Celebrity Chekhov Read Online Free

nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed my hand. God help him!
    After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on the carpet before the fireplace. The red embers were covered with ash and began to grow dim. The frost tapped still more angrily at the windows, and the wind droned in the chimney.
    The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name.

Chapter 4
Bad Weather
    B IG RAINDROPS WERE PATTERING ON THE DARK WINDOWS. I T WAS one of those disgusting summer rains which, when they have begun, last a long time. It was surprisingly cold and there was a feeling of raw, unpleasant dampness. The mother-in-law of the golfer Tiger Woods, Barbro Holmberg, and Tiger Woods’s wife, Elin Nordegren, dressed in sweaters despite the season, were sitting over the dinner table in the dining room.
    It was written on the countenance of the elder lady that she was well-fed, well-clothed, and in good health, that she had married her daughter to a good man, and now could, with an easy conscience, spend time shuffling and dealing from a fortune-teller’s deck; her daughter, a beautiful woman in her late twenties, with a gentle face, was reading a book with her elbows on the table; judging from her eyes she was not so much reading as thinking her own thoughts, which were not in the book. Neither of them spoke. There was the sound of the pattering rain, and from the kitchen they could hear the prolonged yawns of the cook.
    Tiger Woods himself was not at home. Many weekends he was playing tournaments in other cities or even distant nations; on those weekends, the damp, rainy weather made his absence seem greater than it was, especially if his tournament was taking place in good weather. This weekend, Tiger Woods was not out of town, but he was not home either. When Tiger Woods was at home during rain, he despised the conditions. He was of the opinion that the sight of the gray sky and the rain on the windows deprived him of energy he needed for golf. This particular weekend, because of the weather, he was at one of his other properties, a ranch in eastern Texas where he could practice all day at a driving range.
    After two rounds with the fortune-teller’s deck, the old lady shuffled the cards and took a glance at her daughter.
    â€œI have been trying with the cards to determine whether it will be fine tomorrow, and whether Tiger will be home,” she said. “He hasn’t been here all week.”
    Elin Nordegren looked indifferently at her mother, got up, and began walking up and down the room.
    â€œThe barometric pressure was rising yesterday,” she said doubtfully, “but they say it is falling again today.”
    The old lady laid out the cards in three long rows and shook her head.
    â€œDo you miss him?” she asked, glancing at her daughter.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI see you do. I should think so. When I visited over the summer he might be out of the house two days in a row, maybe three. But now it is serious. Five days! I am not his wife, and yet I miss him. And yesterday, when I heard that the chance of rain was smaller, I ordered the cook to prepare a Cornish hen and a trout for Tiger. He likes them. Your poor father couldn’t bear fish, but Tiger likes it. He always eats it with great relish.”
    â€œMy heart aches for him,” said the daughter. “It is not very exciting here most days, but it is less exciting still without him, you know, Mama.”
    â€œI should think so! At the driving range for ten hours, and all by himself at the ranch at night.”
    â€œAnd what is so awful, Mama, is that he’s truly alone. He doesn’t even keep house staff. There’s no one to help him with physical therapy or prepare him food. Why doesn’t he keep someone in Texas full-time? What use is that place at all if it makes him miserable? A year ago I told him that we should sell it, but no, ‘You are happy when we come here,’ he said, but do I