Chapter 31
“Mary Mulligan, why are you here?” Dean asked. He’d been sitting on a stool behind the counter in the pro shop at Addison Heights, watching golf on a television mounted to the side wall, but he stood when Mary entered. Though his tone was friendly and he smiled, her presence there clearly annoyed him. Anyone else might have missed the signs, but after twenty-six years of marriage, Mary knew his tells: the slight twitch in his right cheek, the way his index finger slid under his watch band to pull it off his skin, and his use of her first and last name. Hope swelled inside her because in those few seconds, she was watching her Dean. Her husband was still there, living somewhere inside this man, and she could convince that version of Dean to do the interview.
She put on what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I’m here for my lesson.”
His eyes widened. “A golf lesson? With who?”
Her neck prickled with irritation. Hadn’t Anthony told him, or at least put her name on the schedule? “You.”
He shook his head as his hand flew to the mouse, waking up his computer. “Says here my six o’clock is with Steve B.”
The side door opened, and Anthony popped his head out. “Steve canceled. Last-minute business trip. I forgot to update the schedule.”
Dean glowered at his brother. “You forgot?”
Anthony shrugged. “The young woman paid for a lesson with you. Teach her how to hit a golf ball.”
“This is the young woman who ran me off the road.” Dean gestured to his face. A few scratches and a yellowish bruise remained.
“So, after you teach her how to drive a golf ball, teach her how to drive a car.” Anthony disappeared behind the door again, closing it tightly after himself.
Dean rubbed his temple. Something he always did at the onset of a headache, and again, the familiarity buoyed Mary. Still, she squared her shoulders, prepared for him to tell her he wouldn’t give her a lesson and ready to argue with him.
“You don’t want to learn how to play golf,” he said. “You’re here to interview me.”
She made a show of looking behind her toward the entrance. “If that were the case, my cameraman would be here with me.”
“Okay then, you’re going to try to convince me to let you interview me, and I’m telling you now, it’s a waste of your time and mine.”
Mary sighed. He’d always been able to see through her. “I have an hour to try.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Dean said.
He strapped the golf bag to the back of the cart and slid in behind the steering wheel, next to Mary. Her leg bounced up and down, and her mind raced. She couldn’t screw this up. Her life depended on it, and so did his and Kendra’s. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
His arm brushed against hers, and a small spark lit up the air. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
This was the first time Mary had ever ridden in a golf cart with Dean. Her cheeks burned with shame. She should have shown more of an interest in this game that her husband had loved so much, or at least learned more about it before declaring she wanted nothing to do with it. When they were dating, she’d accompanied him to the driving range and even slapped out a bucket of balls, taking advice from him about her swing as she did so. After they married, she stopped going, just like he’d stopped spending afternoons on the beach with her. How had they become so comfortable with each other that they had stopped trying to please one another?
Dean fidgeted on the cart bench, getting comfortable, his familiar scent filling the small space between them. Oh, how she’d missed that smell. She inhaled deeply to breathe it in, realizing his scent relaxed her. “You smell like you’ve been on the course all day.”
“Are you saying I stink?” He sniffed his underarm.
She laughed. “Not at all. The smell reminds me of fresh-cut grass and Coppertone.”
He shivered, and his face paled. “Whoa. Hearing you say that”—he turned toward her, his eyes watering as he looked toward the bright sun—“gave me an intense case of déjà vu.”
Mary’s stomach fluttered, sure that somewhere inside him, memories of his life with her were trying to break through. She considered telling him about the other dimension—or whatever it was—where they were married and how she needed his help to get back to that world for their family. No, he would think she was crazy. A lighter touch would be better. “Maybe you knew me in another life.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “You believe in reincarnation.”
“I do.” Fifty-something Mary had been skeptical of any fact she couldn’t confirm, but after what had happened to her, she now believed anything was possible.
They crossed a road and drove through a parking lot. Golfers stood by their open car trunks, pulling out or packing up their bags of clubs and changing into or out of their golf shoes. Some shouted Dean’s name. Others waved. Dean nodded or raised his hand in response.
This was what it felt like to ride with a celebrity. She flexed and unflexed her legs. The realization that Dean was a celebrity hit her hard. Somehow, she had held him back in their life together.
A ball came flying toward them from the left, bouncing off the cart’s roof and landing in a flower bed with varying shades of pink daisies. Mary flinched, but Dean didn’t react.
“So, what were you in your past life? A queen? A pop star? A famous actress?” he asked. They reached the practice area, and the cart squeaked to a stop.
A woman on the putting green hit a row of balls, striking one ball and then another. Instead of seeing her, Mary saw Kendra in their backyard in Hudson, practicing with Dean. She could hear their laughter and even feel the weight of the book in her lap as she watched them play. Her hand flew to her heart. “A mother and a wife.” Her voice thickened. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was incredibly special, having a family.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth tipped downward, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and his shoulders drooped. His melancholy expression was one Mary had never seen on her husband. He looked in desperate need of a hug. Studying him, she wondered if this version of Dean regretted his choice not to marry and have children. She wanted to comfort him, but before she could think of anything to say, he shot out of the cart and busied himself with unstrapping the bag of clubs from the back.
Three teenage boys lugging bags over their shoulders walked by, their irons clanking together with each step they took. “Hey, Mr. Amato,” one of them called. “I’m coming for you. Shot a seventy-four last round.”
“Yeah, but you were playing from the ladies’ tees,” Dean teased.
The boy’s friends burst out in laughter. “He roasted you, dude,” one said.
“Let’s do this,” Dean called to Mary, walking off behind the boys toward the driving range. She couldn’t keep up with his long strides, and by the time she’d made it to the bay, he had a ball set up on a tee. “Let’s see what you got.” He tilted his head in the direction of the tee.
“Aren’t you supposed to give me instructions or show me what to do?” Mary asked.
“First, I want to see your swing.” He handed her the seven iron.
The club felt awkward in her hands. She wasn’t even sure how to hold it. The woman in the bay next to hers looked like she knew what she was doing, or maybe her adorable outfit—a pink-and-gray-plaid skort with a pink sleeveless polo shirt and a gray poufy baseball cap—made her look like a confident pro. Dang, Mary should have worn something cute instead of dressing for the upcoming July Fourth holiday in blue shorts and a red-and-white-striped shirt that made her look like a walking version of the American flag. Only the stars were missing. She could erase thirty years off her age, but at her core, she was still a dowdy, middle-aged woman.
Not only was the woman next to her dressed like a real golfer, but she knew how to play. With an effortless swing, she sent every ball soaring into the air. Kendra could give her a run for her money. The thought sparked Mary’s determination. She was here to get back to her life with her family. She needed to convince Dean to do the interview.
He tapped the face of his watch with his index finger. “Anytime now. I’ve got another lesson in less than an hour.”
“How do you go from being a media darling to refusing to talk to the press?”
“I’m a has-been. No one wants to hear from me.”
“You know that’s not true. People want to hear your version of what happened at the US Open.”
“One more word about the Open or interviewing me, and this lesson is over.”
He slid his sunglasses down off his baseball hat and over his eyes. He was so familiar, yet something was off. Unlike her Dean, he was lean and muscular, but the difference went beyond his appearance to the way he carried himself. He seemed unreachable, distant, sad even. This version of Dean lacked the warmth that made her Dean so lovable. Her Dean was lovable. They’d loved each other for more than a quarter century. Of course they’d experienced occasional hard times. Didn’t all couples? They’d always worked out their issues because they loved each other. How hadn’t she realized that?
“Let’s go.” Impatience tinged his voice.
If she could figure out how to play this game, she might be able to distract Dean into talking about himself, and he’d see that an interview wouldn’t be so bad. She tried to remember what she knew about swinging a golf club from the times he’d taken her to the driving range while they were dating. Nothing came to her, but really how hard could it be to hit a stationary object with a big club? She stepped up to the tee and swung with all her might. The iron made a swishing sound as it cut through the air, missing the ball.
Dean offered no advice or explanation about what she’d done wrong. Instead, he twirled his finger in the air, indicating she should try again. Mary swung a second time, with the same results. She whiffed swing after swing, but Dean didn’t say a word. After missing a dozen or so times, she turned to look at him again. He was watching the boy who had spoken to him earlier. “Garrett,” he called out. “Belly button should be facing the flag at the end of your swing.” The boy swung again, and Dean gave him a thumbs-up.
Mary jabbed him with the shaft of her club. “You’re supposed to be teaching me, not him.”
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. He unwrapped a piece and folded it into his mouth. The scent of spearmint floated in the air. “Before we work on your swing, we have to teach you how to hold the club.” He took the seven iron from her. “There are three basic kinds of grips. The overlap, the interlock, and the baseball grip.” He explained the differences and demonstrated each. “I recommend you start with the interlock. It locks the hands together and forces them to act as a unit. See how the fingers on my right hand wrap around my left thumb.”
Mary focused on his hands, noticing the bare ring finger on his left hand. His lack of a wedding ring brightened her outlook, reassuring her that she hadn’t lost him to someone else. He was still hers, and that made her almost certain he’d help her just like he always had.
“How come you never married?” The question spilled out before she could stop herself.
Dean snapped his gum. “Are you even listening?”
She pushed her hair away from her face. “Yes, and I’m watching your hands, and I noticed your ring finger is bare.”
Dean bent to place a ball on the rubber tee. He swung at the ball, sending it soaring across the range. She didn’t know much about golf swings, but she thought his was beautiful. His arms moved across his body with a liquid fluidity. His weight shifted from his back leg to his front leg with a loose ease. The heel of his right foot came off the ground as if it were on a spring. He set up another ball and pointed to his feet with the club. “Notice the ball is in the middle of my stance.”
His left golf shoe was approximately two inches in front of the ball, and his right foot was an equal distance behind it.
Dean swung. There was a crisp, clean sound at contact. The ball soared into the air and landed mere inches from a flag marking 175 yards. “Your turn,” he said, handing her the club.
“What if we do a story on you giving me a lesson?”
“How about you pay attention to what we’re doing here?”
Once she had her hands in position, he reached toward her fingers to adjust them. The touch of his skin against hers gave them both an electrical shock. “Ouch.” He pulled his hand away. “Why does that keep happening?”
The static electricity between them had to have something to do with their connection in their other life, didn’t it? Maybe each shock was a spark of memory, and Dean was on the way to remembering exactly who Mary was. That would be amazing. It would mean she might make it home.
She swung at the ball. This time her club made contact. The ball traveled less than ten yards, but it was a start.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Dean said before giving her other instructions.
“How did you get into the game?” She knew the answer. It was his family’s folklore, but she wanted to get him talking, to open up.
“My dad introduced me to it.”
Disappointed he didn’t say more, she filled in the rest of the story. “He played to get away from your mom for a good chunk of time on the weekend. Otherwise, she’d inundate him with a long list of annoying chores. You and Anthony went with him so you wouldn’t be stuck doing them,” Mary said, remembering the story Dean had told her long ago.
His O-shaped mouth conveyed his shock. “How do you know that?”
She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “I-I read it. In an old interview.”
Dean shook his head. “I never mentioned that to a reporter. My dad and mom both would have throttled me.”
“You must have.”
“Definitely not.” He chewed on his inner cheek. “‘Good chunk of time.’ ‘Long list of annoying chores.’ Those are the exact words my father used.”
She could see that her knowledge of what his father had told him had thrown him off balance. He stroked his chin as he watched her. Maybe now was the time to confess what had happened when she’d gotten her wisdom teeth removed.
“We used to . . .”
His phone rang, and he looked at the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
Mary watched him walk away. If she told him the truth, he would think she was crazy and never agree to the interview. Her desperation was affecting her decision-making. Thank goodness they’d been interrupted. She busied herself by practicing what he’d taught her, keeping her head still, shifting her weight from her back foot to her front, and following through on the swing. Each time she struck the ball, it traveled a little bit farther than the last time.
Dean returned to the bay, muttering under his breath.
“I thought I was doing better,” she said.
“You are.” He adjusted his baseball cap. Even with the adjustment, the hat looked all wrong on him because it wasn’t the old tattered royal blue one Kendra had given him on Father’s Day all those years ago. This one was black, with a red circle around a white tee logo in the center. She wanted to knock it off his head because now that she’d noticed it, she felt as if she were looking in a mirror and seeing her selfishness reflected back at her. Kendra didn’t exist in this world, and Dean wasn’t her husband, all because Mary had wanted another chance to anchor the news. Until she got back to her other life, she’d have to live with that gut-wrenching knowledge.
“I have to cut the lesson short,” Dean said. “There’s a problem at the house. A pipe burst.”
An image of their home in Hudson popped into Mary’s head, but then her stomach fell as she realized he was talking about another place where he lived without her. Meanwhile, after the lesson, she’d climb the thirty-eight steps to her attic apartment, and the only one there to greet her would be Belli. A wave of loneliness rolled over her. What had she done?
“Where do you live?” she asked, wondering what his home looked like without her around to decorate it.
He cocked his head in a way that let her know he wouldn’t answer.
“I still have fifteen minutes left of my lesson.” He couldn’t leave. She hadn’t convinced him to do the interview yet.
Dean was walking toward the parking lot. “You can reschedule with Anthony.”
She chased after him. “He already told me you’re booked for the summer.”
“Well then, have him give you a ticket to the fundraiser they’re doing this weekend instead.”
Mary smiled all the way to the clubhouse, certain she was getting through to Dean. Why else would he suggest that she attend the fundraiser?
The first time Mary had read the press release about Dean teaching at Addison Heights, she’d skimmed right over the part about the American Idol –like talent show. Now, in the pro shop waiting for Anthony to finish with a customer, she read the same information again on a flyer posted to the bulletin board, and she immediately thought of James. After seeing that depressed version of him in Scituate, she’d promised herself she would help him. She owed him that much for ruining his life, even if he didn’t know it.
“Is it too late for someone to register to participate?” she asked.
“Actually, someone just canceled. Steph’s going through the videos right now, looking for another contestant,” Anthony said. “Do you sing?”
Mary shook her head. “No, but I know someone who does.”