by S Doyle
When they were together he could ask her if his theories were right.
He breathed deeply and rejoiced in the profound happiness he felt. This was going to work. This wouldn’t be like the other time. Reilly would understand him.
She was beautiful and talented and strong. Special enough for him. Worthy, where no one else had been before.
Bringing the ball closer to his nose he inhaled, trying to extract the essence of her scent from where she had touched it. Her fingers had touched the ball. Her skin had connected with the surface. Her fingerprints. The delicate oils from her body. The brush of her lips.
Glancing around to confirm he was unobserved by the dispersing crowd, he lowered the ball to his crotch and stroked it along his thickening penis.
Yessss.
She’d told the reporter she was going home. To her grandparents. He would learn where that was. He would find out where she was going and he would join her there.
Yes, this time he knew it would work.
2
“Tell me again why you decided we were doing this?”
Kenny was looking out the airplane window over the frozen, barren tundra that was Nebraska. They had left seventy-two and sunny in San Diego to return to twenty-two and overcast. Kenny had never been a cold -weather person, even when they had called the farm home.
He’d been ten and Reilly two when their parents had dropped them off for a summer stay on the farm.
Russ and Cindy Carr were going to sail a twenty-footer around the Caribbean as a second honeymoon. Tropical Storm Ellen had other ideas. They were lost at sea and their bodies were never recovered.
As young as Reilly was, she couldn’t say she remembered them, but sometimes she lied to make Kenny feel as if he wasn’t alone in missing them.
In reality, Seamus and Roberta O’Reilly, her mother’s parents, had been the only parents she’d ever known. Their home and this farm had been the center of her universe. Not only hadn’t they blinked when left with a recalcitrant, bitter little boy and a mischievous terrible two-year-old, they had gone on to provide them with the most stable and loving home two orphans could ever imagine.
There were chores. Battles over not wanting to do chores. Rules. Battles over not wanting to follow the rules. But through it all there was love.
And there was golf. It was her Pop’s passion.
“You told Erica to come, right?”
“She’s got a tournament coming up this week. She’ll come next Monday.”
“You made sure she had a car and everything, right?”
Reilly glared at him over the first-class armrest.
“She’s your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend yet, and she’s your best friend.”
“A fact you might have considered before you decided to mess around with her. What happens when this doesn’t work out?”
“When? Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Unfamiliar with the tone in his voice — it sounded like sincerity — she faced him.
“Kenny, this is me. Remember? I’ve had a front-row seat to every fling you’ve had with every attractive straight golfer on tour. And two non-straight ones who wanted to ‘experiment’ and picked you. This is what you do.”
He shrugged as if to suggest there was no defending himself.
“Well, maybe I’m tired of doing what I do. I’m going to be thirty-eight next month and I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time I started to look at women with something other than sex in mind. Which is why when Erica asked me out…”
He let the sentence hang there for a prolonged moment.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. She asked me out first. Anyway, I told her I was done messing around. If we were going to do this thing for real, then there was going to be no sex until it was serious.”
“So you’re not having sex with her.”
“Correct,” he affirmed.
“But you want to,” Reilly followed.
“Uhh… she’s smokin’. I’m a man. Do the math.”
Reilly smirked. “Right.”
He heard the cynicism. “You don’t think I can be with a woman in a relationship without sex?”
“No,” she answered. “But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t believe there are many straight men who could.”
“Okay. That’s fair. But I’m going to try and that should tell you I’m… slightly serious.”
Since “slightly serious” was more than she’d ever seen him be with anyone else since his high school girlfriend, she figured she would have to give him the benefit of the doubt. “If you’re slightly serious, you’ll get the car for her.”
“That’s like a boyfriend thing to do, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever had husbands and fiancés.”
He chuckled and she smiled in return. Mocking her two failed attempts at marriage and one failed engagement before the age of thirty was the only way to take the sting out of the reality.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seatbelt light. Please return your seats and trays to the upright position as we’ll be landing in Omaha shortly.”
Kenny groaned under his breath.
“He’s going to make me muck. I hate mucking.”
“Shoveling shit humbles you and builds character,” Reilly quoted her Pop.
“Right. Because hauling around my little sister’s clubs while she earns my livelihood isn’t humbling enough.”
Reilly didn’t answer because she knew he wasn’t as sour as he sounded.
When she’d turned pro the only person she could imagine having on the bag with her for that first tournament was Kenny. He’d always taken a break from whatever he was doing to be on the bag for her during every major amateur event. The idea of not having him there for her first professional round was sacrilegious. Since he’d just missed earning his PGA card by a few points after several seasons of unsuccessful attempts, and he’d needed the cash, he’d accepted.
She’d won her first tournament, taken home a decent check and had handed a chunk of it to him. Then she’d won the second, tied for second in the third and finished ninth in her fourth. The checks kept rolling in and the rest, as they say, was history.
Thirteen years later and they were both well-off for a lady golfer and her caddy. Enough so that the farm was paid for outright. They flew first class wherever they traveled and they both drove luxury cars. His a Porsche. Hers a Land Rover.
He might talk about humility, but in her heart she believed he was more proud than anything else. Proud she’d been able to make the most out of the gift they’d both been given.
They landed and collected their bags. Naturally, Kenny insisted on driving the rental car. Reilly made the necessary noises about men needing to drive to create an illusion of control.
The truth was watching field after field pass in a haze beyond the passenger window was all she wanted to do. She didn’t want to think about the next tournament or preparation for the next major coming up. She didn’t want to think about golf.
No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to think about it and was forcing herself to think of other things, it was that when she did think about the next event, or even the next major, she was bored. Tournament wins didn’t hold her attention like they used to.
Not that this was some kind of career crisis, she told herself as the road stretched out before her. It wasn’t like she was losing her love for the game. She was still committed. Still prepared to do the work to make her the best among her competitors. The best among those who had ever played.
That’s what they were talking about now, the writers and analysts. Better than Nancy Lopez, Mickey Right. Better than Annika.
It wasn’t as if she minded competing for the all-time number of wins. Number of majors. The elusive second fifty-nine. But boy, she sure would have loved to have done it on the same course at the same time as those other women. Head-to-head showdowns. Birdie-for-
birdie putts. Sadly, those women were gone and while the field today was good, it just wasn’t as good as she was.
It led to the obvious question. How good was she?
Reilly shook her head and focused on the things she could control. Like enjoying her break. Kenny took the turn off toward town. Little Creek was a spot on the map about one hundred miles west of Omaha, but to Reilly it was the sweetest place on earth. It had one single-screen movie theater, one ice-cream parlor, one drug store, one hardware store, and one fancy restaurant with real cloth napkins.
One of everything. Which was all anyone needed.
Right before the main street Kenny turned off another road that took them south of town. Twenty minutes later he was driving down a familiar rutted road toward the farm.
The house rose up over a small crest and sent a burst of longing through Reilly. White paint, black shutters, four bedrooms. Complete with a wraparound porch furnished with two white wicker rocking chairs. It was the quintessential American farmhouse. Cliché, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
God, she missed this place. They’d both been back for Christmas, but a month ago seemed more like a year ago.
Kenny got out and circled the SUV to take care of the luggage. Reilly was already moving toward the white clapboard barn adjacent to the house.
“No, no, don’t worry. I’ll get the luggage. Wouldn’t want you to lift something and strain yourself,” he called to her.
“You are the sweetest brother,” she replied. “You go find Grams. I’m just going to let Pop know we’re here.”
It was the middle of the day so Grams should be inside baking and Pop should be in the barn. At least it had always been so. Reilly didn’t want to think of a day when it would never be again. But reality was starting to close in on them.
Grams had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease last spring. They were treating it with medication, but her ability to get around like she used to was diminishing. Thank goodness Pop was still as strong as a horse, but nothing was ever certain. It was good they had come home. Better still that Erica would join them. Grams loved to bake for guests.
Reilly made her way up the well-trodden dirt path to the barn door that was ajar. Her boots crunched on the smattering of snow on the ground. When it was cold and barren like this it was difficult to imagine spring would ever make an appearance again.
This wasn’t a working farm anymore, but Pop still liked to keep his hand in a little planting. Reilly allowed it as long as he kept it to an acre and the harvested wheat was donated to some of the other smaller farms to supplement their crop. She didn’t want him having to struggle to make a living, but she couldn’t take the farmer off the farm.
After all, the land was his third love.
Family was number one, because he was that kind of guy. His true passion after that was golf.
Reilly leaned against the door frame, watching as her grandfather bent over his workbench. It sported an iron shaping machine – a gift from her a few years back - so he could grind the loft to the perfect angle on his wedge.
“I once knew a man named O’Reilly. He had the sweetest swing I ever did see.”
He startled at the sound of her voice, but when he turned around, his smile was as big and welcoming as she’d ever seen it. Irish blue eyes twinkled against the backdrop of his red face and white hair, and his big body still looked as strong as it did when he used to bounce her on his knee.
“Funny, because I once knew a girl named Reilly. I thought her swing was even sweeter.”
It was a familiar game, but for whatever reason this time she found herself tearing up at his standard reply. The overwhelming love she felt for him bubbled and almost spilled over and she didn’t have a clue why.
There was no doubt about it. She was getting sappy. It must have something to do with having turned thirty. Maybe some kind of hormonal change.
Pushing herself off the door frame, she walked over and let herself be wrapped in his massive embrace. She was tall for a woman but Pop would always be bigger.
“Now what brings you home?”
“I had time between tournaments. I wanted a break. Kenny’s with me. He’s in with Grams.”
“Both my pups home at once? It’s Christmas all over again.”
She smiled against his chest and squeezed one last time before she let go. “Brace yourself, but he’s invited a girl to come.”
Her Pop’s brow raised with expectation then scrunched in consternation.
“You’re putting me on. The great American playboy is bringing a girlfriend home.”
“Girl friend. They’re not, you know… doing it yet.”
“Now let’s not talk about that, shall we.”
She watched him blush and loved how old-fashioned he was. She hadn’t been lying to Erica about the shotgun.
“Anyway, I think he might be serious. You remember Erica from the tour?”
“She putts with an eagle eye.”
A quality Pop would prize over most other attributes. “That’s the one.”
“Excellent. What about you? Are you getting serious about anyone?”
She scowled. “Serious doesn’t work for me. Remember, Pop?”
“Well, I have many things I could say about that, but I won’t. Speaking of serious or I should say not so serious, we got a call not long ago from Luke. Just wanting to touch base. Wasn’t that nice?”
Luke Nolan had been Kenny’s college roommate at USC and a regular at Thanksgiving dinner for years. Despite the two of them being best friends, they were once also fierce rivals on the golf course. Where Kenny had failed to have the drive needed to push himself to the next level after college, Luke had kicked his game into high gear.
He’d made it onto the PGA tour and all the way to number one for a time, but after his second Master’s victory he’d started to slide. He played less. He got married. He got divorced. He played even less.
Like Reilly, Luke was a complete loser in the marriage department. She liked to be around him because unlike her, he was a three-time divorcee.
It made her feel superior.
Not too long ago she saw him doing color commentary for CBS. His looks and easy charm made him a natural for television. She’d been shocked. It didn’t seem possible someone who had climbed so high, could slide so fast. Not at his age.
It made her question her future because when it came to competitive temperament, she and Luke were twins separated at birth.
Reilly wondered if this is what her lack of enthusiasm was signaling. Was she headed for… gulp…the booth?
No, it wasn’t possible. But then she wouldn’t have believed it was possible for Luke until she saw him there.
She told Kenny about it, but Kenny already knew. Luke had called him to let him know about the career change. That had hurt. Luke hadn’t considered her friend enough to let her know he was hanging up his golf shoes for a tie and a microphone. She thought they were closer than that.
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he wanted to see how your Grams was fairing. Kenny told him about the Parkinson’s. Of course he offered any help we needed.”
“Kenny and I are here for you and Grams.” “You think we don’t know that?”
“No. I know you do. We travel so often, though. January through October and then all the publicity stuff and ad work. I hate to be away for all that time.”
“But you’re not,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “You’re here.”
“Still, if you need me to cut back on my schedule, I can. There are a few tournament titles I don’t need to defend anymore. Ones I could easily drop from the schedule.”
He looked at her as if she might be an alien in disguise. She’d never opted not to defend a title. The most consecutive wins at the same event was yet another record she’d broken. At the Du Maurier Classic she was working to put the record so far out of reach, it would hold forever.
Until the next phenom came along, anyway.
“Teed” off was about as colorful as Pop’s language got.
“It’s okay, Pop. They said ABC is going to show two hours on Saturday and Sunday of the Nabisco. That’s more than last year.”
“It’s an insult.”
“It’s a business.”
Women didn’t rate as much TV time because not as many people wanted to watch them. As a result there were fewer sponsors, less people willing to pay for ad time, and less money. Facts were facts. But things were better than they were a few years ago. Annika was responsible for that. Now she imagined she had something to do with it, because any time a woman stood out, the inevitable question was always asked.
Could a woman compete with the men?
Reilly didn’t know, but she and her bank account would always be grateful they had put the thought in people’s minds.
Shaking off the wisp of pessimism dogging her, Reilly turned her attention to what was important.
“How is Grams?”
“She has good days and bad days. She does her exercises, takes her medicine. She’s not in pain.”
That didn’t make her happy because what he didn’t say was the truth.
“But she’s not getting any better.”
“The doctors told us what to expect. There’s no cure. You know that.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Nope, I don’t guess it does. I don’t like it, either. But you know her. Not a peep. She sits more these days. I made a table for her so she could do her baking from a chair. She knits and reads. Of course she has me.”
He winked and she could see why Grams would have fallen for his Irish charm. Seamus O’Reilly knew how to bring it.
“How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know,” Reilly said. A week? A year? Until she figured out the answer to a question she hadn’t even asked herself yet.
