Three Over Par Page 6

  Daniel looked up, nodded and returned his focus to Mrs. Croydon. “There, I told you it’d be all right. Lucy Seymour’s here to look after you, and my nan swears she’s the best nurse at Hakea Lodge, so you’re in good hands. But I’m going to have to let you go now. There’s not enough room in here for two, and Lucy needs to check you out and I need to call an ambulance.”

  Her fingers tightened around his with fierce intensity and she let out a moan that could have been an inarticulate “Don’t leave” or a simple cry of pain.

  Daniel smiled reassuringly, eyes on hers, as steady as an oak as he peeled her fingers from his. “Shh. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  He stood, mobile phone already in hand and flicked open, and stepped over the cart frame. Nodding in thanks, I clambered inside and knelt beside Mrs. Croydon, checking her pulse while asking her questions in the calm, low voice I reserved for distressed patients. Her heartbeat pattered rapidly against my fingers, and her skin felt cool and sticky. She could barely speak through tears of pain but, from her answers and my physical assessment, it appeared the fracture was the only injury. Relief had me sucking in air again.

  “The ambulance is on its way.” Daniel slid his phone into his trouser pocket and reached over the roof to stroke Mrs. Croydon’s sweat-speckled forehead. “You’ll be okay.”

  I indicated her leg. “We need to get this cart off her.”

  “I know.”

  He stood and looked down, scanning the cart’s position. Without another word he crouched, straight-backed, thigh muscles taut, and dug his fingers into the muddy turf and under the partly crumpled roof. I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him I could help, but the cart was already moving, trapping Mrs. Croydon and me within the frame that held the roof.

  Daniel’s forearms bulged with effort as he slowly lifted the vehicle. The cords of his neck stood out like cables, his jaw clenched determinedly closed. Every muscle flexed taut beneath his clothing, as if his trousers and shirt had suddenly shrunk. The effort seemed Herculean, almost otherworldly, and for a few heart-swelling moments I was mesmerised, held in awe by his power and raw masculinity.

  Mrs. Croydon let out a whimper, drawing me away from his superhuman effort. I stared at her foot, worried the cart’s heavy chassis would act as the lever point, forcing the broken tibia end through her papery, blackening skin.

  I cast another look at Daniel. His eyes met mine and read my concern. And though it must have taken energy a normal man wouldn’t have to spare, he managed a single gasped “Tyres” through the strain. I nodded, my faith in Daniel’s strength and mechanical expertise absolute, and returned my focus to Mrs. Croydon. Sure enough, as he levered the cart toward upright, the tyres acted as the pivot-point, taking the weight of the chassis and leaving Mrs. Croydon’s leg free. With a grunt and a final shove the cart tipped past its balance point and fell on its wheels, bouncing heavily and almost toppling over before settling in the boggy ground.

  Daniel was by her side in an instant. “It’s okay. You’re free now.” His breath was short but his voice had lost none of its soothing timbre. He touched her head, now beaded in sweat. “Let’s get you a bit more comfortable, hey?”

  His fingers moved to his shirt buttons, unplucking them with expert ease. He shrugged out of the shirt and folded it into a neat pad before gently raising Mrs. Croydon’s head and tucking it underneath. Resting on his haunches, he took her hand in his steady paw, muscled chest sheened with sweat, biceps like river-washed rocks.

  There was little I could do with the break. Mrs. Croydon’s leg was skewed at such an angle, any attempt to splint it would only cause excruciating pain, and already I could hear the wail of the ambulance siren. Though Harrington was too small for a hospital, it was big enough to warrant an ambulance station. Fortunately for Mrs. Croydon, it had been built only a few streets from the golf club gates, and I doubted a few moments’ wait for paramedics and pethidine would alter the clinical outcome for an injury so severe. Instead, I raided the golf cart for the old woollen blanket she’d tucked over the seat and laid it across her body before checking her pulse once more. It quivered like a trapped moth, rapid and fragile.

  She fixed Daniel with liquid eyes, shrunken and terrified. Well aware of the magnitude of her injury, that an extended hospital stay was inevitable. “Who’ll look after Saffy?”

  Daniel smiled his reassurance. “Don’t you worry about Saffy. She’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “And the house? Who’ll check the mail and water my plants?”

  “Shh. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it.” He glanced at me, his eyes questioning. As subtly as I could, I indicated the wrist I held between my fingers, telling him I wasn’t happy with her pulse. He turned back to Mrs. Croydon. “Saffy’s a dog, isn’t she?”

  Her mouth wobbled as she thought of her pet. “A boxer. Bernard gave her to me for my sixty-fifth birthday.”

  “She must be still a pup, then.”

  A tiny smile appeared at Mrs. Croydon’s quivering mouth. Any animosity she once harboured toward Daniel seemed to have been washed away by waves of pain and fear, and his inalienable kindness. “She’s nine.”

  “Nine or not, I bet Saffy’s still as sweet-natured as she was when she was a pup. They’re good dogs, boxers.”

  Her fingers tightened around Daniel’s. “She’s not well. She has to have her heart tablets each day. Who’s going to look after her if I’m in hospital?” She let out a heart-wrenching sob. “I don’t have anyone else now Bernard’s gone.”

  Daniel regarded her steadily, her fortress against fear. “I will.”

  The ambulance had cut its siren but I could still hear its powerful engine revving as it turned up the fairway. Mrs. Croydon’s eyes slid toward the rapidly approaching vehicle. Her pulse danced erratically as though the sight of it caused her panic instead of reassurance. Tears cascaded down the crevices of her face.

  She locked eyes with Daniel. “I couldn’t bear to have anything happen to her. She’s my last link to Bernard.”

  Daniel hushed her, stroking her forehead. As the ambulance cruised to a halt, he leaned forward, his words staunch with conviction. “I promise you Saffy will be fine and so will the house. The only thing you’ll need to worry about is getting back on your feet.” And with that, he gave her hand one last squeeze and let the paramedics set to work.

  “That was a pretty amazing, what you did with the cart,” I said as we watched the ambulance roll away. Now that Mrs. Croydon had proper care, we could relax, knowing we’d played our parts as best we could.

  He smiled a little. “You liked that, did you, Lucy?”

  I peered at him, unsure if the tease in his voice was real or imagined. “Yeah. It was very manly. Quite sexy, in fact.”

  “Glad you think so. I’ll have to lift heavy things in your presence more often.”

  Emboldened, I caught my bottom lip in my teeth and smiled saucily. “Shirt off?”

  He grinned, turning my insides to molten honey, and at that precise moment I knew what I felt wasn’t lust, but pure, perfect love. “If you like.”

  High on the realisation, I nudged him, adoring this looser side of his personality, the half I’d only ever heard about. “Oh, I like. I like a lot.”

  Our eyes danced together, joined in flirtation. The air was redolent with relief now the panic of the accident had passed. Life extended its tentacles, wrapping us in vitality, reminding us of the importance of the moment, the joy of shared happiness. Of the infinite possibilities of love.

  He glanced at the battered cart and sobered. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”

  Hiding my disappointment at the change of subject, I nodded. “She’s quite fit for her age. Most golfers are. It’ll take a while but she’ll recover.”

  “Good. I’d hate for her to have to give up the game. She loves this club.”

  I tilted my head, surprised by his charity. “You know she complains about you.”

  He shrugged.
“She’s bored and lonely. Complaining gives her something to do. Nan was no different after Pop died.”

  I followed him toward the cart, disappointment throbbing as he tugged arms into his shirt and fixed the buttons. Today was the first day I’d seen his magnificent torso unclad and though it was now hidden by cotton, the sight had been so arresting, so delicious with its hollows, dips and ripples, I knew I’d be relishing the memory for a very long time.

  He circled the vehicle, inspecting the damage, before sliding into the seat. I placed one hand on the bent frame to prevent him from leaving, afraid of breaking the fragile connection we’d formed. Scared that it would never couple again. “So will you? Look after her dog and house, I mean.”

  He regarded me impassively. “You think I’m the type of person who reneges on promises?”

  I shook my head, smiling a little. “You know what? I doubt you’re capable. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that there’s not one single dishonest bone hiding inside that delicious body of yours. You’re just a big softie.”

  His lips quirked a fraction. “Yeah, that’s me. A big softie.” Suddenly, his beautiful mouth fell. When he spoke again, his voice sounded hollow. “Though sometimes I really wish I wasn’t. Anyway,” he quickly added, “I’d better get back to work.”

  I burned with the need to ask what he meant, but Daniel’s playful mood had passed. He’d returned to the person I didn’t know. With a nod he released the brake and pressed lightly on the accelerator. The cart chugged obediently into action, rolling slowly forward and away from my restraining hand.

  He may have needed to return to work, and I may have needed to get back to my abandoned clubs and game, but as he wheeled toward the greenkeeper’s shed, I knew the real reason he was leaving was to get away from me.

  Daniel remained true to his word. Saffy the boxer became a fixture at the golf club, sitting between Daniel’s legs as he cruised around on the quad bike, lazing in a patch of sun while Daniel worked on equipment, dog biscuits and a full water bowl always nearby. His grandmother even told me he’d managed to sneak Saffy into the hospital for a visit, much to Mrs. Croydon’s utter delight and several nurses’ horror.

  When she came home from hospital, Mrs. Croydon found her house better than she’d left it. All the odd jobs that had accumulated in the years after her husband had died were done, from the gutter that had needed repairing to the laundry door’s broken hinge. Neither did Daniel desert her once she was home. Each week, without asking, he was back to mow the lawn and tend to any other jobs she had.

  Though the district nurse was looking after Mrs. Croydon, I called in to check on her a few times and was rewarded with stories of Daniel’s kindness. In the space of six weeks, she went from being one of his greatest critics to his most ardent and vocal admirer.

  And any confusion I harboured over my feelings toward him was smoothed away by the all-powerful love I felt for this extraordinary man.

  Chapter Five

  As the summer faded it became increasingly difficult for the Pro, Daniel and me to continue our affair. Easing heat meant Club members were more inclined to venture out onto the course in the early afternoon and, though we tried, it became apparent there’d be little opportunity for ménage activity until our region’s miserable winter arrived in full force.

  The Pro still continued his games during my lesson, but I stopped letting him fuck me in the conventional passage, and never before the eighth. Partly it was due to my acute worry about being caught, but mainly it was because I felt that privilege now belonged to Daniel. He never complained. My arse had become his favourite orifice well before Daniel’s advent. Plus I think he could sense, as I did, that our strange, three-way affair would soon end and he wanted to take all he could while it lasted.

  Mrs. Haddon experienced no problems with her new arthritis medication and I was released from the need to monitor her blood pressure on a daily basis, but I’d become so addicted to her stories about Daniel, I couldn’t desist. And though I know she understood my visits were unnecessary, not once did she ask me to stop. If anything, she encouraged me, peppering me with all sorts of questions about my life.

  I answered with equanimity although not always entirely truthfully. Not including Daniel in my explanations seemed somehow dishonest, but I found it impossible to talk to her about him. How could I explain I was in love with a man I knew only vicariously, a man who seemed to consider me an addendum to his life. Someone as easily discarded as she was included.

  I spent too many distracted hours turning his words from the supermarket and Mrs. Croydon’s accident over in my head, trying to fit them into the jigsaw puzzle of our mystifying relationship. The only conclusion I could reach was one I didn’t want to contemplate and, like a child with a hated Christmas present, I shoved it into the darkest cupboard of my mind and tried to forget.

  At least, I did until the day he gave me a gift that changed everything.

  My birthday falls in late April, the time when the commemorative plane trees lining Harrington’s main road turn the colour of Daniel’s eyes and, in autumn’s peach-and-azure dawns, frosts spangle my small front lawn with a billion kaleidoscopic ice crystals.

  This year it fell on a Saturday. At my parents’ request, I took Friday and Saturday off work and drove to Melbourne so I could spend a full weekend with them. I was happy to do so. Another much-loved resident had died that week and Daniel had been so standoffish when he’d come to pick up his grandmother, I’d had to leave the room before either noticed the scalding, hurt tears that had risen in my eyes. Loneliness had crept into my bones and lay there in a flu-like ache, disturbing my sleep, infecting my days with disquiet. Family would provide welcome respite, if only for a few days.

  “You look tired, love,” my mother said over dinner Friday evening. “Everything okay?”

  I gave her a reassuring smile. I did look tired, had done for weeks. Even my patients had commented. “Fine, Mum. Just not enough sleep.”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave me a look I recognised well. The one pregnant with optimism that I’d found someone. That she might at last see grandchildren from her youngest daughter.

  I shook my head. This was one idea that needed immediate extinguishment. “Not from what you’re thinking.”

  “Pity.”

  “Carol,” warned my father in an effort to ward off what was an old and very tattered conversation.

  My mother carefully arranged her cutlery on her plate. She’d finished her dinner but I could tell from her pursed lips she hadn’t finished with me. “You’re twenty-nine tomorrow. Don’t you think—”

  I held up my hand. “Don’t spoil it, Mum. Please. Not this weekend.”

  To my shame, tears began to swell and burn. My parents regarded me with wide eyes before exchanging looks. I hadn’t cried in front of them since I was twelve and my beagle puppy, Toby, was run over. To cover, I stood and began gathering cutlery and plates, my head down, ablaze with humiliation.

  My father cleared his throat, as eager as I was to change the subject. “I put your name down for tomorrow. Par comp. Playing with your Uncle Mike and James Nguyen.”

  “Okay.”

  My mother opened her mouth to speak.

  “Right.” My father tossed her a look and stood. He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the lounge as though leading me from danger. “I bought a DVD of the 2008 British Open when the Shark played a blinder. Haven’t watched it yet. Been saving it for when you came.”

  That night I lay in bed on my side thinking about my life and what the hell I was doing. I was having sex with two men. Not separately, but together. And not in some cosy household ménage à trois arrangement, but on a golf course where we could be caught at any time. As if we were randy teenagers with nowhere else to go.

  And with one of them I’d stupidly, irrevocably and agonisingly fallen in love.

  How had I come to this? I doubted this was what Mrs. Debenham envisaged when she clasped my hand in her
claw-like grip and admonished me to live without regrets. Yet there I lay, my heart already lost down a cliff of anguish and my life skating perilously close to the edge.

  I deserved better. I deserved someone who loved me in return, not two men who used me for a fuck. And I was tired of this loneliness. Tired of it leaving me ragged and uncertain. Tired of it wearing me down like sea-washed limestone and, more than anything, tired of what it symbolised. That Daniel didn’t want me. And never would.

  I arrived home late on Sunday evening, too weary and upset to do anything other than dump my bags and flop into bed. My mother had arranged a family barbecue and, while I was glad to catch up with my sisters and their raucous, constantly growing families, their relentless clawing over a private life I refused to discuss left me exhausted. When my mother, fortified by too many glasses of chardonnay, joined them, and my temper disintegrated to blown-glass fragility, escape seemed the best option.

  I woke Monday morning to the sound of the postman’s motorbike puttering up the street. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the curtains and scattered weird shapes across the timber floor. I lay on my side with the quilt pulled tight around my body, staring at them and thinking about Mrs. Debenham.

  The old lady had died worn and bitter, eroded by a life she hadn’t made the most of. During the days of her encroaching death, when she knew the Reaper was stepping darkly across her soul, she’d spoken of all the things she should have done. All the love she should have accepted and granted. She’d grasped my hand in both of hers, her yellowy nails biting into my skin, and with fiery eyes exhorted me to not make the same mistakes.

  Now here I was, miserable from following a path I suspected I had misread from the beginning. A path that had led to the maze in which I was now trapped.

  But I promised I’d find a way out. Somehow.

  The letterbox was overflowing when I walked out to check the mail. Unusual given the most I ever received was bills, but I hadn’t bothered to retrieve the junk mail the night before and it sagged, wet and crinkled out the sides like limp cabbage leaves. The single letter the postman had tried to cram in the slot lay fallen and dampening on the dewy lawn.