, from a man who had played some of the best opening rounds in tournament golf, but who always fell apart at the end?

"Are you going to have room for dessert, Francie? They got this chocolate thing. If you ask me, it could use a couple dabs of Cool Whip on the top, but it's still pretty good."

She felt a scorn for him that bordered on real dislike. Her love now seemed to be an oppressively heavy weight, too much for her to carry. Reaching over the table, she grabbed his wrist and squeezed it until

her fingernails had dug into his skin and she was sure he knew for certain that he needed to listen to

every word she had to say. Her words were low and condemning, the words of a fighter. "Are you so afraid of failing that you can't go after one single thing you want? A tournament? Your son? Me? Is that what's been holding you back all this time? You're so afraid of failing that you won't even try?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He attempted to pull his hand away, but her grip was so tight

he couldn't do it without drawing attention to them.

"You haven't even gotten out of the starting blocks, have you, Dallie? You just hang out on the sidelines. You're willing to play the game as long as you don't have to sweat too much and as long as you can make enough wisecracks so everybody understands you don't really care."

"That's the stupidest-"

"But you do care, don't you? You want to win so much you can bloody well taste it. You want your son, too, but you're holding yourself back from him just in case Teddy won't have you-my wonderful little boy who wears his heart on his sleeve and would give anything in the world for a father who respected him."

Dallie's face had paled, and his skin beneath her fingers was clammy. "I respect him," he said sharply.

"As long as I live, I'll never forget that day he came after me because he thought I was hurting you-"

"You're a whiner, Dallie-but you do it with so much style that everybody lets you get away with it."

She released her grip, but she didn't let up on him. "Well, the act's wearing thin. You're getting too old

to keep slipping by on your good looks and charm."

"What the hell do you know about it?" His voice was quiet, slightly hoarse.

"I know everything about it because I started out with some of those same handicaps. But I grew up,

and I kicked my bloody life in the tail until it did what I wanted."

"Maybe it was easier for you," he retorted. "Maybe you had a few breaks thrown your way. I was on

my own when I was fifteen. While you were taking walks in Hyde Park with your nanny, I was dodging my old man's fists. When I was real little, you know what he used to do to me when he got drunk? He used to turn me upside down and hold my head underwater in the toilet."

Her face didn't soften with even a moment's sympathy. "Tough shit."

She saw that her coldness had infuriated him, but she didn't let up. Her pity wasn't going to help him. At some point people either had to throw off the wounds of their childhood or go through life permanently crippled. "If you want to play games with yourself, that's your choice, but don't play them with me, because I'll bloody well call your bluff." She rose from the booth and then stared down at him, her voice frigid with scorn. "I've decided to marry you."

"Forget it," he said, cold with fury. "I don't want you. I wouldn't take you if you were gift wrapped."

"Oh, you want me all right. And it's not just because of Teddy. You want me so badly it scares you. But you're afraid to fight. You're afraid to put anything on the line for fear your head's going to get dunked in that toilet again." She leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the table. "I've decided to marry you, Dallie." She gave him a long, cool look of appraisal. "I'll marry you the day you win the United States Classic."

"That's the stupidest-"

"But you have to win it, you bastard," she hissed. "Not third place, not second place-first place."

He gave her a scornful, shaky laugh. "You're crazy."

"I want to know what you're made of," she said contemptuously. "I want to know if you're good enough for me- good enough for Teddy. I haven't settled for second rate in a long time, and I'm not going to start now."

"You've got a mighty high opinion of what you're worth."

She threw her napkin straight at his chest. "You bet I do. If you want me, you'll have to earn me. And, mister, I don't come cheap."

"Francie-"

"You lay that first-place trophy at my feet, you bloody son of a bitch, or don't bother to come near me again!"

Grabbing her purse, she swept past the startled diners at the front tables and dashed out the door. The night had grown cold, but her anger burned so hot that she didn't feel the chill. Stalking down the sidewalk, she was propelled by fury, by hurt, and by fear. Her eyes stung and she couldn't blink them rapidly enough to hold off the tears. Two glistening drops beaded on the waterproof mascara that

coated her bottom lashes. How could she have fallen in love with him? How could she have let such an absurd thing happen? Her teeth began to chatter. For almost eleven years, she had felt nothing more than strong affection for a handful of men, shadows of love that faded nearly as quickly as they appeared. But now, just when her life was coming together, she had once again let a second-rate golf pro break her heart.

Francesca passed through the next week with the feeling that something bright and wonderful had slipped from her life forever. What had she done? Why had she challenged him so cruelly? Wasn't half a pie better than none? But she knew she couldn't live with half of anything, and she didn't want Teddy to live that way either. Dallie had to start taking risks, or he would be useless to them both-a will-o'-the-wisp neither of them could ever count on. With every breath she took, she mourned the loss of her lover, the loss of love itself.

The following Monday as she poured Teddy a glass of orange juice before he left for school, she tried to find consolation in the thought that Dallie was as miserable as she. But she had trouble believing that anyone who kept his emotions so carefully protected could have feelings that ran all that deep.

Teddy drank his juice and then stuffed his spelling book into his backpack. "I forgot to tell you. Holly Grace called last night and told me to tell you that Dallie's playing in the U.S. Classic tomorrow."

Francesca's head shot up from the glass of juice she had started to pour for herself. "Are you sure?"

"That's what she said. I don't see what the big deal is, though. He'll only blow it. And, Mom, if you

get a letter from Miss Pearson, don't pay any attention."

The pitcher of orange juice remained suspended in midair over Francesca's glass. She shut her eyes

for a moment, willing her mind away from Dallie Beaudine so she could concentrate on what Teddy

was trying to tell her. "What kind of letter?"

Teddy fastened the zipper on his backpack, working with single-minded concentration so he wouldn't have to look up at her. "You might get a letter saying I'm not working up to my potential-"

"Teddy!"

"-but don't worry about it. My social studies project is due next week, and I've got something so awesome planned that Miss Pearson's going to give me about a million A-pluses and beg me to stay

in the class. Gerry said-"

"Oh, Teddy. We have to talk about this."

He grabbed his backpack. "I've got to go or I'll be late."

Before she could stop him, he had raced out of the kitchen and she heard the slam of the front door.

She wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head so she could think, but she had a meeting scheduled in an hour. She couldn't do anything about Teddy at the moment, but if she hurried she would have time for a quick stop at the studio where "China Colt" was being shot to make certain Teddy had understood Holly Grace's message correctly. Was Dallie really playing in the Classic? Had

her words actually touched him?

Holly Grace had already filmed the first scene of the day when Francesca got there. In addition to a carefully positioned rip on the front of her dress that revealed the top of her left breast, she had a fake bruise on her forehead. "Rough day?" Francesca said, coming toward her.

Holly Grace looked up from the script she was studying. "I got attacked by this demented hooker who turns out to be a transvestite psychopath. They're doing this great Bonnie and Clyde slow-motion shot

at the end where I plug this guy with two bullets right through his silicone implants."

Francesca barely heard her. "Holly Grace, is it true that Dallie's playing in the Classic?"

"He told me he was, and I'm not too happy with you right now." She tossed her script down on the

chair. "Dallie didn't give me any details, but I gather that you handed him his walking papers."

"You might say that," Francesca replied cautiously.

A look of disapproval crossed Holly Grace's face. "Your timing stinks, you know that? Would it have been too much for you to wait until after the Classic before you did your number on him? If you'd set your mind to it, I don't think you could have found a better way to screw him up."

Francesca began to explain, but then, with a sense of shock, she realized that she understood Dallie

better than Holly Grace did. The idea was so startling, so new to her, that she could barely take it in. She made a few noncommittal comments, knowing that if she tried to explain herself, Holly Grace would never understand. Then she made a production out of looking at her watch and rushing off.

As she left the studio, her thoughts were in a turmoil. Holly Grace was Dallie's best friend, his first love, his soul mate, but the two of them were so much alike that they had become blind to each other's faults. Whenever Dallie lost a tournament, Holly Grace made excuses for him, sympathized with him, and in general treated him like a child. As well as Holly Grace knew him, she didn't understand how his fear of failure was screwing up his golf. And if she didn't understand that, she would never understand how that same fear was ruining his life.