Have to Have It by Melody Mayer Page B

on the green for Easton to putt, seemingly oblivious to the embarrassing incident that had just taken place.
    “I'd love to teach her myself,” Sturman told Esme, “but I think the language barrier would be a problem. Why don't you suggest to Steven and Diane that Luis teach their daughter. No charge, as long as I can be one of her sponsors when she grows up? What do you say?”
    Do you have any idea how rich her parents are?
Esme thought. But it seemed impolite to say that.
    “I don't think she'll need sponsors,” she responded coolly.
    “Hell, I just want to witness the process,” Sturman marveled. “Can you imagine? It'll be like helping to make the next Michelle Wie.” He clapped Luis on the shoulder. “You ready to take this on, you lucky son of a gun?”
    “Yes, sir,” Luis assured him with a broad grin. “Absolutely”
    Sturman knelt by Easton's side and tried to give her a quick lesson on golf terminology—the green, the cup, the grip, the fairway, the course, and so on. As he did, Luis stood with Esme, and the crowd finally started to disperse.
    “Which would you rather speak, Spanish or English?” he asked her.
    “English. This is America.”
    “Works for me,” the pro agreed. He barely had any accent at all. “You'll talk to her parents about lessons?”
    “Definitely. But Easton won't be able to start right away.We're going to Jamaica tomorrow. How about if they call you when we get back?”
    “When will that be?”
    “Friday. I think.”
    Luis dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to Esme. “Luis Josemaria de Castro. And no, I'm not related to Fidel.”
    Esme smiled again. This guy was not just very handsome, he was very, very charming.
    “Esme? Yo soy casado de golf. Yo quisiera un helado, por favor.”
Easton tugged at Esme's sleeve.
    “I'd suggest you get the girl an ice cream like she's asking for,” Luis joked. “And if I could make one more suggestion…”
    “Yes?”
    Luis leaned close. “Give my phone number to your friend Lydia,” he said, careful to keep his voice low.
    “Are you planning to teach her golf, too?” Esme asked with an arched brow.
    “Anything she wants to learn,” he replied.
“Anything.”

“Just call the woman, Kiley. Get it over with.”
    Kiley was so nervous she felt as if she could have a panic attack worse than any of her mother's. She sat with Tom in his old pickup truck, which Tom had pulled up to the valet stand at the Velvet Margarita Cantina restaurant in Hollywood. He'd picked her up at the country club gate an hour before, and she'd babbled out the story of her amazing day—Evelyn Bowers homing in on her at the country club, their walk-and-talk interview around the grounds, and the conclusion of that interview at a white-tablecloth table on the rear brick patio of the huge country club restaurant, over caviar and toast points cut into perfect isosceles triangles.
    “Golden
caviar,” Kiley had explained. “Evelyn said it's from the Arabian Sea and costs a mint. But she claimed that nothing was too good for the girl who was probably about to become hernew nanny, because she considered the nanny a ‘real member of the Bowers family.’”
    The interview had ended successfully. Evelyn had offered Kiley the job and asked her to start the next morning. Kiley had been honest—she'd have to talk to her parents about it before she and Evelyn called them together, which Evelyn had found quaint but also a point in Kiley's favor. It indicated stability of personality, unlike Kiley's “so-called friend who shall go nameless.” In fact, Evelyn had made it a condition of employment that Lydia not set foot on her property, nor telephone on the main house line, nor should Kiley speak to her on her cell phone from within the four walls of Evelyn's house. Kiley had acceded to these conditions. She really needed the job.
    All of which was a dream come true, but for two things.
    One, Lydia had filled her in on Evelyn and her children. They all