Cul-de-sac Page 7

  “Looks like you’re away again,” Norman says, not quite able to disguise the delight in his voice. The two men have a “friendly” competition going, and if Nick misses his next putt, they will be all tied up after seventeen holes.

  Only one more hole to go, Dani thinks as, once again, Nick begins his painstakingly slow routine. Slower than molasses, she thinks, silently acknowledging that this is probably what makes him such a good doctor, this attention to detail, this thoroughness at every stage of the process, this desire—this need—for perfection.

  Still, perfection isn’t an easy trait to live with, she thinks, watching the ball roll toward the hole. Go in. Go in. For almost its entire length, it looks as if Nick’s going to sink it. But then the ball hits a slight bump in the grass and ends up doing a three-sixty around the hole to remain stubbornly outside it.

  “Oh, so close,” Norman says. “Looks like we’re all tied up, Doc.”

  “On to the eighteenth,” Poppy Fisher chirps.

  Dani watches Poppy drape a congratulatory arm around her husband’s shoulders, sees his hand slip casually toward her buttocks. She smiles as they walk toward their cart, trying not to compare herself to the younger woman. Not that there’s any comparison. Poppy is six feet of drop-dead gorgeous in her short and flouncy black golf skirt and clinging neon-yellow top, whereas Dani is five feet four inches of average in her plain white polo shirt and long brown shorts that skim the tops of her dimpled knees. The fact that both women are blond only serves to exaggerate the differences between them. While Poppy’s hair hangs wondrously straight and shiny beneath her stylish visor, Dani’s unruly curls shoot from the bottom of her baseball cap like an explosion. I look like a circus clown, she thinks, catching sight of her reflection in the golf cart’s rearview mirror as she slides into the passenger side.

  Behind her, she hears the angry thrust of Nick’s putter as he returns it to his bag.

  “You’ve got to watch where you stand,” he says as he takes his position behind the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes refusing to meet hers.

  “I’m sorry. I tried…”

  “Try harder.”

  “You said where I moved was perfect.”

  “What else could I say without sounding like some sort of prima donna? I mean, how many times do I have to ask you? Are you deliberately trying to make me look bad?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “I should have had that putt. You cost me a hole.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dani says again, and she is, although she isn’t sure why. “Maybe you’re taking this competition a bit too seriously?” she ventures.

  “Maybe you could learn a little golf etiquette.”

  “Sorry,” she says again. And then, to lighten the mood, “A little golf etiquette comin’ right up.”

  “Coming,” he corrects, refusing to be mollified as he pulls to a stop behind Norman’s cart. “Looks like you’ve got the honors,” he tells Norman without a trace of anger or impatience.

  Poppy ambles up to the side of Dani’s cart as their husbands approach the tee box. “Having a good time?”

  “Sure am,” Dani lies. “The course is beautiful.”

  “Yeah, we love living here. The place has everything—golf, tennis, a fabulous gym. The doc would love it.”

  Dani nods. Her husband would absolutely love living here. She, on the other hand, would hate it. Everything about these meticulously maintained gated communities intimidates her. So far she’s been able to convince Nick that because the vast majority of these developments are adult-oriented, their boys would have no one to socialize with. But their sons are growing up fast, and Nick is growing bored of the cozy little cul-de-sac that has always made her feel safe. “Yes, he—”

  “Ladies, a little quiet, please,” Nick calls from the tee box, lifting both arms into the air as if to silence the crowd, the way Dani has seen them do on TV. “The man is about to swing.”

  “Your husband’s so funny,” Poppy says as Norman steps up to the ball, gives it a whack, and sends it flying down the center of the fairway. “Woo-hoo!” Poppy shrieks. “Great shot, babe.”

  Norman acknowledges his wife’s enthusiasm with a wink, stepping aside as Nick puts his tee into the ground. Dani looks around, hoping she isn’t in his line of sight, as he carefully places the ball on the tee and starts his series of waggles and practice swings.

  “The doc’s a very good-looking man,” Poppy says.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “How’d you ever land him?”

  The question hits Dani like a fist to her solar plexus. Not that she hasn’t heard it before. She’s been hearing variations of it all her married life—Aren’t you the lucky girl! What’d you do to win that? Tell me your secret, girl. Still, it never fails to shock her. “Excuse me?”

  Nick stops, his club dropping to his side. “Everything okay over there?”

  “Yes, fine. Sorry.”

  “Could you watch this for me?”

  “I’m watchin’.”

  “We’re all watchin’,” Poppy repeats with a laugh as Nick restarts his routine from the beginning. “Watchin’ and waitin’,” she adds, pointedly.

  Dani chuckles in spite of herself.

  “Ladies,” Norman says. “A little decorum, please.”

  “Ah, honey,” Poppy says. “Your decorum isn’t so little.”

  Norman laughs. “Please excuse my wife,” he says, with obvious affection.

  “No need,” Nick says, smiling. He cuts short his routine, then mishits the ball, sending it into the bushes to his left.

  “Take a mulligan,” Norman offers. “You were distracted.”

  Nick nods and tees up another ball, only to repeat the same swing to the same results. “That’s it for me,” he says with a shrug. “I’m out of this hole.”

  “Nah,” Norman says. “Just drop the ball from where mine landed. We’ll call it a draw.”

  “No way. You won fair and square. I owe you twenty bucks.”

  * * *

  —

  “So…what would everybody like to drink?” Norman asks, as they enter the wood-paneled bar area of the private club after the completion of the round.

  Dani sits down beside her husband at the low round table for four that overlooks the finishing hole of another of the club’s three courses. Nick has barely looked at her since they walked off the eighteenth green.

  “Gin and tonic,” Poppy says.

  “Sounds good,” Dani agrees.

  “Count me in,” Nick says.

  “Four gin and tonics,” Norman instructs the waiter, then checks his watch. “We’ll have to drink quickly. Our dinner reservations are in twenty minutes.”

  “Sorry if I was a little slow,” Nick apologizes. “ ‘Slower than molasses,’ as Dani would say.” He reaches over to pat her hand. “My fault entirely. Don’t get to play nearly as much as I’d like these days.”

  “I’m sure your practice keeps you very busy,” Poppy says. “Must be very gratifying being married to such an important man,” she says to Dani.

  “Oh, my wife’s no slouch,” Nick says before Dani can think of a suitable response. “You ever in need of a top-notch dentist, she’s the one to call.”

  “Count me out. I hate going to the dentist,” Poppy says.

  “Now she tells me,” Norman says. “After I paid a small fortune for that mouthful of veneers.”

  Poppy flashes a brilliant smile of perfect teeth. “Only the best for my guy.”

  * * *

  —

  “So, did you have a good time?” Dani asks her husband on the drive home after dinner.

  Nick keeps his eyes on the road and says nothing.

  “They’re kind of a strange match,” Dani continues. “I mean, they’re nice enough, I guess, but…”

&
nbsp; “I don’t recall anybody asking your opinion,” her husband says.

  Dani’s breath catches in her lungs. “You’re still mad,” she acknowledges.

  “Why on earth would I be mad?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Maybe because you deliberately stood in my line of sight?”

  “It wasn’t deliberate….”

  “Because you made fun of my slow play…”

  “That was Poppy, and she was makin’ fun of my accent as much as anythin’….”

  “You didn’t laugh?”

  “Well, it was kinda funny.”

  “I’m glad you thought so.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” Dani waits for Nick to accept her apology. “I’m really sorry,” she repeats when he doesn’t. Then, “Are we good?”

  Nick says nothing. They drive the rest of the way home in silence.

  * * *

  —

  Dani goes upstairs to check on the boys while Nick pays Erin for babysitting.

  “Oh, that’s way too much,” she hears Erin say. “Really, you don’t have to…”

  “No. I insist. Please, I’ll be insulted if you don’t take it.”

  “That’s so nice. Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Dani hears the front door close, watching from her bedroom window as Erin disappears inside the house next door. “How much did you give her?” she asks as her husband walks into the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  But the words are barely out of her mouth before his open hand comes crashing against her cheek.

  She collapses to the floor.

  “Now we’re good,” he says.

  Chapter Ten

  “Goodbye, kids. Have a great day,” Sean Grant calls from the doorway as Olivia backs her car out of the driveway, then stops, opening her window.

  “Good luck today, hon,” she says, blowing him a kiss.

  “Thanks.”

  “I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “Fingers crossed,” he says, watching his wife hold up both hands and do just that. “Drive carefully.”

  “Always.”

  Sean watches her car disappear down the main road and is about to go inside when the front door of the Wilsons’ house opens and out walks the handsome doctor himself. “Hi, Doc,” Sean says, waving.

  “Hey, there, Sean,” Nick replies. “How’s it going?”

  “Going great. I have a job interview this morning.” He rubs the stubble on his cheeks, forcing a laugh from his throat. “Guess I’ll have to shave.”

  Nick climbs behind the wheel of his black Mercedes. “Looks like you’ve got a pretty good thing going here. Sure you want to get back into the daily grind?”

  Sean shrugs. More than anything, that’s what he wants.

  “Well, I wish you luck.”

  “Have a good day,” Sean calls after him. He checks his watch. It’s a little early for the doctor to be leaving for work. Must have a very busy day ahead of him. I remember those days, he thinks. “And you will have them again,” he says out loud, seeking reassurance in the sound of his voice.

  Seconds later, the Wilsons’ garage door opens and Dani Wilson backs her car, also a black Mercedes, but smaller than her husband’s, into the driveway. Here comes another busy day, Sean thinks, wondering if they purchased their cars through Craig McKay, if he gave them some sort of deal for buying two. He knows Craig moved out about three months ago and is curious why, even more curious about what he was doing back here last week. He certainly looked spooked when he left, Sean recalls, deciding that if he gets this job, the first thing he’ll do is give the man a call. No more Hondas for the Grants. No, sir. It’ll be matching Mercedes all the way.

  He waves as Dani Wilson backs onto the street, but she doesn’t wave back. Instead she lowers her head and pretends not to see him. He isn’t surprised. She’s a cold fish, that one, probably thinks she’s too good for the rest of them. Unlike her affable husband, she never stops to chat or inquire about their lives. What’s she got to be so snooty about anyway? Sean shakes his head, wondering what the handsome doctor sees in her. She’s attractive enough, he supposes, but nothing special. Must be great in bed, he thinks, going inside.

  He heads to the kitchen and pours himself another cup of coffee.

  “I notice we’re running low on coffee creamer,” Olivia said earlier.

  “No,” he says now, bypassing the fridge for the freezer at the bottom. “Coffee creamer is not what this needs.” He removes the half-empty bottle of vodka, mixing a few ounces in with his coffee, then returns the bottle to its former position. He takes a sip, then heads up the stairs, drink in hand, to shave and dress for his interview. The cup is empty by the time he reaches the bathroom.

  * * *

  —

  “Thank you so much for coming in, Sean,” the officious young woman from HR says, standing up and stretching her arm across her cluttered desk to shake his hand, signaling that their time together is up and the interview is over. “As you know, we’re meeting with several candidates, but we’ll try to get back to you as soon as possible. It was lovely meeting you.”

  “You, too. I think we’re a good fit.”

  “Thanks again for coming in.”

  Sean exits the canary-yellow building at the corner of Royal Palm Way and South County Road, shielding his eyes from the too-bright sun as he steps onto the street. He’s not getting this job and he knows it. He could tell the second he entered Carrie Pierce’s office that he was doomed. The Ms. on her nameplate was the first sign of trouble. Then there was the way she looked at him, that fake smile on her thin lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. What is she—all of twenty-five? And she’s the one calling the shots, the one who gets to decide if he advances to the next level, the one he’s supposed to impress? The one he needs to impress.

  She wasn’t impressed and he knows it. She paid scant attention to his résumé, seemed bored when he enumerated his list of achievements, gave little value to his years of experience. “We’re a young company,” she told him several times during the twenty-minute interview. What she was really saying was that he was too old.

  “Screw you,” he mutters, louder than he’d intended, attracting the attention of two women chatting on the corner. They glance briefly in his direction, then cross to the other side of the street.

  He laughs, catching sight of his reflection in a nearby window. Not quite the dashing figure he’d imagined when he left the house. His hair could use a good trim and the extra weight he’s put on in the last year makes his once-stylish suit appear ill-fitting and out of date. Oh well. Too late to do anything about that now.

  He removes his tie and tosses it in a nearby trash can, calculating that he has a few hours before he has to pick up the kids from school. It’s almost noon and he’s hungry. More important, he’s thirsty, and a glass of wine is just what he needs to rid himself of the taste of that demoralizing interview. It isn’t often that he’s in Palm Beach proper these days, even longer since he strolled the hallowed sidewalks of Worth Avenue, the county’s most prestigious address, full of expensive designer shops and pricey restaurants. Might as well enjoy it, since there’s no telling when he’ll be back.

  He’s staring at an outrageously priced linen jacket in the window of Ferragamo—three thousand dollars for a piece of imported fabric that’s going to crease like crazy? Are they kidding?—when he feels his cellphone vibrate in his pocket. Olivia, he knows, even before he checks the caller ID.

  “How’d it go?” she asks immediately.

  Sean tenses at the hope in his wife’s voice. “Great.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. Tell me all about it.”

  “What can I say? It went well. Really well. I think I have a good shot at this.”

  “That’
s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Well, it’s early days,” Sean qualifies, deciding he may have gone too far. “I still have to meet with the head of marketing, and probably the president of the company, and who knows who else. You know how it goes. This could take a while.”

  “So, when does all this take place?”

  “Not sure. Probably next week.”

  “This is such good news. Are you excited?”

  “I am. Just trying not to get too ahead of myself. They still have a few more people to see.”

  “Oh.”

  Sean hears a current of doubt resonating through that tiny word and hates it. “But Carrie Pierce, the woman I spoke to in Human Resources, was extremely positive. She was very encouraging.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Olivia says again, although with less enthusiasm than she expressed the first time. “Oh, there goes my other line. I should go.”

  “Of course. Duty calls.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” He returns the phone to his pocket and stands very still, taking several measured breaths before pushing open the heavy glass door of the designer shop.

  A salesman approaches almost immediately. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Sean smiles. “I’d like to see the linen jacket in the window.”

  * * *

  —

  Sean is sitting at a table by the large open window of the front section of Ta-boo, one of Palm Beach’s oldest and best known restaurants. The bag containing his new jacket sits at his feet. He is finishing up his lobster salad, savoring his second glass of Pinot Grigio, and contemplating a third. Outside, a parade of smartly dressed women with unnaturally tight faces saunters by. Snatches of conversation from the next table drift lazily toward his ears.

  (“Did you hear? Marsha needs to have her implants replaced. Apparently, there’s some kind of problem with the manufacturer.”