her mind, she asked a salesgirl to cut off the tags and made the purchase. Drowning in self-consciousness, she stepped out onto the pool deck with Charlie.
Any hope that she could simply sit discreetly on the side was dashed by Charlie. “Uncle Sean, look at Lily,” she yelled. “She let me pick it out.”
With Ashley in his arms, he turned to look at them. The stare he fixed on Lily swept over her like a sunburn. “Good job, Charlie,” he said. “Jump in.”
Lily crept to the edge of the water and sat down, putting her feet in the shallow end. The water felt delicious after the oppressive Southern heat of the day. She imagined sinking all the way under, letting the water close over her face, her head, and the thought made her recoil. She hoped no one noticed that she didn’t get in the water, because she didn’t want to have to explain that she was afraid. It seemed so silly, but the old sense of terror was so real.
While Red watched the girls in the shallow end, Sean swam across the pool underwater and surfaced in front of Lily. “You’re not getting in the water,” he said.
“I’m getting my feet wet.”
“I want to see all of you wet.”
“You’re a pervert, you know that?”
He paddled backward, his arms spread wide. “I’m golf’s Family Man. Don’t you read the sports pages?”
“Then you’d better behave like a family man, not a pervert.”
“But, honey, when I’m around you, I can’t help myself.”
chapter 42
Lily had, in fact, become an avid reader of the sports pages. The next morning, she turned to the sports section of the Raleigh Durham Gazette and almost choked on her tea. There was a picture of Sean with his hand on Cameron’s shoulder, his head thrown back with laughter. Cameron’s look was one of cautious relief. The headline read, “Tournament Underdog and Rookie Caddie.” The reporter, Donny Burns, had written a tongue-in-cheek piece about “the Dumpster incident,” as he dubbed it.
“Let’s hope the collision of Sean Maguire’s Winnebago and a wheeled garbage receptacle from Carolina Catering is not a harbinger of things to come in Saturday’s tournament. And let’s further hope the caddie-caterer affair doesn’t affect young Cameron Holloway’s judgment. Although his pedigree in golf is impeccable—he’s the son of the late PGA champion Derek Holloway, nephew of one-time Masters winner Maguire—Cameron Holloway is untested in tournament play. His performance as Maguire’s bagman could be the key to the longshot’s success—or to his failure…”
“Lily, what’s the matter?” Charlie asked, picking at her granola.
Lily was about to fold the paper shut but stopped herself. There was no reason to hide this. She turned the photo toward Charlie. “The paper printed this really tacky article about your brother and your uncle.”
Charlie studied the paper intently while Lily gave the baby another banana. It was just the three of them at breakfast. Sean and Cameron had left at dawn to warm up for the first round of the tournament.
“That’s a good picture of Uncle Sean,” Charlie remarked.
There was no such thing as a bad picture of him, Lily thought.
“I think this paper’s wrong, though,” Charlie said. “Cameron’s not untested in tournament play.”
Lily’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”
“The paper is wrong. One time, he caddied for our dad—”
“Charlene Louise Holloway.” Lily smiled. “You read that article all by yourself.”
She scooped granola into her mouth, took her time chewing and then said, “We should go. It’s a shotgun start.”
Lily pulled her hair back in a ponytail and put on the sponsor’s sun visor, which matched the tote bag and water bottle she carried—bright white with primary-colored dots. Crystal would be appalled. Her sense of style would have been hugely violated.
“Just a little bit of fashion sense could change your life,” she’d say.
Lily smiled at the memory. Crystal truly did think that way—change your look, change your life.
“You look good in that hat,” Charlie said. “You going to put some lipstick on?”
“I’m wearing lipstick.”
“I meant colored lipstick.”
“For daytime?”
“Of course.”
Lily showed her three options and went with the one Charlie picked, something called Wild Watermelon.
“And you should wear the foot socks, not the ankle socks,” Charlie advised.
“You’re wearing ankle socks.”
“Yeah, but I’m a kid.”
“I’m getting fashion advice from an eight-year-old.” She patted Charlie’s head. “You are your mother’s daughter.”
“Am I?”
“Absolutely. That’s one reason I love you so much.”
Lily felt Charlie’s steady gaze. “What?” she asked.
“You never told me that before,” Charlie said.
“Nonsense. I tell you that all the time,” Lily replied.