Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of the past and my present as I paint and paint, until my head starts to spin from the fumes and I stagger from the room.
21
UNDER PAR
Monroe
With an effortless flick of the club, my dad sinks the golf ball, plink, right in the hole. “Huh. Would you look at that?” he says as if it’s been ages since he birdied and not just three holes ago.
“Impressive,” I say, trying not to sound begrudging. Of course he’s beating me. He always beat me at Scrabble too.
He scoops the ball out of the hole, tossing it proudly like it’s a pair of keys to a Rolls. Only two more holes, and we’re done. Two more holes till I can peel out of here and hit the gas pedal.
The image of Juliet naked in the tub, luxuriating in bubbles, keeps me going. Shame she hasn’t sent a selfie, but there’s still time. Don’t even know if there’s bubble bath stuff at the house. But my dirty mind has decided there is.
“Good game so far. Your golf game is better than I expected,” Dad says.
Hello, backhanded compliment.
I bite back all the comebacks forming. Like, because you thought I’d fail at that too? If I were my own shrink, I’d give me a slow clap for saying evenly, “I play in the city.”
Ha. How’s that for a placid response?
“Nice. You get out to the links often, I imagine?” he asks as we stroll up the hill to the second-to-last hole.
The implication. Dear god, the implication. “Just enough,” I say tightly.
Don’t take the bait.
I peer ahead, then behind, hoping someone will spot him again, and hoist the conversational burden from me. Everyone here at the Duck Falls Golf Course knows him since this place is frequented by co-workers from the university where he teaches and the hospital where he’s performed life-saving surgeries.
We’ve played the back nine as the afternoon melts into evening, and he’s been stopped a few times along the way, by friends and colleagues in golf carts or walking the course, wishing him well. He’s made sure they all know about his retirement party this weekend, and that they’re all coming.
No surprise, they all are.
But would it kill someone, anyone—a shop owner, a nurse, the barista who serves him his green tea every day since tea is better for the brain—to magically appear right now?
I peer around. No such luck.
Dad clucks his tongue as we walk. That’s his thinking sound. We’re heading past a copse of trees. Some are maple, and instinctively, I glance down at the tree on my forearm. Dad wasn’t like this when she was alive. He wasn’t so arrogant, so obsessed, so disappointed. Back then, he joined us in the tree house she built. He went out for bike rides after she taught me how. He played board games in the kitchen with us for fun, not to decimate.
I dig down, trying to find the compassion to fill the silence. “I guess you’re looking forward to the party?” I ask, right as he speaks too, saying, “How are those online studies going? That’s what you’re in town for?”
We both laugh awkwardly. He gestures with his club. “You go first.”
Briefly, I contemplate dodging the topic of why I’m in town. But it’s best I tell the truth. Once we put that home on the market, it won’t be a secret. It’d be another rift between us if I don’t mention it.
“Yes. I’m working on the online course.” I clear my throat, then add, “But also a listener gifted us a house. Here in Darling Springs.”
He stops his pace near a sand trap, sounding a little like a robot reprogramming its motherboard as he sputters, “What? How? Why?”
“It’s a gift deed,” I start to explain, but he cuts me off.
“I know what a gift deed is. You mean, a listener of the podcast just gave it to you? Heartbreakers and Matchmakers?”
I’m the surprised one now. “You know the name of the podcast?”
“Yes. I do, Monroe.” It’s said firmly, brooking no argument. “Why would someone give you a house?”
“She lost her first husband. She’s off on a honeymoon with her new guy, and she said she wouldn’t have had the courage to pursue this romance if not for us,” I say, bracing myself for a snide comment. Or another backhanded compliment.
Instead, there’s only the sound of the leaves rustling in the early evening, the birds chirping as they settle. Then a contemplative huh as his eyes look a little lost. Finally, he clears his throat, maybe clearing some unexpected emotion too as he says, “That’s terrific.”
I’m not sure if the terrific news is the widow finding love again or giving us a house.
We reach the hole, but the group ahead of us must not be finished since a put-together woman in khaki shorts and a mint green polo swings her club gracefully, then watches the ball soar. When it lands far, far away, she gives a fist pump. “Yes,” she says, cheering herself on.