Page 8 of Putting Out
It was the middle of the day so Grams should be inside baking and Pop should be in the barn. At least it had always been so. Reilly didn’t want to think of a day when it would never be again. But reality was starting to close in on them.
Grams had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease last spring. They were treating it with medication, but her ability to get around like she used to was diminishing. Thank goodness Pop was still as strong as a horse, but nothing was ever certain. It was good they had come home. Better still that Erica would join them. Grams loved to bake for guests.
Reilly made her way up the well-trodden dirt path to the barn door that was ajar. Her boots crunched on the smattering of snow on the ground. When it was cold and barren like this it was difficult to imagine spring would ever make an appearance again.
This wasn’t a working farm anymore, but Pop still liked to keep his hand in a little planting. Reilly allowed it as long as he kept it to an acre and the harvested wheat was donated to some of the other smaller farms to supplement their crop. She didn’t want him having to struggle to make a living, but she couldn’t take the farmer off the farm.
After all, the land was his third love.
Family was number one, because he was that kind of guy. His true passion after that was golf.
Reilly leaned against the door frame, watching as her grandfather bent over his workbench. It sported an iron shaping machine – a gift from her a few years back - so he could grind the loft to the perfect angle on his wedge.
“I once knew a man named O’Reilly. He had the sweetest swing I ever did see.”
He startled at the sound of her voice, but when he turned around, his smile was as big and welcoming as she’d ever seen it. Irish blue eyes twinkled against the backdrop of his red face and white hair, and his big body still looked as strong as it did when he used to bounce her on his knee.
“Funny, because I once knew a girl named Reilly. I thought her swing was even sweeter.”
It was a familiar game, but for whatever reason this time she found herself tearing up at his standard reply. The overwhelming love she felt for him bubbled and almost spilled over and she didn’t have a clue why.
There was no doubt about it. She was getting sappy. It must have something to do with having turned thirty. Maybe some kind of hormonal change.
Pushing herself off the door frame, she walked over and let herself be wrapped in his massive embrace. She was tall for a woman but Pop would always be bigger.
“Now what brings you home?”
“I had time between tournaments. I wanted a break. Kenny’s with me. He’s in with Grams.”
“Both my pups home at once? It’s Christmas all over again.”
She smiled against his chest and squeezed one last time before she let go. “Brace yourself, but he’s invited a girl to come.”
Her Pop’s brow raised with expectation then scrunched in consternation.
“You’re putting me on. The great American playboy is bringing a girlfriend home.”
“Girl friend. They’re not, you know… doing it yet.”
“Now let’s not talk about that, shall we.”
She watched him blush and loved how old-fashioned he was. She hadn’t been lying to Erica about the shotgun.
“Anyway, I think he might be serious. You remember Erica from the tour?”
“She putts with an eagle eye.”
A quality Pop would prize over most other attributes. “That’s the one.”
“Excellent. What about you? Are you getting serious about anyone?”
She scowled. “Serious doesn’t work for me. Remember, Pop?”
“Well, I have many things I could say about that, but I won’t. Speaking of serious or I should say not so serious, we got a call not long ago from Luke. Just wanting to touch base. Wasn’t that nice?”
Luke Nolan had been Kenny’s college roommate at USC and a regular at Thanksgiving dinner for years. Despite the two of them being best friends, they were once also fierce rivals on the golf course. Where Kenny had failed to have the drive needed to push himself to the next level after college, Luke had kicked his game into high gear.
He’d made it onto the PGA tour and all the way to number one for a time, but after his second Master’s victory he’d started to slide. He played less. He got married. He got divorced. He played even less.
