C
ameron sat in the driver’s seat of the Winnebago, pretending to drive. He had to caddie in the biggest match of the summer and he was sick of being afraid—afraid to caddie, afraid to kiss a girl, afraid to drive. He sat high in the bucket seat, feeling the easy spring of the pedals under his feet and the big steering wheel solid in his hands. He was the only one home. The others were at the pretournament barbecue at the golf course. Cameron had taken the opportunity to slip away and try to call Becky, but got no answer. She was still at work.
A three-hour time difference sure was a pain in the neck. He missed her so much it hurt to breathe sometimes. She was so incredible to talk to, funny and smart and not at all concerned with what people thought of her. Until they’d become friends, he hadn’t realized how liberating that was. A few of his regular friends had ditched him after the accident and Becky had told him to quit fretting about it.
“Dr. Phil always says you wouldn’t care so much what people think of you if you knew how seldom they actually did.”
He wished he could drive all the way to Sonora, California, and see her. Hell, he wished he could drive, period.
He knew how to drive. He’d been the best one in his traffic-safety class at school. Knowing what he was doing was not the problem. Having some kind of weird freak-out the minute he got behind the wheel of a car, now, that was the problem.
Yet at the moment, he felt remarkably calm, sitting in the Winnebago. The RV park was practically deserted. Most of the pros were staying at the nearby resorts with room service and pools. Other than a bullet-shaped Airstream at the far end of the park, Cameron had a long, straight section of the park all to himself.
The windshield framed a view of Dogleg Creek and the woods beyond. Cameron turned it into a picture of the highway rolling out in front of him in all its asphalt glory, leading him straight toward the horizon. He discovered that even though he hadn’t done it for years, he still remembered how to make the revving sound with his mouth. It sounded the same as it did when he was six years old and part of a happy family. Before long he was halfway to Memphis.
Outside of Phoenix, he pulled over and made the shushing sound of brakes. This was idiotic. He ought to be driving for real.
He dug in the pocket of his shorts for the keys. He had no idea if the key to the door worked in the ignition, like a car.
It didn’t. He felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
He looked at the keys in his hand. They were strung on a key tag that read, “Rex Slug Bait.” Maybe it was one of those other keys. Maybe it was the one labeled Ignition.
All right, so he was out of excuses now. He had an empty parking lot with all the room in the world. He had the whole Winnebago to himself. It was time. They would be heading west again, back to Comfort and to the complications and dilemmas that would still be waiting there.
A hint of the panicky freak-out feeling knocked at his chest. He took a deep breath and ignored the sick sensation as he got out to undo the RV’s hookups. Then he climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Now, he thought.
Seat belt on. Key in the ignition. Gear in Park.
The engine flared to life, its power reverberating through the undercarriage, then up into Cameron’s gut. He felt his grip on the wheel tighten and forced himself to relax.
“Easy now,” he said under his breath. “Take it easy.”
Step by step. He released the parking brake and put the gear in Drive. It was easy. He had done this a thousand times in his mind. And then, smooth as a fish swimming downstream, he was off. Driving. He went little-old-lady slow, but it didn’t matter. This was a barge of a vehicle and it took some getting used to.
As far as Cameron was concerned, he was flying. He drove through the park, passing the empty herringbone-patterned slots. He took each corner like a pro, quickly sensing when to turn and how sharp the angle. He went around three times and felt relaxed enough to switch on the radio. Aerosmith, perfect. A few more times around and he had the window down, his elbow propped on the edge like a long-haul trucker.
Finally he took her right out the exit. The family might be tired after all of the day’s activities. He figured they would appreciate a ride home even though it was just a few blocks to the golf course.
He went under the speed limit along residential streets leading to Royal Oaks, but it didn’t matter. No one was behind him.
When he turned into the golf course parking lot, he stuck to the periphery, not wanting to get into a jam. The barbecue was still going strong. He could smell the meat cooking and could hear the country swing music playing over the loudspeakers.
A catering truck was backed up to the main building, white-coated workers scurrying back and forth. A girl who looked a little like Becky wheeled a huge trash can toward the Dumpsters.
Cameron watched her for a split second too long. By the time he turned his attention back to where he was going, a second cartload of trash cans emerged from behind the caterer’s van.
Even though he was driving at a snail’s pace, there appeared to be an explosion on impact. Everything in the container erupted—used foam plates and cups, corncobs and gobs of barbecue sauce, wadded up napkins, half-eaten hot dogs, ashes and ketchup. A glob of something—coleslaw, maybe—landed on the windshield with a splat.
Cameron somehow managed to slam the RV into Park and shut off the engine. He leaped out and hit the ground running. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, the panic back and clawing at him.
A catering worker, whose white coat was embroidered with the name Roy and spattered with red sauce, glowered at him. Roy weighed about two hundred fifty pounds. He had a shaved eight-ball head and, now, a wide streak of mustard on his pants.
“No, fool,” Roy said, “but you got some cleaning up to do.”
“Of course,” Cameron said. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” He cast about, trying to figure out what to do first. A small crowd had gathered. People pointed and talked among themselves.
Great.
A reporter and photographer came forward, the reporter yelling questions. “Anyone hurt? Whose Winnebago is that?” He turned to Roy. “Sir, did you see what happened?”
Roy jerked his head at Cameron. “Fool wasn’t looking where he was driving that thing.”
The camera lens and the reporter both turned to Cameron.
He had the thought that he didn’t actually want to die, but if lightning did happen to strike him right now, it would be a mercy.
There was no mercy for him, he realized as he saw his uncle weaving through the crowd toward him.
Here it comes, thought Cameron. He and his uncle had been getting along great, better than he and his dad ever did. Apparently that was about to come to an end. He’d just be the worthless screwup his dad thought he was; now Sean would think so, too.
“Slow news day, Donny?” Sean growled at the reporter.
Donny was unfazed. “You know this young man?”
“Give me a break,” Sean said, approaching Cameron.
“Hey,” he said.
Uh-oh.
Cameron shuffled his feet, waiting for the storm to gather and break. “Hey.”
“So you, ah, you were driving this thing?”
Every excuse in the book crowded up inside his throat, but all that came out was “Yes.”
“Think you can back her up out of the way so you can get this cleaned up?”
Jeez, thought Cameron, with everyone staring at him? “Yes,” he said. He hoped he wasn’t lying.
Sean cast a glance at the windshield with the chunks of coleslaw still sliding down. His face looked all hard, his lips taut and his eyes bright. Cameron had never seen him look so furious before.
“And do you know how to turn on the windshield wipers?” he asked, his voice as taut as the rest of him.
“I think so.” Cameron’s mouth was dry, as though shame had sucked all the moisture out of him. Then he noticed something about his uncle. It wasn’t fury that was keeping him so stiff and taut. It was laughter. He was dying with it, sweating from it.
And finally, he couldn’t keep it in any longer. It came out in long guffaws as he said, “Then I guess you’d better turn the wipers on before you drive that thing again,” he said.
Lily was pleased to see that Red Corliss took charge. Dealing with a garbage can-versus-RV situation wasn’t in his job description, but he didn’t miss a beat as he had Cameron drive him to the nearest car wash. Afterward, they all met at Red’s hotel, because he had promised Charlie she could swim in the pool there.
Adjacent to the golf course, the Colonial was a grand and elegant resort that housed most of the top players in the tournament. Two doormen in red top hats and tails held the doors open to the brass-and-marble lobby. There was a rotunda with a stained-glass ceiling, a replica of the veiled Christ by Sammartino as its centerpiece. Lily stopped in her tracks to look at it. This was one of the chief works of art she had planned to study in Italy this summer, a sculpture so perfectly wrought that it was said to move people to tears.
She nearly wept over the replica, which was displayed on a huge, polished marble pedestal. The unflinching portrait of suffering touched a nerve, and she quickly looked at Charlie, Cameron and Sean to see if they were similarly moved. Cameron was busy checking out a pair of smooth-haired teenage girls in tiny skirts and halter tops, while Charlie was showing Ashley how to hopscotch on the black-and-white marble floor. Sean and Red had kept walking, deep in conversation. And Lily felt herself missing Crystal with a painful intensity that left her breathless. She had no idea what sort of job she was doing with this fractured family. Some moments she thought it was going well. Cameron had gotten behind a wheel finally, regardless of the results. Yet other times, Lily felt utterly lost, as lost as Charlie looked when she first woke up in the morn
ing and discovered all over again that the mother she’d been dreaming about was just that, only a dream.
“Lily,” Charlie said, grabbing her hand. “Look at the pool!”
They could see it through the glass doors at the end of the colonnaded hallway. It was a gleaming turquoise octagon with a model Trevi Fountain and even a grand twisted staircase leading down to the shallow end. It was the perfect picture of gaudy ostentation.
Lily took the girls to the ladies’ dressing room and helped them into their swimsuits. “Where’s yours?” asked Charlie.
“I was just going to watch.”
Charlie screwed up her whole face in confusion. “Watch? Did you see that pool? How can you only want to watch?”
“It’s fine,” Lily said, keeping her voice light. No point in confessing to this child that she’d harbored a lifelong fear of water. The only reason she knew how to swim at all was that she’d had to pass water safety in college in order to get a summer teaching certificate.
“Come on, Lily. It won’t be the same if you don’t get in the water,” Charlie said. She and Ashley looked adorable in their yellow swimsuits. Ashley’s even had a rumba ruffle across the bottom.
“I didn’t bring a suit.” She had one in the RV but had managed to make it all the way across the country without having to put it on.
“We’ll go get you one,” Charlie said, sounding both loving and bossy—exactly, eerily, like her mother. “There’s a shop right across the hall.”
“Hotel shops are too expensive.”
“Uncle Sean’s going to win a million dollars tomorrow,” Charlie said stoutly. “He’ll give you the money for it.”
“Your uncle isn’t going to give me a dime,” Lily said quickly, defensively. “I have my own money.”
“Then you’ll use that. Charge it and forget about it.” It was exactly the sort of thing Crystal would say. Then Charlie grew downcast. “I really want you to swim with us.”
“Please,” said Ashley softly, as though she’d understood the whole conversation.
Lily heaved a sigh. “You two.” She took the baby out to the pool deck and handed her over to Sean. For a few seconds, her mouth went dry and she was speechless at the sight of him shirtless and muscular, already wet from diving in. Then she explained to him that she’d forgotten her suit and had to buy one at the hotel boutique.
“Charge it to my room,” Red said, lounging in Hawaiian-print shorts, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth.
“I’ll pass.”
“Say you’ll do it or I’m coming shopping with you.”
“This is a conspiracy,” Lily said, hurrying toward the shop.
Charlie insisted on coming, and she shopped with her mother’s keen eye for color and style. She dismissed the black and navy tank suits Lily picked out. “Try this one,” she said, pushing a suit on a hanger under the door. “And no whining.”
It was an almost-scandalous cherry-colored bikini, and against her better judgment, Lily had to admit that Charlie was right. It looked…hot. Before she could change her mind, she asked a salesgirl to cut off the tags and made the purchase. Drowning in self-consciousness, she stepped out onto the pool deck with Charlie.
Any hope that she could simply sit discreetly on the side was dashed by Charlie. “Uncle Sean, look at Lily,” she yelled. “She let me pick it out.”
With Ashley in his arms, he turned to look at them. The stare he fixed on Lily swept over her like a sunburn. “Good job, Charlie,” he said. “Jump in.”
Lily crept to the edge of the water and sat down, putting
her feet in the shallow end. The water felt delicious after the oppressive Southern heat of the day. She imagined sinking all the way under, letting the water close over her face, her head, and the thought made her recoil. She hoped no one noticed that she didn’t get in the water, because she didn’t want to have to explain that she was afraid. It seemed so silly, but the old sense of terror was so real.
While Red watched the girls in the shallow end, Sean swam across the pool underwater and surfaced in front of Lily. “You’re not getting in the water,” he said.
“I’m getting my feet wet.”
“I want to see all of you wet.”
“You’re a pervert, you know that?”
He paddled backward, his arms spread wide. “I’m golf’s Family Man. Don’t you read the sports pages?”