Page 89 of Alfie: Part One
But I’d given him my word to be a vault, right?
So now, I was compromised. The next time my reporters wanted to get their hands dirty in mobster research, I’d have a knot in my stomach when I gave them the green light.
What if it ever came to light that Alfie, my ex-husband, might be affiliated? What would those rumors sound like? What would the subtle stares look like?
I believed Alfie—I had to—when he told me he’d lie low and remain on the fringes of the organization. I was desperate for that to be true. All while…he was still invited to barbecues at Finnegan O’Shea’s house, and Alfie had received an official welcome to the family. Rumorswouldcirculate eventually.
They might even reach my father.
Those were the thoughts rushing through my head when I drove a ball straight into the pond between holes fourteen and fifteen.
I cursed and gave up on the spot. No mulligan, no attempt to catch up. I played like shit for the rest of the round until I got a random birdie on the last hole. But it was an easy one. If you hit the center edge of the green, the ball just rolled right into the cup.
After returning my clubs to my car—and making sure my parents weren’t here—I made my way into the clubhouse for a dose of AC and a late lunch. A very late lunch.
Alfie might call it an early-bird dinner as an age joke, but fuck him.
I welcomed the cool air, took off my cap, and walked past the table with all of today’s newspapers.
“How did it go today, Scott?”
“Ask my ball currently resting in the duck pond next to fourteen,” I grumbled.
Steve laughed merrily and disappeared into the cigar lounge.
I went into the restaurant and ordered a today’s special before grabbing a table by the windows overlooking the lake and part of the course. Friday afternoon. I had hours and hours to kill. Family to avoid, work to postpone, and an Irish pub tonotthink about.
The restaurant was fairly empty, with only four other parties eating and drinking. Mostly older men, past their retirement age. Carey and Ridge on the other side of the dining area were friends with my father. They were probably here every day.
I rubbed the back of my neck gingerly.
“Did you forget sunscreen again, papi? Next time, pop the collar on your polo and pretend you’re one of those preppy rich kids.”
I eyed my standard Titleist cap on the table and had a memory for that one too. So many memories. Too many.
Alfie used to tease me about my lifestyle, though he’d done it in a funny, nonjudgmental way. He could eye me up and down while I was hauling my clubs out of the garage, and he’d say something like, “If it ain’t the Fortune 500 starter pack!”
The following day, he could come home with a gift. Nice golf balls, a new cap, or a shirt.
He’d never once tried to change me. When he’d bought Christmas presents and anniversary gifts, he’d done so with my interests in mind. Never whathemight want me to have.
He did the same with our children. He was very protective of each one’s personality and identity.
At the same time as he’d struggled with his own identity, mainly for my sake.
He’d never cared what others thought about him before, so why?—
You know the answer, you goddamn moron. He loved you more than anything. It was uncharted territory for both of you.
“Here we go, sir. One beer and one ice water. Your food will be right out.”
I swallowed and nodded once. “Thank you, Chrissy.”
I took a swig of my beer and—fuck, now what? Someone was calling me, and it better not be my mother again. She’d called twice this morning. I’d let it go to voice mail.
As I pulled out my phone, relief struck as quickly as it went away. Alfie’s name flashed on the display, and I answered the call and hoped the children wanted to come home again.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.