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The Library
Chapter 1: The Deep Rough Palm Desert, California Rita Shaughnessy stood beneath the patio overhang at the rear of the bungalow she had occupied for nearly a month at the Samantha Forbes Clinic, a copper-faced wedge poised about three-quarters back in her swing. Though it was a man's club, it hardly mattered. She'd been the longest-hitting woman on the tour, could outdrive more than a few of her male counterparts. Besides, she was hardly in a position to be picky about her equipment. "Spend enough time in a place like this," she said over her shoulder, "you can figure out all sorts of things." She hitched her hands just a bit higher. "One thing I realized, I'd been cupping my wrist at the top of my swing," she said. She gave a toss of her shoulder-length blond hair and, without appearing to look, brought the club down neatly onto the Astro Turf carpeting of the patio. The ball she'd placed there arced out into the clear desert sky, its white orb outlined cleanly against the purple range of mountains opposite. The ball seemed to hang in the sky for an inordinate amount of time, and when it finally dropped, it landed with a gentle plop on the immaculately tended grass of the clinic's croquet court, took one quick hop backward, and came to rest by a wicket peg, not half a yard from where several other balls lay. The croquet court was set like an emerald among the parched surroundings, had been carved into a gentle slope about fifty yards away, just this side of a pair of clay tennis courts and a sizable open-air pavilion where tai chi and stretching classes were conducted for those attempting to cleanse themselves during the cool morning hours. "Maybe you ought to put some clothes on," Vin Baxter said, gesturing at an older couple who stood together under the pavilion roof, staring up their way. "I have clothes on," Rita said. "Not many," he said. She gave him a smile. "You haven't been to the beach lately, have you?" In fact, she was wearing only a brassiere and bikini panties, and though Rita was not what anyone could call overweight, she was five foot ten and owned what her mother had once referred to as "certain bodily features." There was enough fabric in what she wore to make two or three outfits for any of the girls of Baywatch. "I’ve been to the beach," he said, flushing slightly as she bent over another ball. She smiled, and bent lower than was necessary toward the ball. She squeezed her arms together, gave an exaggerated waggle of the club just as Vin turned his gaze from her breasts toward the distant mountains. Rita smiled to herself. Vin was her agent and business manager, but he was fairly new to the job. He was young - younger that she was, at least - and he would take time to break in. But unlike Nathaniel Phillips, her previous manager, Vin had not so far tried to tell her what to do. He had been content to couch his suggestions about what you might call her "exuberant" lifestyle in relative deferential terms. This deference had a great deal to do with the fact that she was one of Vin's better-known clients, that despite her spotty earnings on the tour these past few years, there were few in the world of sports who were unaware of the accomplishments of Rita Shaughnessy, both on and off the course. And even though he hadn't much to show for all his efforts on her behalf, Vin was eager and energetic, event sincere at times. After all, he'd managed to get her into this clinic, when the Betty Ford had declined to re-enroll her after what had taken place during her fourth sojourn there. Besides that, she thought, he was cute, in a Jerry McGuire kind of way. It had been a while since she'd been around a man whom she could still make blush. That in itself made him kind of attractive. "I had a call from the clinic director this morning," Vin said, watching another shot soar out into the desert sky. "You two are getting chummy," Rita said. She tipped the half-empty range bucket on its side, flipped a ball to a relatively unmarked spot on the chopped up carpet with the wedge blade. "She's a bit concerned. She thinks you're backsliding." "Nonsense," Rita said. She put a little something extra into her downswing. There was a sharp report as the ball hit the top of the pavilion, and the old couple ducked in reflex. She turned to him, hooked a finger to adjust a bra strap. "The director's a twenty-four handicapper in a scratch-event world. She's just upset about the cook." Vin shook his head. "She didn't say anything about a cook." "The director of cuisine,“ Rita said. "That's his title. He's really not such a bad guy, though. We made friends; he comes up to the bungalow now and then, brings a little cooking sherry along -" "Jesus, Rita." "He's the one who me the clubs." She pointed to the eelskin bag leaning in the corner, a black monster that looked large enough to house a colony of bats. "Nicklaus left them here." Vin stared. "Jack Nicklaus came to the Forbes?" "My mistake," Rita said. "I meant Nicholson. The actor." "Oh,", Vin said. The old couple had ventured a few steps out onto the gravel path that led from the pavilikon toward the red-tile-roofed cluster of buildings that constituted the main compound of the clinic. Rita lobbed a pair of wedge shots in quick succession, and the balls smacked down into the sand, bracketing the pathway like mortar fire. The old couple yelped and scurried back under cover. "Have you been drinking?" Vin asked. "Is it five o'clock yet?" "Ten past," he told her. "There's your answer," she said. "You promised you were going to buckle down, really work on things this time around, Rita. That's how I got them to agree to take you." She turned to him, wide-eyed. "What do you call this?" she asked, sweeping her arm toward the neat circle of balls below. "Just watch." She brushed past him, close enough to send him into a full-fledged blush, picked up an empty martini glass from the patio table. She walked out onto the strip of grass that abutted the bungalow and bent from the waist to settle the glass securely. She glanced back toward the patio through the inverted V of her legs, but Vin seemed to be examining his fingernails. She came back to the patio, adopted a wide-open stance, sent a flop shot in the direction of the glass. The ball landed a foot past the glass, bit hard, leapt backward. There was a tinkling sound as the ball settled into the conical bottom. She glanced up to him and grinned. "Now there's a garnish," she said. "Two jiggers of vodka, splash of Rose's lime juice, add a Titleist 2. I'm still working on what to call it."
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