Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Her mother opened the door, pink towel in place around her head. “Joey-Roo. What are you doing standing out here?” Evelyn Doyle leaned to one side. “Is that a suitcase? Did you come for a little staycation? I have sugar-free cookies in the pantry.”
She kissed her mother on the cheek. “No, not a staycation.” Josephine picked up the suitcase and followed her mother inside. “But, obviously, I’ll take some cookies.”
“I always keep them on hand!” Evelyn yelled, hustling through the über-Floridian living room toward the kitchen. The entire house was decorated in various shades of yellow and green, indoor plants in abundance, ceiling fans whirring lazily. A moment later, her mother emerged from the kitchen, shaking a white-and-blue box. “Yum yum!”
Josephine snort-laughed and took the box, hesitating to open it. “Is Dad here?”
“He’s in the backyard. Honey!” shouted her mother, pausing to listen. “Honey! Joey is here. Come inside. The man can’t hear a damn thing, I swear.”
“I can hear just fine,” Jim blustered, ambling into the living room while folding the newspaper under his arm. “Hello, honey.”
Cheek kisses were followed by her father gesturing to the suitcase with his folded-up newspaper. “What’s that?”
“I have some news.” Bold understatement. Her parents were golf fans—and knew quite well about her past devotion to Wells Whitaker. They were likely going to faint from shock. “Maybe you should sit before I tell you.”
Evelyn and Jim exchanged a look, plopping down on their plastic-covered couch simultaneously. They were already smiling, because they trusted that whatever she said was going to be positive. They were all fired up and ready to be supportive, just like always.
If only they knew how much she’d let them down.
A notch formed in her throat while she prepared to speak.
She’d let the insurance lapse on the Golden Tee. Hadn’t been taking care of her health, the way she’d promised to do in exchange for some independence.
Now she was betting on a long shot to fix everything. Would it pan out?
Yes. No.
Maybe.
Please. Let this work.
“Some volunteers helped me clean up the shop this week. It’s still waterlogged and damaged, but the ruined inventory has been thrown away and we pumped out the water.” She smiled at her father. “I think there’s a chance we’ll still be able to use Pop Pop’s old register, once it dries out a little bit.”
“That is excellent news, honey.”
“Yes.” She looked down at her suitcase, briefly wondering if she’d hit her head during the hurricane and this was an elaborate coma dream. “It’s going to take some time before we . . . have the money to repair the shop. But once we do, I’m going to meet with a contractor about finally making the additions we’ve been talking about forever. It’s going to be more functional and modern. We’ll have the drive-through window and consultation lounge. The putting green outside. It’s going to be bigger and better than ever. You’ll see. We just have to be patient.”
Her mother blew a raspberry. “Those darn insurance companies. They’ll take your money easy enough, but God forbid you try to get some back.”
“What your mother said.”
“Yes. That’s all very true.” No more stalling. Josephine opened her mouth to continue, but her phone buzzed in the pocket of her jean shorts. “Er . . . hold on. Someone is texting me.”
“Who is it?” Evelyn asked. “Is it the insurance company?”
“They don’t text people, Mom.”
Josephine’s stomach jolted at the name on her screen: Wells.
Wells was texting her.
It hadn’t stopped being weird.
The afternoon she’d taken him downtown for a haircut, they’d exchanged numbers out of necessity. After all, she was going to be working for him. Since then, however, he’d texted only once with her flight information and seven measly words.
Be in San Antonio by Tuesday night.
She’d reread and analyzed that single sentence all week. Did that mean he’d succeeded in reinserting himself into the tour? Because that was not going to be easy. The PGA tour officials took tradition and sportsmanship very seriously. Walking off the course in the middle of a round without consulting anyone, followed by a highly publicized disappearance from the public eye? Not very sporting, indeed.
Josephine tapped on her second text from Wells, hoping it would provide more insight than his last message. Perhaps what she could expect once she reached San Antonio, a tee time for Thursday morning, his overall feelings about the course itself.
Nope.
Wells: Bring a dress.
“A dress?” she muttered.
For what? Certainly not to wear while caddying. All she’d packed was the proper attire for spending four days traipsing around in the hot Texas sun. She’d have to swing home on the way to the airport in order to pack something fancier.
Josephine: Why?
Of course, he didn’t answer. Wells Whitaker didn’t like questions.
Josephine sighed. “While we’re waiting for the repair money, I’m going to be out of town a lot. Traveling.”