Page 15 of Putting Out
4
Little Creek, Nebraska, hadn’t changed in five years. Luke Nolan didn’t realize how thrilled he would be to find it so. He drove through the center of town even though it was out of his way and smiled at the drugstore window display. The ice cream parlor had a new pink awning over the door. He laughed when he saw the out-of-date movie on the lone movie theater’s marquee. He already owned it on DVD.
A sign over the center of Main Street announced Little Creek was the home to Reilly Carr, twelve-time LPGA major winner. The numbers looked to be interchangeable, like those used for baseball scoring. They must have figured it was cheaper than having to make a new sign each time she won.
Someone else had dangled a cruder sign over it, painted on what Luke was certain was a bedsheet. It read:Go for it, Reilly!
God bless small-town America.
There were a few more cars on the road than he remembered from last time. More pedestrians crowding the sidewalks, but that was to be expected. The circus, otherwise known as the media, had come to town.
Reilly, bless her heart, was doing everything she could to make this story as suspenseful as possible.
Will she or won’t she?had become the number-one question in America. Sports shows talked about it, political shows talked about it, Ellen talked about it – and if Ellen talked about it then everyone was talking about it.
It had gone beyond golf, beyond a single tournament, and had landed smack dab in the middle of the greatest and most enduring battle of all time: the battle between the sexes.
Some of the PGA golfers were handling the new ranking system with aplomb. Others were bitter. Basically, everyone from thirty-nine on down. Then there were the nasty fellows, who every time they found themselves in front of a microphone managed to make a dig at Reilly and her game. Many predicting total failure if she dared to play against the men in a major.
Knowing his girl, she was handling it like a champ. Stoic, resolute and above all quietly classy.
No, wait, that wasn’t his girl. She was throwing things at the TV any time someone said something she didn’t like.
Yes, that was more like her. He wondered how poor Grams was doing with all the cursing.
Luke turned around and found the road that would take him to the farmhouse. When he got there, he found a crew of ten cameras camped out at the edge of the dirt road that led to the house. It seemed the press had already been warned about where the property line began and they were careful to stay on the correct side of it.
Pop did carry a shotgun.
He started to slow down as he approached the throng of reporters, hoping to avoid hitting them, but not caring if he bumped a few along the way. One would have thought since he’d made the transition to color commentary he’d be more forgiving with his peers in the press.
He wasn’t. Too many bad memories when he’d been the story.
They jumped to attention. He could see curious eyes staring through the tinted windows to get a glimpse of the driver inside. Someone must have figured it out.
“It’s Luke Nolan!”
“Luke, question for you. What do you think Reilly will do?”
“Will she play? Have you spoken with her?”
“Luke, a second please for a picture.”
Ignoring them, he drove around them and tried not to smile when he heard someone’s piece of equipment crunch under his wheel. In the rearview mirror he saw it was a tripod, and frowned.
Better luck next time.
Proceeding down the bumpy road, he stopped as soon as the house came into view over a small hill. He’d missed this place.
When he’d first set eyes on it twenty years ago it had been like nothing he had ever seen before. Not like his three-bedroom suburban house where he’d grown up in southern California. Not like the condo in LA his father had moved into after the divorce, or the townhouse his mother and her new husband had bought together in Santa Barbara.
This was a house that had stood the test of time. This was a house that would continue to stand long after he had left this world. It was a sobering thought. A humbling one, too. Luke had pretty much failed every test involving time throughout his life. Beaten by a house.
Pathetic.
It was the inspiration behind his latest purchase.
He pulled his Rover up next to Pop’s truck and climbed out to stretch for a second. He heard the snap of a door slam and then the clunk of big feet on wood steps.
