Chapter 33

To win the ADT, a golfer had to shoot decent rounds the first two days (so as not to be sent packing) and then start all over, all-even against sixteen of the best golfers in the world, and finish in the top half, again, on Saturday.

Sunday, if you were still around, you were in the running -- for the only time all year -- for the kind of first-place money they gave the men of the PGA practically every week.

One million bucks.

If you finished second, you took home a nice round $100,000, and didn't cry in your beer for too long.

After that, the third- through eighth-place finishers were sharing a very small pot of money indeed.

Brutal.

Well, the first order of business was to send somebody else home on Friday evening, and Tess and Kim both were successful in that effort. Now they were in the Sweet Sixteen (although I never heard anybody call it that), and everyone still alive was all-square for Saturday's next elimination round.

"This system really bites!" Tess said. I've got 68-69 for the first two days, and now I'm starting over, all-even with everybody... Did you see that 'Tanya' woman? The one from Romania, or some damned place? She's at 145, and still in this damned thing! And we're all-square for tomorrow."

"Rules is rules," I said. "Think how you'd feel, if it were you with the 145."

"I'd feel like I didn't belong here, is how I'd feel!" she said.

"Hey, I've got a question," I said. "Wednesday night, I didn't get any, because it was the night before the beginning of a tournament. Now it's Friday night, but tomorrow, you're starting over from scratch... Does that mean I don't get any tonight, either?"

"Kimmy takes care of you on pre-tournament nights," Tess said. "I didn't hear you complaining, last night, about your lot in life."

"Kimmy?" I said, "is that right? Is this Wednesday night again -- on Friday?"

"I think I'm with Tess on this one," Kim said. "We feel differently during the season, about first-nighters, but for ADT week, the rules are different.

"Does that mean we're all going to go to bed early tonight?"

"Not necessarily," Tess said, "but it means that whenever we do go to bed, we're going to sleep."

Sunday was an anti-climax. Tess shot a 69, Kim a 70, but neither was good enough to win the million.

Or the $100,000 second place money, either.

Tess picked up $22,600 for her third-place tie.

Kim won $16,985.

To me, it seemed like a major drag, but they were both feeling very up, after it was over. The money sucked, but, hey, they'd both had incredibly successful first seasons on the Tour. They had made piles of money, and -- best of all -- the season was, at long-last, over with!

Not only that, "that Tanya woman' had finished eighth and had picked up pocket change for her four-day ordeal.

Best of all, it was November 18. No more competitive golf until late February!

And we were getting married in less than three weeks!

Back in Chapel Hill, I turned Tess over to her mother and told her I was getting lost for a week while they did the wedding-planning thing. I wanted no part of it. Tell me what to rent in the way of formal wear, tell me where to show up, and when, and I'd be there.

I did -- very belatedly -- shop for a handsome engagement ring for Tess that week, and showed up to present it to her before going off to Raleigh to see my family again. It wasn't an ostentatious ring, but Tess wouldn't have to be embarrassed to show it to her rich friends, either. I hadn't spared the horses, picking it out. The fact that I had paid for it with Tess' prize winnings wasn't lost on me, but I repressed any accompanying feelings of unmanliness. We all had to make a living, after all. If I was just a gigolo, well, then, so be it.

I got a call on the cell before I had left Chapel Hill after the impromptu ring ceremony at Henderson Manor.

It was Kim. "Where are you?" she asked. "Are you out-of-town already?"

"No. I stopped to see a friend. I'm still in Chapel Hill."

"We need to talk, at some point," Kim said. "No big rush, but privately, and before you guys leave for the Islands."

"No problem," I said. "You want to meet me someplace, next week when I come back?... Or do you want to meet me now?"

"Next week is fine," she said. "Call me before you get back to Tess' house. Tell me when you'll be in town, and I'll meet you someplace."

"We can meet on the UNC campus," I told her. "I'll buy you a Tar Heels ball cap."

My Dad was going to be Best Man at my wedding, and there was as much excitement at my house about preparations as there had been back at The Manor. I helped both sisters and my mother -- via cash contributions -- to prepare themselves for the event by buying new outfits.

My Dad and I rented our formal wear together, coordinating it to the point where, when we modeled for the women in the family, my sister remarked that it was tough to distinguish bridegroom from best man. "The cute one is the best man," Dad informed her.

Tess had graciously offered places in the wedding party for my little sisters, but they were content to restrict themselves to the "Friends of the Groom" side of the church. They had, wisely, I thought, told Tess to ask her best friends to be her bridesmaids.

The Everetts and friends were going to be substantially outnumbered by folks on the other side of the aisle, but I had a few UNC buds who would be showing up. Actually, there probably weren't as many men friends in my life as there maybe ought to be.

But, jeez. I'd been pretty busy with the women.

I called Kim on the day I was scheduled to return to Chapel Hill, and we met at the Student Union at UNC. We had lunch there -- sandwiches and cokes -- and found a corner. The place was jumping, the school year being in full swing, but we were attracting no attention.

"I heard about your honeymoon plans," Kim said.

"Yeah."

"Nude beach. Imagine, Tess choosing such a place for her honeymoon."

"Well, you know how it is. Newlyweds need to get off by themselves, someplace private. Off the beaten track."

"But. You're not telling anyone where you're going -- right?"

"Right. It's a big secret thing. We're going to leave right after the reception, drive to Raleigh-Durham International, and -- whoosh!"

"I know. I'm the one, driving you to the airport," Kim said. "I'm leaving town on the same evening."

"Going to see Roland?" I asked. I knew she'd have gone to see Roland, long before this, if she hadn't been lending Tess 24-hour moral support on the wedding planning.

"I'm going to see him, yes," Kim said.

"Good. You going to stay out there, awhile?"

"I'm planning to see a lot of Roland, this month, and next," she said.

"I'll be glad when this is over," I told her. "I mean, they've let me just stay out of it, mostly, but weddings -- b'waaaaa!... Not for guys."

"Be grateful," Kim said. "They've really been easy on you. A rehearsal coming up, a rehearsal dinner -- paid for by Good Old Will, and, then, bingo, you're home free!"

"Off to the nude beach, to show my wares," I said.

"Well. You won't be there all the time. Tess wants to go to St. Bart's, too... And the nights of romance."

"Yeah, but I have the feeling that, for Tess, the nude beach is the biggie."

"We both know it's -- therapeutic -- for her," Kim said.

"True."

"Which brings me to the reason I wanted to talk to you privately," Kim said.

"You want to talk about the nude beach?"

"You ever see those pictures, on the Internet, of Princess Whatshername? The Monaco one, I think it is?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. What pictures?"

"They were beach shots -- topless -- of some Princess or other. Actually, I think more than one princess-type has been caught, by the paparazzi, with her pants down, so to speak."

"You think the paparazzi will... catch Tess, at the nude beach?"

"I doubt it. Nobody knows where you're going. Not even Tess' folks, or Roy Junior. Just you, and me. Just us. Nobody else."

"I don't know, Kim. She's... pretty spectacular. And she's in the middle of becoming a celebrity. Somebody might recognize her."

"Maybe. But I kind-of doubt it. Orient Beach is mostly a European retreat. Relatively few Americans go there. Saint Martin is fairly obscure, as islands go. It's 'way out there. It ain't the Bahamas."

"Maybe you're right," I said.

"Thing is," Kim said, "it's kind-of interesting, how people react, to the paparazzi stuff. Take Jennifer Aniston. There were photos of her -- at least, they claimed it was her -- in a European newspaper a few years ago. She was very naked, or at least, topless. She looked really good!"

"I didn't know you were such a student of the nude female form," I teased.

"I've been known to appreciate a well-turned nipple, now and then," she said, smiling at a memory we probably both shared. "But I've also done a little research. The thing is, you can't take off your panties and show the paparazzi your... ahh... recreation center. That's a definite no-no. They mark you down as a slut, and you're written off."

"OK."

"But, Will -- the starlets and princesses and sports figures -- like that Russian tennis girl, whatshername, they can get photographed by swarms of these guys -- using long-lens cameras, or shooting from cover -- and when the photos show up in newspapers or magazines, they cause a sensation."

"All right. Where are we going with this?"

"Nobody blames the poor princess, or actress. I mean -- sure -- they were photographed topless or bottomless, but, hey, it wasn't their fault! Some S.O.B. paparazzi caught 'em unawares."

"But the princess didn't have to go out on a beach somewhere and strip down," I said.

"No, but people don't say, 'Gee, that princess, or that Jennifer Aniston, should have kept her shirt on!' Nope. People say, 'poor girl, she tried to go out and relax, and some asshole had to take her picture and publish it in a magazine!'"

"So, you're saying if the paparazzi do find out Tess is at Orient Beach, it won't be a terrible thing if they publish her nude picture?"