Chapter 22 Holly
Eli’s official introduction to Griggs at the wedding couldn’t have gone any better. This morning, our Tripp begins dismantling the evil machine that Griggs and his cronies built. And for the first time since this whole thing began, I’m feeling confident, optimistic, and, frankly, quite fabulous.
Maybe it’s because I know we’ve done absolutely everything we can to prepare Eli, or maybe it’s because tomorrow I’m going on my very first date with a sexy British professor.
I can almost see Hugh sauntering into the Switchyards in that buttery leather jacket; I can practically feel the ice-cold martini in my hand and hear the jazz wafting around us as we speak in hushed whispers.
But first, I have a golf foursome to stalk.
“Holly, my darling one, come over here,” Peter says, standing up and gesturing for me to join him and Joel. My next-door neighbors have spent the past couple of hours bellied up to the Golf House Bar, as they tend to do on Sunday mornings. “We’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I don’t accept propositions from strange men at bars,” I say, smiling. “Particularly not when I’m on the clock.” And then, for good measure, I add, “But I’m not surprised by your come-on. I’m looking damn good this morning, if I do say so myself.”
“Loving the blowout,” Joel enthuses. “So sexy.”
Luisa took me shopping for the wedding, and then we headed over to La Barna, where her mom gave me the best blowout of my entire life.
I don’t typically invest time or money in my look.
But I thought, Why not? Well, actually, I thought, It wouldn’t hurt to show up at Monday night’s jazz jam looking hot.
While we were trying on dresses, I found myself chatting excitedly with Luisa about the date, but then worried that maybe I was crossing a line.
We are, after all, business partners (so to speak), and I don’t want to come across as unprofessional.
Still, I feel like we’re moving toward being friends—slowly—even if Luisa still hasn’t spilled on what the hell is going on with her and Eli.
In the meantime, at least I’ve got Peter and Joel. They’re quite skilled at dishing.
“Get your adorable little ass over here and listen to what we have to say,” Joel commands in his most bossy-pants voice. “Or I’ll evict you and that ragamuffin son of yours.”
Byron stands behind the bar, smirking. Clearly, he’s in on whatever they’re cooking up.
“All right,” I sigh, knowing it’s useless to resist. “But make it fast. Because, unlike you two”—I point accusingly back and forth to Peter and Joel—“I don’t get a Sunday Funday. This is my place of business, I’ll remind you.”
It’s a perfect May weekend, crisp warm air, clear blue sky, and I’ve conveniently arranged to work setup for the club’s Sunday brunch, which is held on the terrace, adjacent to the Men’s Grill, and overlooking the eighteenth green.
Eli is somewhere out there now, playing a round with Griggs, Jim Wade, and Judge Billy Thacker.
His goal is simple: Slide right into the foursome and drop subtle hints about his deep pockets, lack of experience, and desire to invest. If he plays his cards right, he’ll be invited back by the time they leave the green.
Meanwhile, I’m making myself look busy here beside the nineteenth hole, hoping to get intel when he returns.
Joel and Peter both swivel on their stools to face me, and Byron leans across the bar and rests his chin in his hand. Byron’s resting-chin pose is a surefire sign that he means business, so I’m starting to feel a little stressed about whatever it is they’re going to tell me.
“You need to be the next general manager of this place, Holly,” Joel says.
Oh, this again.
“You’re far and away the most qualified person for the job,” Peter adds.
“Exactly how many drinks have these two had?” I ask Byron, my voice teasing. “Because, as I told you, that’s never gonna happen.”
He shakes his head in response, and then, with his most authoritative deep voice, he says, “They’re right, Holly. And you know it.”
“Y’all are on drugs,” I announce, shooing them away with my hand.
Except, this time, I find that I really am thinking about being the general manager.
Maybe it was my experience at the Altamaha Country Club, realizing how much more of an expert I am than most event managers—how much I’ve learned over the years, and how my peers respect me.
I guess this whole scheme with Luisa has also helped me see that I can set a big goal and stick to it.
I can problem-solve my way out of unexpected predicaments (hello, Eli’s perfect accent; hello, Hugh Pridmore).
And I can keep my cool in a crisis. Aren’t all these classic managerial skills?
Maybe they’re right about the GM job, maybe I should apply.
I think back to what Luisa said last night, and I wonder if she could be onto something.
Would it be possible to use these skills while also being my own boss?
It’s all moot as long as the whole Griggs situation sucks up my free time and energy. So instead of replying, I fall back, as I tend to do, on a self-deprecating joke.
“Come clean, Byron. Have you been adding ’shrooms to your signature Bloody Mary mix?”
This elicits laughs all around—until Joel rearranges his face into that plastic fake smile he wears when someone he deplores is coming close.
Peter and Byron stare in the same direction and their laughter fades away.
I look over my shoulder, following their collective gaze, and see none other than Griggs Caldecott Johnson III.
My eyes dart around the room, searching for Eli.
How did I miss them leaving the course? And where in God’s name is Eli?
Joel stands up stiffly, extending his hand. “Hello there, Griggs. It’s good to see you.” That’s a lie and I know it.
Griggs shakes Joel’s hand, smiling amiably. “How are you, buddy?” Then he steps in and places the same hand on my shoulder. I flinch at his touch, which I’m sure the entire bar notices.
“Hello, Peter,” Griggs says, his voice booming. He tends to be especially warm and gregarious around the two of them, as if to demonstrate that he’s a modern man, in line with the times, perfectly okay with the gays.
“Griggs,” Peter says in response, his tone low and maybe even a little threatening.
I’m watching their exchange, a part of me seething with anger at Griggs’s casual touch, feeling the terrible burn of it through my magnificent new dress.
“And what are you folks over here gossiping about?” Griggs asks, inspecting my freshly styled hair as he casually keeps his hand on my shoulder. Then he turns to look at Byron. “Am I imagining it, or is our Holly all gussied up for us today?”
“We’re actually over here deciding that Holly should be the club’s next GM,” Joel says confidently, standing up to face Griggs. “She’ll be submitting her application in no time.”
“Well, good for you, Holly,” Griggs exclaims, his voice too jovial. “I’m a voting member of the board, so you have the right connections,” he says. “If you butter me up a bit, that is.”
Disgusting man. We’re all silent for a beat, until Griggs lets out a burst of too-loud laughter.
“Kidding, only kidding,” he says, flashing a huge smile. “Anyway, I’m off to enjoy free drinks, courtesy of the young whippersnapper who just won the round.”
My heart begins to stutter. Please, God, let that young whippersnapper not be our Tripp.
I made it abundantly clear to Eli that no matter how good a player he might be, he should not, under any circumstances, show these men up.
Their egos are way too fragile. Judge Thacker must win.
If he doesn’t, there’s absolute hell to pay.
Janey told me that, a few years ago, he even found a way to land their fourth in jail after a particularly humiliating loss on the course.
Called a few of his buddies at the sheriff’s office and set the poor guy up for a DUI after having paid the guy’s bar tab himself.
The story may be a classic Janey exaggeration, but knowing Judge Thacker, I’m inclined to believe it.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Joel says, shaking his head. “Did you lose any money off him?”
“Hell yeah.” Griggs snorts a laugh. “The old judge kept upping the stakes, sure he was gonna eventually turn the thing around.”
“Stakes?” I ask, my face flushing hot with anger. “You mean, he won a bet?”
“Cleaned us all out.” Griggs laughs, gesturing toward the adjacent Men’s Grill patio, and I finally spot Tripp, joking along with the guys as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Tripp Bedford’s his name,” Griggs continues.
“Of the Mississippi Bedfords. That boy has a damn-near-perfect golf swing.”
“And how’s Judge Thacker handling it?” Joel asks, smirking.
My legs turn to jelly. I have to hold on to the back of Peter’s chair.
“Well, you wouldn’t know by looking at him, but the esteemed judge is mad as hell.
” Griggs couldn’t be more amused. “Thinks the kid sandbagged us on his handicap. Doubt Tripp Bedford will be joining our standing threesome again.” He sounds entertained, as if our plan’s literal demise is oh-so-funny.
“Crying shame—he’s a solid young man and a fabulous golfer.
At least we get a round or two of bourbon out of him. ”
My mouth goes so dry that I involuntarily reach for Peter’s blood orange mimosa and take a long swallow. Why did he not follow my instructions? They couldn’t have been clearer.
I think back to the derby party, and how quick Eli was to place a bet.
Does he have a gambling problem? Is he just using me and Luisa to get in among the high rollers?
Whatever the answer, I have to extract Eli from that situation before he’s saddled with a huge bar tab or a DUI. Or, God forbid, both.