by R.C. Barajas
Chapter 3
Devil Ball
That night, the stars sparkling above like the glitter shaken from a child’s overly-enthusiastic crafts project, Georgette wept such copious tears into her goose down coverlet that the orange cat who had taken to sleeping with her each night leaped from the bed and curled up instead on the old armchair near the window. Oh, how many hours had she sat in that chair the night before, the cat in her lap, gazing toward the 12th hole, hoping against hope that Perry Chinthrust was gazing back toward her!
And by St. Maeve, that he was Irish! So tall and so handsome and so strong and so toothsome and so very, very adept in the ways of making her heart beat like a tipper on new-stretched goatskin! She had pondered this unlikely turn of events as she looked out the window into the night – a night as black as pudding. And pondering thus, her thoughts were whisked back to Ireland, her homeland, to her Mam’s inky blood sausages and the mouthwateringly gluey mash she always made to go along with them. Tearfully, Georgette thought of Auntie Orfhlaith, quick as a snake, sticking a toasting fork through the back of wee Padraig’s plump hand when he’d tried to snatch the last one off the platter. Oh, how they’d laughed! And fat little Padraig had plucked the fork from his hand and stolen the sausage right off Auntie O’s plate and stuffed it whole into his mouth all the while glaring straight into her eyes! Of course the rascal was too young to know about the clever old lady’s hidden knife. Heavens, the boy looked so silly with Auntie O’s initials carved into his cheek that it had them all chuckling for days. Ah, home! How far away it seemed, how sweet and dear!
Languidly, Georgette took herself to the golf course rental cabin the next morning with prettily reddened eyes and her skin paler and creamier than usual. She had dressed hurriedly and with little thought, preoccupied as she was with thoughts of her dear Perry. She’d zipped into her short pleated uniform skirt, but in her distraction, she pulled on not the required polo shirt but an ivory-colored bustier with lace and whalebone support, tugging the cords tight against her narrow waist and adjusting her bosoms without thinking what she was doing. Luckily she’d absent mindedly thrown a demure cardigan over her shoulders. Of course the shocking bustier was not her garment, but had been slipped into her luggage on her last night in Ireland by the minxish Ceallach, her cousin of sluttish repute. It had been intended as a joke, but alas, Georgette had thought it a gift from her favorite brother Liam, a frail, secretive young man destined for the priesthood. Thinking it to be a head scarf of eccentric design, she had put it tenderly into the dresser drawer along with her other clothes and had not given it a second thought.
Except for the previous day’s blood on the doorstep, Tad was nowhere to be seen, and so Georgette had to use her own key to unlock the rental cabin. Inside, she busied herself with all the myriad things that needed to get done before the golf course opened for the day; wiping down the clubs with cleanser, washing the dimpled balls in hot soapy water, and oiling the credit card swipe slot. Her chores done, she opened the sliding window wide, and looked wistfully about for any signs of Perry Chinthrust. His tall, dark, silhouetted form was nowhere to be seen. Sighing deeply, she made herself a cup of Irish Breakfast tea and walked out into the warm morning air, her moist blue orbs awash in longing, her breasts rising against the restraints of the whalebone like ice cream from a waffle cone. Glancing at her watch, she decided there was enough time to do what she must before the course opened for the day. Flinging her tea aside, the corporate logo mug shattering gracefully upon the sidewalk, Georgette clutched her sweater about her and ran towards the twelfth hole.
She was winded and flushed when she crested the hill – but ‘twas nothing to her wind and coloring when she saw the object of her affection, Perry Chinthrust, standing manfully astride the twelfth hole, embracing another woman!
Georgette stopped short, her mane of red hair flying angrily in a timely gust of wind. Lord, what devilry was this? What kind of man leaves the lips of one woman only to cleave to those of another? And who was this whore with him, this scouring cow with crumpled horn and shriveled teat? What manner of hussy must she be? Oh, to think of the shame, of the betrayal! That he should snatch her innocence from her, dash her reputation in the mud, make her unfit for any other man to wed – how dare he violate her so with his false and delicious kisses!
Like Caorthannach, the fire-spitting demon said to be mother of the Devil himself, Georgette raced screeching towards the embraced couple, her hands claws, her sweater ripping from her shoulders and falling in shreds onto the grass, her pleated skirt flying.
At the sound, Perry Chinthrust and his companion broke apart and stared at the wild yet still beautiful young woman coming straight for them. Chinthrust thrust the woman behind him, and squared his broad shoulders to face the onslaught of Georgette’s wrath. As she reached him, he expertly caught her about the waist, spun her around so her slashing nails were away from him, and placed her in a headlock, his muscular frame overpowering her slender form in an instant. She struggled valiantly, calling him unspeakable names in her native tongue, and then slumped helplessly, sobbing into her hands.
“Oh, how could you do such a wicked thing? What was it you said to me? You must forget you ever met me? You must run from me and never allow me touch you again? No man says such things unless he is in love! I... I thought you loved me! I thought your kisses were a betrothal, a solemn promise – but they were merely wet, luscious lies. Oh, I am such a fool!”
Perry Chinthrust dropped to his knees, pulling her down with him, wrapping his hands gently over her mouth. “Quiet, you silly girl, or I shall be forced to press you even tighter to me. Listen! Stop struggling – you are tearing your skirt! Listen to me, you bewitching little banshee! I have not betrayed you, nor shall I ever. Even if all appearances indicate I am having my way with all the barmaids and all the waitresses in the clubhouse, it would be a false assumption, no matter – and this is important – how suspicious it may appear.” His glance slid quickly to the woman standing a little apart from them. “Georgette, this woman is my long-lost twin sister, Aoife, and she has just arrived, dripping wet as you see her, from Ireland and is in need of friendship and honest employment. Do you see now how you have misjudged me?”
It was all Georgette could do not to faint. Shakily, she got to her feet, holding onto Perry Chinthrust for support. Then all at once she flung her arms around Aoife. “Please, please forgive me, dear Aoife! Sweet, sweet Aoife! What a beast I have become here in this new and confusing world! A vile monster! Can you ever excuse my madness?”
Aoife smoothed Georgette’s wavy hair and, gazing admiringly at the young woman’s bolstered, dewy bosom, said soothingly, “Of course I forgive you, my Lass! Perry was just telling me all about his love for you, how he could never live without you and wanted nothing more in this world than to wed you. He has been so tortured, so alone in his genius, so very prone to long periods of staring off into the distance, that the thought of him happily married filled me with joy. I was embracing him just now in the heat of my intense happiness for you both, when you appeared and saw us. I would never accept anyone as a sister who would not fight for my beloved brother so. I can only hope and pray that one day you shall feel such passionate sisterly affection for me as well. You have quite won me over, dear, sweet girl!” And she kissed Georgette soulfully on the lips, her hands cupping the bustier as though in fervent prayer.
The three then strolled hand in hand back toward the rental cottage, the newly mown grass sweetening the air. Georgette’s feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, so giddy did she feel. Not even the angry queue of customers could dampen her spirits, nor their rude yells when they spied her. She merely waved at them and smiled, knowing that they, too, must be happy for her.
In the rentals office, since Tad did not seem likely to return anytime soon, Georgette suggested that Aoife take over his job. Aoife was delighted and while Georgette and Perry went down to the storeroom to fetch more #3 balls – and where he hop
ed to determine the structural integrity of her bustier - Aoife opened the window wide for the first customer of the morning, calling out gaily that on that special day, all rentals were free because love had come to the golf course – and there was nothing, absolutely nothing mini about it.
The End
Chapter After
A note from R. C. Barajas
Dearest Reader:
Mr. Rapier and I (R. C., his public liaison) would like to thank you for reading this novella. It is your loyal readership that keeps Mr. Rapier at his writing desk, and I at my computer - where I eagerly transcribe his pages so that they might be enjoyed upon the device you are now using.
If you are familiar with Mr. Rapier’s work (and the press that has been unfairly generated at his expense), you will know of his almost morbid shyness and his deep distrust of things technological, mechanical and bacterial. His reticence is such that he declines to publish under his own name, but instead does so under mine, hence the unusual step of using my by line so that Mr. Rapier can have publishers and readers alike contact yours truly - a shy man’s eyes and ears on the world. The name “Dirk Rapier” is itself a pseudonym, of course, but the artful reader will already have guessed that.
And for my part, although I am here acting on behalf of Mr. Rapier, I am also a writer and artist in my own right. You are welcome to learn more about me and my other works if you care to do so by visiting my website at: https://www.rcbarajas.com where you can see my work. It is quite different that of Mr. Rapier.
Again, thank you for reading, and I hope Mr. Rapier’s tale of romance and miniature golf has warmed your heart and fed your soul.
Regards, R. C. Barajas
###
