Page 11 of Putting Out
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Wack!...splash.
Wack!...splash.
Wack!...splash.
Damn, she loved that sound.
Taking her seven iron back in a smooth seamless arc, Reilly fired again. The club hit the ball. The ball sailed high and straight into the air and landed about a hundred and forty yards away into an almost-frozen lake.
She’d brought her clubs with her because she never traveled anywhere without them, but not with any real intent to work out. This was supposed to be a break. But when she woke up this morning, the urge to come out to the lake and hit balls like she’d done on so many mornings with Pop was irresistible.
Reilly figured it was a good sign. The drive that made her who she was, what she was, was still there. Without it… well, the thought was too scary to contemplate.
Using her booted foot to roll a ball from the tipped bucket into place, she fired again at the white target she picked out in the center of the lake and watched it fly for a time. High shots, fades, draws, punch shots. She could spin it, stop it, lift it and all but cuddle it up next to a hole. Accuracy. It was her bread and butter on the tour after distance.
“Thought I would find you here.”
Reilly turned and smiled at her Pop who was carrying a nine iron over his shoulder.
“Just giving you something to collect this summer with your fancy new rake.”
She’d given him the electronic rake, designed for pulling balls out of water traps, for Christmas this past year.
“I can’t wait to use it.”
Without him asking, she kicked out a few more balls then stood back giving him room next to her to swing. A lefty, he faced her as they continued to hit.
She watched him hit a few balls and saw that his arc didn’t go as far back as it used to, and his arms weren’t as straight as they should be. It had been the hardest thing in the world to accept when Grams was diagnosed with a disease because it meant she was doing the unthinkable: getting old.
Now she could see the same happening to her Pop and it stabbed her deep in the heart.
“Promise me you won’t leave, Pop,” she blurted out.
He stopped his swing midflight and lowered the club. He smiled, but he was shaking his head.
“Can’t do that,” he answered, knowing what she was asking. “Everybody has got to leave in their time. Like your mother and father. It’s the way of things.”
It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but it was typical of him to give her nothing less than the truth.
“Is that why you’re here?”
The question startled her. “I’m here for a break. To visit and check up on Grams.”
“No. You’re not. Maybe that’s what you’re telling yourself, but it isn’t the truth.”
“It is,” she insisted. Nothing else made sense. Not for her.
Reilly didn’t stew or worry or analyze.
She acted. She played. She married.
“I think you might be looking for something.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t know. It’s not your swing, that’s for sure. So it must be something else. You know you can stay as long as you need until you find it. I can’t promise we’ll stay forever, but I’m pretty sure neither of us is going anywhere for a while.”
