Table For Five

“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 in between. Maura, his girlfriend, was at the hospital until late, and early in the morning, she had to drive to Portland for a seminar. Sean was surprised to feel a twinge of sentiment; he would miss her, he thought. These days, he didn’t trust his own judgment about women.

With this current rotation, she tended to crawl into bed and sleep when she wasn’t working, anyway. They didn’t exactly live together, but lately they’d slept at his place every single night, and item by item, her things were migrating over to his apartment. Two days ago, she’d brought her CD collection and a picture of her family. This was as close to a permanent arrangement as Sean had ever had with a woman. Well, almost.

He looked around the clubhouse, where a few groups of golfers milled around, comparing scores and tallying up debts. Due to the storm, there weren’t many of them. Only the diehards were out in weather like they’d had this afternoon. Sean listened to them laughing and talking, and it made him remember that golf was supposed to be fun. A game. He missed those days.

In the locker room, he changed out of his chinos and club-logo windbreaker—Echo Ridge didn’t permit jeans—and slipped on his favorite Levi’s.

His cell phone rang, and when he recognized the number of the incoming call, his pulse sped up. “Yeah?” he said.

“Hello to you, too, pretty boy.” The voice of Harlan “Red” Corliss, Derek’s agent, was broad and smooth with a smile.

“You sound happy with yourself.” Cocking his head to hold the phone, Sean transferred the things from the pockets of his work pants to his jeans.

“What are you doing next Saturday, Maguire?” Red asked.

Sean dropped his keys and clutched the phone hard. “You got me in the Redwing tournament.”

“That I did. I have a few sponsors’ exemptions and I used one just for you, kid.”

Tournament play. It used to be what Sean lived for, what defined him. He used to be a rising star, a hero of the game. Now here he was, shadowed by disgrace, nobody’s hero. No matter what he did, he could still feel the sick sense of shame and guilt that had shrouded him like a pall.

“Hello?” Red asked when the pause drew out too long. “You’re not worried about your game, are you?”

Sean prowled back and forth in the clubhouse. “The talent’s intact.”

“Forget talent. You have a talent that’s almost freakish. So big deal. Forget you know how to hit a ball at all and work your ass off.” Red was quiet for a moment. “It’s not that, is it?”

“You know it’s not, Red.”

“Look, you can’t worry about that. You didn’t cheat. You were set up. It’ll be ancient history before you know it. Hell, it’s already ancient history.”

Sean leaned his forehead against the locker door. It didn’t matter that he’d been set up. He was guilty of stupidity. He deserved to be back where he started, climbing his way out of a hole of his own making.

“Got it, Red. Ancient history.” He stood up straight, turned and looked out the window. Freshened by the rain and bordered by majestic ancient cedars, the golf course looked green and bright enough to hurt the eyes. And in that moment, it hit him. This was a chance to get back in the game.

“Damn, Red.” Throwing off his doubts, Sean grinned until his face ached. Finally. Sure, Maura would tell him it wasn’t practical to go chasing after a game, and Derek would warn him he wasn’t ready, but Sean didn’t care. This was the break he’d been waiting and hoping for. Another chance at the sport he loved. He’d arrived in the States too late to compete in Q School, in which golfers earned—or requalified for—their PGA card, and he’d resigned himself to waiting another year to go through the process. But Red was one of the best in the business, and he was putting Sean on the fast track.

“Damn is right. I’m having Gail messenger the contracts over, and I’ll call you tomorrow with all the details.”

Sean was still grinning when the clubhouse door opened and shut.

“What’s funny?” asked Greg Duncan, the high school golf coach.

“Did you know there’s a way to make up your porn-star name?” Sean didn’t want to say anything to Duncan about his news. It would seem too much like gloating. Greg Duncan was a damned fine golfer who wanted his PGA card with a hunger that was palpable. He’d competed in Q School a few times but never advanced past sectional competitions. The guy needed a break, but that was golf for you. A heartless game, like Red always said.

“Uncle Sean?” Stomping his muddy shoes on the bristled mat, his nephew, Cameron, called to him from the doorway. “Hey, Coach.”

“Hey, Cameron.” Greg Duncan dropped his spikes in his locker and slammed it shut. “I’m out of here. See you Sunday, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the parking lot.

Cameron Holloway bore an almost eerie resemblance to Derek. He had the same sandy-colored hair and intense eyes, the same lanky frame that moved with surprising grace, the same startling talent at swinging a club. He was the best thing that had happened to the local golf team in years. And from the looks of him—cheeks reddened by the wind, hair damp, shoes muddy—he’d been out practicing.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Um, my mom was supposed to pick me up a half hour ago, but I guess she forgot.” He looked sullen as he said it. “She forgets everything lately.”

Sean bore no love for his former sister-in-law, who had taken Derek to the cleaners and back in the divorce, but it didn’t seem right to let Cameron badmouth her. “She probably got delayed in the rain,” he suggested. There were a lot of things Sean envied about Derek, but he sure as hell didn’t envy his brother’s crazy-ass ex-wife. Crystal was enough to drive anyone bonkers.

“Naw, she just forgot, and she’s not answering her cell phone. Neither is my Dad.”

Sean dug in his pocket for his keys. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“Thanks.”

“Meet me in the parking lot.” Sean told Duffy, the greenskeeper, that he was taking off and went out to his truck. Cameron was loading in his clubs, a set of Callaways with graphite shafts, which were better quality clubs than some of the well-heeled doctors at Echo Ridge played. The clubs were hand-me-downs from Derek, who got a new set every year from his sponsor.

Sean reminded himself that his brother had earned his success, stroke by stroke, tournament by tournament. He deserved every perk that came his way. And Sean…well, he got what he deserved, too.