yanked his gaze back to the road in time to see a doe and her spotted fawn gambol down the fogged-in bank, stepping directly into the roadway right in front of him.
Derek had grown up in this place. He knew every curve of the road and every outcrop, every sheer cliff, and every thick-girthed cedar and Douglas fir that bordered the wild highway. He even knew that the Huffelmanns owned property for the next mile along the road and had posted it No Trespassing. Old man Huffelmann would not even give the highway department permission to put a guardrail alongside the steep incline, so there was no barrier to keep him on the road.
The tires screamed on the wet pavement and he dialed the steering wheel frantically in the opposite direction of the skid. Crystal stayed completely silent, though she threw her hands in front of her and braced them on the dashboard. Somehow, Derek wrestled the car back into its lane.
Crystal glowered at him. “You drive like a maniac.”
“You used to like that about me.”
“I used to like a lot of things about you.”
“Hey, at least I didn’t cream Bambi and his mom.” He could tell she was in no mood. Fine, he thought. He might as well get on that last nerve of hers right now and get it over with. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you I have to miss Ashley’s birthday party.”
“Derek, come on.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to be in Vegas for a big tournament, so I need you to change the party date.”
“I’m not changing a thing.”
“She’s only two. She’ll never know. She’s just a baby. It’s no big deal.” A pair of madronas, the bark peeled off to reveal bloodred branches, grew beside the sharp curve in the road ahead. He ignored the yellow-and-black caution sign and accelerated.
“No big deal,” she echoed, her voice soft with restrained fury. “Well then, I suppose that now would be as good a time as any to tell you the baby isn’t yours.”
part two
The beauty of a strong, lasting commitment is often best understood by men incapable of it.
—Murray Kempton
chapter 6
Friday
5:00 p.m.
And here’s the challenger, Sean Maguire, aiming for the green and a possible eagle putt. No one in the crowd is breathing as the challenger selects a Titleist forged-iron pitching wedge, assuming his famous stance. An easy, athletic swing, a flawless follow-through and…he’s on, ladies and gentlemen. He’s on the green and rolling twenty, fifteen, ten! He’s just ten feet from the hole, and that’s one putt away from a historic win. Not only will he take home one million dollars and the championship trophy, but he’ll also be having sex with identical blond twins who magically turn into beer and pizza at midnight. Ladies and gentlemen, you can hear a pin drop as the challenger steps up to address the ball. All that stands between him and victory is ten feet of putting green. This should be no trouble for the legendary Maguire. He adjusts his stance, glides into his famous backswing, preparing to make history. Smoothly the club head descends toward the ball, flawlessly aimed, and—
“Hey, mister.”
Sean’s arm jerked and the head of the putter missed. The golf ball bobbled away from the hole. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he straightened up and scowled at the kid, who stood at the edge of the practice screen.
“Yeah?” Sean immediately regretted the annoyance in his tone. The wide-eyed kid was probably a fan, asking for the autograph of the legendary Sean Maguire. “What can I do for you?”
“You got change for a dollar?”
Great. He scrounged the change from his pocket. He had only thirty-five cents. The coins felt light and insubstantial in his hand.
He leaned down and grabbed the ball from the rain-soaked green. His four o’clock lesson hadn’t shown, probably due to the weather, so he’d passed the time practicing his own game. To what end, he had no idea.
“What do you need, kid?”
“Change for the Coke machine.” He shuffled his feet and, probably prodded by some latent lesson from Mom, added, “Please, mister.”
“You can call me Sean.”
“Really?”
“I just said you could. I can make change in the clubhouse.” He jerked his head toward the long, low building. His place of employment. He’d capped off his stellar career as a professional golfer right where he’d started, here at Echo Ridge.
As the kid fell in step with him, Sean asked, “What’s your name?”
“Russell Clark.”
They shook hands and kept walking.
“Hey, want to know how to figure out your porn-star name?”
“My what?”
“You know, your porn-star name. Porn stars never use their own names.”
The kid was ten years old if he was a day. What did he know about porn stars? “Is this something you ask all strangers, or just me?”
Russell shrugged, so Sean said, “Okay, sure. Sure. I’m dying to know.”
“Tell me the name of the street you live on.”
“Ridgetop Avenue.” In yet another nondescript apartment. He’d never lived in a place he actually cared about.
“Now tell me the name of the first pet you ever had.”
“When I was about your age, I had a shepherd mutt named Duke.”
The kid roared with laughter. “Then your porn-star name’s Duke Ridgetop.”
Oh, that’s brilliant, thought Sean. Just brilliant. “Maybe he’ll pay my bills for me.”
“Guess what mine is. Betcha can’t guess.”
“You’re right. I can’t. What is it?”
“Pepper McRedmond. Cool, huh?” Russell laughed and slapped his thigh.
“Whatever tees you up, kid.”
Inside the clubhouse, Sean made change and then Russell scurried off to the Coke machine. Kids belonged to an alien nation, Sean thought. He’d never understand them. Shaking his head, he noticed his weekly paycheck in his in-box. He stuffed it in his jacket pocket without even looking at the amount. He knew he ought to be grateful for steady money, but hell, he used to tip his caddie more than that amount after just one round. Used to.
Sean checked the time. He was finished here for the day, but in three hours he’d be back in the bar upstairs, fixing Manhattans and cosmopolitans for local lawyers and leather-skinned retirees. It was hardly worth going home
