Page 7 of Putting Out
“Okay. That’s fair. But I’m going to try and that should tell you I’m… slightly serious.”
Since “slightly serious” was more than she’d ever seen him be with anyone else since his high school girlfriend, she figured she would have to give him the benefit of the doubt. “If you’re slightly serious, you’ll get the car for her.”
“That’s like a boyfriend thing to do, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever had husbands and fiancés.”
He chuckled and she smiled in return. Mocking her two failed attempts at marriage and one failed engagement before the age of thirty was the only way to take the sting out of the reality.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seatbelt light. Please return your seats and trays to the upright position as we’ll be landing in Omaha shortly.”
Kenny groaned under his breath.
“He’s going to make me muck. I hate mucking.”
“Shoveling shit humbles you and builds character,” Reilly quoted her Pop.
“Right. Because hauling around my little sister’s clubs while she earns my livelihood isn’t humbling enough.”
Reilly didn’t answer because she knew he wasn’t as sour as he sounded.
When she’d turned pro the only person she could imagine having on the bag with her for that first tournament was Kenny. He’d always taken a break from whatever he was doing to be on the bag for her during every major amateur event. The idea of not having him there for her first professional round was sacrilegious. Since he’d just missed earning his PGA card by a few points after several seasons of unsuccessful attempts, and he’d needed the cash, he’d accepted.
She’d won her first tournament, taken home a decent check and had handed a chunk of it to him. Then she’d won the second, tied for second in the third and finished ninth in her fourth. The checks kept rolling in and the rest, as they say, was history.
Thirteen years later and they were both well-off for a lady golfer and her caddy. Enough so that the farm was paid for outright. They flew first class wherever they traveled and they both drove luxury cars. His a Porsche. Hers a Land Rover.
He might talk about humility, but in her heart she believed he was more proud than anything else. Proud she’d been able to make the most out of the gift they’d both been given.
They landed and collected their bags. Naturally, Kenny insisted on driving the rental car. Reilly made the necessary noises about men needing to drive to create an illusion of control.
The truth was watching field after field pass in a haze beyond the passenger window was all she wanted to do. She didn’t want to think about the next tournament or preparation for the next major coming up. She didn’t want to think about golf.
No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to think about it and was forcing herself to think of other things, it was that when she did think about the next event, or even the next major, she was bored. Tournament wins didn’t hold her attention like they used to.
Not that this was some kind of career crisis, she told herself as the road stretched out before her. It wasn’t like she was losing her love for the game. She was still committed. Still prepared to do the work to make her the best among her competitors. The best among those who had ever played.
That’s what they were talking about now, the writers and analysts. Better than Nancy Lopez, Mickey Right. Better than Annika.
It wasn’t as if she minded competing for the all-time number of wins. Number of majors. The elusive second fifty-nine. But boy, she sure would have loved to have done it on the same course at the same time as those other women. Head-to-head showdowns. Birdie-for-birdie putts. Sadly, those women were gone and while the field today was good, it just wasn’t as good as she was.
It led to the obvious question. How good was she?
Reilly shook her head and focused on the things she could control. Like enjoying her break. Kenny took the turn off toward town. Little Creek was a spot on the map about one hundred miles west of Omaha, but to Reilly it was the sweetest place on earth. It had one single-screen movie theater, one ice-cream parlor, one drug store, one hardware store, and one fancy restaurant with real cloth napkins.
One of everything. Which was all anyone needed.
Right before the main street Kenny turned off another road that took them south of town. Twenty minutes later he was driving down a familiar rutted road toward the farm.
The house rose up over a small crest and sent a burst of longing through Reilly. White paint, black shutters, four bedrooms. Complete with a wraparound porch furnished with two white wicker rocking chairs. It was the quintessential American farmhouse. Cliché, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
God, she missed this place. They’d both been back for Christmas, but a month ago seemed more like a year ago.
Kenny got out and circled the SUV to take care of the luggage. Reilly was already moving toward the white clapboard barn adjacent to the house.
“No, no, don’t worry. I’ll get the luggage. Wouldn’t want you to lift something and strain yourself,” he called to her.
“You are the sweetest brother,” she replied. “You go find Grams. I’m just going to let Pop know we’re here.”
