Mr. Langford stood there in the middle of the veranda for a long moment with the whole of the Coosaw Point Club watching him. Dee saw the lit window go out of his face, and behind it was only a tired, sunburned man who had lost to a fifteen-year-old, a dowager, and his own son in one afternoon.
"Dabney," he said finally. "See that it's taken care of."
He walked down the side steps without looking at anybody, and across the lawn to the parking lot, with the camcorder still hanging off his shoulder.
Whit didn't follow him. He stood on the veranda holding the paper until the Mercedes pulled out. Then he folded it in thirds and walked over and held it out to Dee.
"You'd better keep this," he said. "I don't trust any of us."
* * *
The sun was nearly down when they went back to Court One.
Her father went to get the drag-mat, and Dee said, "Daddy, wait. Not yet."
She turned around. Mr. Grant was standing outside the gate, where he had stood all day. He had taken off the white jacket and folded it over his arm, and under it he was wearing the old gray T-shirt, A.T.A. NATIONALS 1953, faded nearly to nothing.
"Mr. Langford says I can play here any day I want," Dee said. "As his personal guest. It's written down." She held up the folded paper. "And I've decided a guest can bring a hitting partner."
Mr. Grant didn't move.
"Miss Pruitt," he said. "It isn't my place."
"It's my place," Dee said. "As of about half an hour ago. And I'm inviting you on it."
Nobody said anything for a while. Down along the far fence the staff were still there, most of them, Leon and the kitchen girls and the caddies and Pastor Simmons and the deacons, waiting to see something without being sure what it was. Her mother put her hand on her father's arm.