Page 88 of Putting Out
“Okay.” Blood bubbled under the surface of her skin from her scalp to her toes but she would not allow him to see it. “Then I guess the mysteries of this course will just have to continue to be a mystery. Until the first week of April when I will be allowed to play in the tournament as my official PGA rank guarantees me. What was that rank again, Odie? I always seem to forget. Forty-six, forty-seven?”
“Actually it was thirty-eight,” he fed her.
“Thirty-eight,” Reilly repeated with a soft sigh. “It does suggest I have a great deal to live up to.”
“That it does, Miss Carr. That it does.”
His disdain was clear, but so was hers for him. “Then I guess our business here is concluded.”
“One last minor item,” Birdie suggested. “Your attire.”
“What about my attire?”
“Well, since your announcement to play in our great tournament I’ve had the opportunity to watch some footage of you from your old matches. I know I don’t have to tell you skirts, most especially the tiny postage stamps things you wear, are not permitted on the PGA tour.”
Reilly's eyes opened wide with a feigned expression of shock.
“Really, no skirts?”
“No. Long pants only.”
“My goodness. What about my sport tankinis? You know the kind that show off my midriff? I’ve got a killer belly button ring that will look great on TV.”
Birdie sniffed as if a gust of something foul had passed under his nose.
“Tankinis will also be unacceptable. Collared shirts or some prefer what is known as mock turtlenecks only.”
“The mocks don’t show off my assets, if you know what I mean.” Reilly winked at the stuffy round man and took satisfaction in the red flush creeping up his neck.
“I do indeed, ma’am, but this tournament is not about showing off one’s assets. It’s about playing quality golf.”
She stood up and motioned to Odie to follow her. “Okay, but you know a little skin might pick up those ratings.”
“I assure you, ma’am, we have all the skin we need.”
“See you in a few, Birdie.”
Birdie shifted back in his oversize leather chair as if to make the point that he wouldn’t stand at her departure.
Reilly stormed out of the office and down the steps of the clubhouse furious with the outcome of events more than anything else. Smithfield wanted to make her life difficult, so be it, but without some exposure to the pace of the greens, it was going to make her first two practice rounds that much more important.
“Cretin. Snob. Bully,” Odie shouted. “The nerve of some men talking down to you as if you were a …”
“A lil’ girl.”
“Exactly. I’m going off to find an acceptable and permit-table place to smoke. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Reilly!”
Luke was striding toward her in a pair of golf pants and spikes with Tom, this old caddy from the tour a few paces behind him carrying his bag.
“What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Hey Tom,” she waved to his caddy who nodded in return.
“Practice rounds.”
It took a second for Reilly to absorb that information. “You’re playing at the American?”
