The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

  He caught the ball and returned it uphill to her. Then he ran his hand over the clipped grass. “Nice.”

  “I put in the same variety they use on the TPC.” She sent the ball back to him. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.” He pushed the ball uphill again. “That’s why this year was do or die for me.”

  “So you drafted Art as your caddie and that was it, huh?”

  The ball came to Buck and he let it stop on its own accord a few inches in front of his shin.

  “He wasn’t my first choice, believe me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Long story.” Buck picked up the ball, and instead of sending it to her, he rolled it side to side between his hands.

  “There’s no one else who can take care of Art. He’d be broke and on the street if he was on his own. And he needs to pay his way somehow.”

  “Your parents are both gone?”

  Afraid his voice might betray him, he nodded a response. The sudden rush of emotion surprised him.

  He sent the ball to her, a little too fast and off line. She had to stretch to retrieve it.

  “My mother died in December,” he said.

  “Oh, sorry.” Now she passed the ball between her hands. “My sister died three years ago.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  “I remember,” she said, “at the hospital when they told us she was gone. I felt as though a heavy coat I didn’t know I was wearing had been taken from me. Chilled me to the bone.”

  She sent the ball to Buck.

  He grabbed it and cleared his throat.

  “It was basically slow-motion suicide with my mother. Smoking. Her timing was lousy, though. Sunday I earned my card—Monday, she’s dead, and I’m stuck with Art.”

  “Oh,” Carla sighed. “That is a cruel twist of fate.”

  “I know what people think of Art, but once we get in a routine, things will come together.” Buck rolled the ball to her.

  “What’s the routine?”

  “Two weeks on, one week off,” he said.

  “Where’s home base?” she asked.

  “The van.”

  “How long do you expect that to last?”

  “A fancy hotel with a comfortable bed and a good steak dinner beats out a cheap apartment that sits empty most of the time. If you can afford to travel in luxury, it’s a pretty damn good way to live.”

  “Lonely, though.”

  Buck smiled. “Well, it’s not exactly unreasonable to think that I won’t make a few friends along the way, friends who might welcome a visitor every now and then.”

  “Is that what Art was asking about? Friends as girls, is that how he put it?”

  “No. He gets confused about stuff.”

  “Hey out there!” Art appeared from around the corner of the house. The kid was in his Pokémon shirt and his Superman pajama bottoms. When he came closer, Buck saw that Art had a serious case of morning wood.

  “Art, go put some clothes on,” Buck said.

  “You’re not the boss of me.” Art turned to Carla and asked, “Can I make pancakes?”

  “Uh, I don’t,” Carla started to reply, but Buck interrupted her. “Knock it off Art.”

  “It’s not your house, Buck.” Art snarled at Buck and then looked over at Carla with an earnest face. “If you have flour, I can make pancakes for us.”

  “I don’t keep syrup in the house,” she said.

  “I like mine with butter and sugar,” Art said. “I know you have eggs, but I need baking soda and butter and milk.”

  Carla glanced at Buck as though seeking his approval.

  “There’s a box of baking soda in the fridge. It’s probably still good.” She rose to her feet. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  When Buck started to move, Carla put out her hand. “No. Your lesson is officially starting. Roll onto your stomach.”

  “What?”

  “Turn over.” She stared down at Buck. “I want you to use your left hand to roll the ball to the cup.”

  “What’s this supposed to do for me?”

  “If you’re going to fight me, then we’re both wasting our time.”

  Buck lowered into a prone position.

  “Back up a little more.” She marked a spot with her foot. “And try to have some fun with it.”

  “Yeah, Buck,” Art said. “You need to try new things. That’s what you tell me.”

  Buck wanted to throttle Art.

  Carla dropped another few balls next to Buck. “This will get you out of your comfort zone. It’s a good way to hit reset.”

  Buck lifted up on his elbows. He tried several different positions—crossed arms, laying perpendicular on each side—until he was flat on the ground with his chin resting on his right hand. After several attempts, a ball finally dropped in. He decided that was good enough and went back inside the house.

  He sat on a stool in the kitchen. Carla was nowhere in sight. He watched Art measure flour in a cup, slowly and methodically, showing a great concern for keeping the kitchen clean.

  A memory of Art in his Power Rangers pajamas watching cartoons while Ruthie made pancakes snuck up on Buck. The kid would have been eight or nine at the time because they were living in the apartment by then. Buck couldn’t recall the circumstances of why he was home on a weekend morning. Normally he found a reason to be out of the apartment as early as possible.

  “You’re supposed to be on the green.” Carla appeared, dressed for a round of golf.

  “I needed a refill,” Buck said. “Hey, do you know where I left my 1-iron?”

  “Is it in my car?”

  They walked out to the carport. The 1-iron was wedged in the open space between the passenger seat and the door of her car. She handed it to him.

  “I have another drill for you. You can use the 1-iron.”

  They walked out to the green again and he stood by while she placed a half-dozen tees in a geometric shape on the tier below the hole.

  “Now I want you to stand about four feet out and try to move the ball between the tees without hitting them. We’re looking for line and distance.”

  She waited for Buck to set up.

  “This should take you about forty-five minutes.”

  Art walked up to Carla. “I cleaned the kitchen. The rest of the pancakes are in the oven.”

  “That’s great, Art.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m surprised some nice girl hasn’t snatched you up yet.”

  Some girl snatching up Art? No way was that going to happen anytime soon. But the possibility of it scared Buck. A sort of competitiveness that he knew was ridiculous. She was only saying it to be nice.

  “Can I stay here again tonight?” Art asked her.

  “No Art. We’re leaving for Tucson,” Buck said quickly, although he’d made no effort to find a hotel room for the night. Their reservations didn’t start until Sunday.

  Art ignored Buck. “I have money. I can pay you.”

  “I don’t need your money.” Carla caught Buck’s eye before she said, “If you need to stay another night, it’s okay. But, Art, I could use a favor from you today.”

  “I’ll do it. Anything you want,” Art said.

  “I’m giving a clinic this afternoon,” Carla told him. “Buck has said he’ll play. I could use another player.”

  “A clinic?” Buck snorted. “I though I was filling in a foursome.”

  “You are. We’re playing nine holes.”

  “Well, Art’s not going to do you much good because he refuses to putt.”

  Carla wheeled around and smiled at Buck. “That is a little ironic. Today’s clinic is all about the short game.”

  “Once he gets something in his head, there’s no budging him.” Buck looked at Art and lowered his head. “Am I right?” he asked.

  “I’ll putt for you Carla.”

  “What the…”

  “Thank you, Art,” she said.

  She was just like Ruthie, fooled by Art when he w
as being a complete kiss-ass.

  As she started to leave, she said, “We’re playing the Lambert course in Tempe. It’s about thirty minutes from here.”

  “Who are we playing with?” Buck almost added a snide comment about housewives and old farts.

  “You’ll be playing with a group of young ladies.”

  Art beamed and Buck groaned.

  “Be there by two o’clock,” she said and then left.

  #

  The van followed a stretch of divided highway cut through a patch of scrubby, bleak desert. Art drove while Buck stared out the window, remembering the last time he played the Lambert course.

  It was more challenging than it looked on paper; the low yardage was deceiving. Denny would get a kick out of knowing Buck was playing it today. Because of all the bunkers and hillocks, Denny had nicknamed the course Pimple Park.

  This was the place where they originally met at a regional amateur tournament. The Thornton crew—father, mother, sister, grandparents—had shown up to support Denny, the family’s rising golf star.

  The van turned into the parking lot. There was a newer, grander pro shop and patio. Art parked and they both walked to the back of the van.

  Buck stuffed a glove, a sleeve of balls, and some tees into his pockets. He took a couple of short irons and a putter from the rack.

  “Am I supposed to carry the bag today?” Art asked.

  “We won’t need it.”

  Buck found a spare 7-iron, a sand wedge, and a putter for Art.

  “Grab a glove and some balls,” he said.

  “What if Carla wants us to have a bag?” Art asked, raising his chin and exposing his throat.

  “She’s not going to care.” Buck shut the doors. “So what if she does?”

  “She might not kiss me if she’s mad.”

  Buck thumped Art on the shoulder.

  “That hurt.”

  “Don’t try anything stupid on her.” The thought of Art groping Carla made Buck ill.

  “Yeah, but if we’re married, we could stay in her house all the time,” Art said.

  “What planet are you living on?”

  Art went red in the face. “She’s mine. You can’t have her.”

  “I’m not interested in her,” Buck said. “But stick with Gigi, hear me?”

  They found Carla near the practice green with an odd assortment of teenaged girls.

  Carla introduced Buck and Art, stating only that they were joining for nine holes.

  She went on with the lesson about hitting from uphill and downhill lies. Buck watched as she flexed her knees and swiveled her hips to demonstrate the swing. She had a few more curves on her than Buck had realized.

  He scanned the group, the least enthusiastic kids you’d expect to find at a youth golf clinic.

  Carla divided them into foursomes. She placed Buck with the pink-haired, tattooed girl and two dark-haired girls who looked like sisters, both showing some cleavage and wearing more make-up than was called for in golf.

  He glanced over at Art. The kid was smiling at a girl in his foursome. Hopefully, his infatuation with Carla would pass quickly.

  As they peeled off into smaller groups, Buck said, “This is like playing putt-putt golf,” to the three girls in his foursome.

  “See, that’s what I’ve been talking about,” Carla said. “Woe is the player who doesn’t respect the short game.”

  Carla turned to the girl Art was ogling and said, “Roberta, your group is up first. Play ready golf, ladies.”

  Carla was with the middle foursome, leaving Buck and his little entourage the last to tee off.

  While they waited behind, the three girls looked bored and uninterested. Each had a device in hand with her head down. Art was probably doing the same thing. Buck broke the silence by asking the one with the tattoos how she became interested in golf.

  She smirked at him and said under her breath, “Like I had a choice.”

  Buck glanced at the other two girls. “What about you?”

  One shrugged her shoulders, the prettier one ignored him.

  “Are you sisters?”

  “Cousins,” the first one answered.

  When it was time to tee off, Buck strode out to what served as the longest tees—179 yards to the pin. The girls ambled toward the ladies tees.

  He whistled to get their attention.

  They stopped and looked at him like cows in a pasture.

  “Stand behind me.” Buck waited for them as they moved with all the energetic apathy of puberty with a bad attitude.

  Buck took his customary loose, shoulder-height practice swing before turning to face the green. On a whim, he said, “Heads up. Now you’re going to see how it’s done.”

  He swung, feeling the grace of the arc in his backswing, and the ping of a ball well struck. It flew high and dutifully disappeared behind the green.

  Too much club.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a big shot golfer?” the prettier of the cousins said. The other one giggled.

  “Carla told you that, huh?” He picked up the rest of his clubs and stomped to the forward tees. As he passed the tat girl, she smiled at him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lexi.”

  Buck stood behind her as she struggled to set up her ball in a tee. Lexi whiffed her first stroke. It took three strokes to move the ball ten yards ahead.

  Lexi slouched away and the prettier of the cousins came up next.

  She bladed her shot, and the ball bounced along the cart path, landing out of bounds. At least it gained some distance, but at this pace, it would take forever to get through nine holes. He looked over his shoulder at a line of four guys on the tee box, waiting.

  Thankfully, the third girl made a solid shot and her ball sailed to the middle of the fairway.

  But what followed was a slapstick series of muffs, whiffs, and fatties, balls skulled, topped, fluffed, and thumped—all on the first hole, before ever making it to the green.

  And every missed stroke was met with either embarrassed giggles from the cousins or listless resignation from Lexi.

  Right then, Buck felt the price extracted for staying at Carla’s house and wondered who got the better deal. His own game suffered, and he blamed it on the miserable pace of play.

  As they gathered around the No. 2 tee box, Buck said. “We’re making some changes. Lexi, toss me your ball.”

  He teed it up and took a short swing with his sand wedge. It landed on the fringe near the green.

  Buck looked at the cousins. “You,” indicating the prettier one. “What’s your name?”

  “Marissa.”

  “Marissa, give me your ball.”

  He sent this one to the middle of the fairway, dead center.

  The last girl threw her ball to Buck. He caught it, but stopped. She was the one with some natural ability. “What’s your name?”

  “Jasmine.”

  “Okay, Jasmine,” he said. “Come up here.”

  He teed the ball for her. When she took her stance, he adjusted her shoulders and then stepped back.

  Her ball landed near Marissa’s and rolled several yards forward. Jasmine fist-pumped her hand in the air, dancing off the tees.

  Buck took his stroke from the forward tees and easily found the green. Then he motioned for the girls to start moving.

  “You two.” Buck eyed Lexi and Marissa. “Pick up your balls and drop them near mine.” Then he walked to Jasmine’s ball.

  “You’re going to run the ball up with a long iron. Take a couple practice swings. Come back about this far.”

  Once they were on the green, he said, “Everybody gets three strokes a hole. If you can’t get it in by three, then pick up your ball.”

  The remainder of the round went much faster, and when they came off the course to meet the others, Carla hurried over to Buck.

  Her face was flushed and a huge smile was on her lips when she said, “Art aced number six.”

  She turned
back to Art. “I guess you didn’t need to putt after,” she said to him. Then she cast her eyes to the group of girls. “I’ve never made one myself. Ladies, that was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

  The girl named Roberta beamed openly at Art, although the others seemed unimpressed.

  Buck stood in the shadows, holding his scorecard with a lousy three under par.

  He couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Yeah, but what good is it if he won’t play by the rules? Hell, you were preaching earlier—drive for show, putt for dough.”

  Carla lowered her chin and cocked an eyebrow at him. “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  Art inched closer to her, goofy as ever. “Yeah Buck. She never said that.”

  Buck would have shot the kid if he’d had a gun.

  “Sometimes sheer skill and talent for striking the ball means more than the score.” Carla said it to the group, but she shifted her gaze to settle on Buck. “It just depends on what you’re playing for.”

  “To win, of course,” Buck said. “What else is there?”

  “Bliss, joy, love for the game.”

  “Love is overrated,” Buck said. “Unless it comes with a million dollars.” He flashed a big grin for the girls in his foursome, treating them as his own special audience who would appreciate the joke. Instead, they were all head down in their phones, paying no attention to him.

  “Does everything come down to money with you?” Carla asked. Then she wheeled around and herded Art and his foursome into the pro shop to report the ace.

  Buck made a beeline to the large covered patio. He bought a beer at the snack window and plopped down in a patio chair. Maybe he was pissed because Art might actually have an innate feel for the ball that Buck would never possess. But it wasn’t envy he was feeling. He took another swallow of beer. Well, maybe it was jealously, but underneath that evil spirit was a keen sense of injustice. He could have used a gift like that; in Art’s hands, it was a waste.

  He thought of Perrin Stevens, the great golf teacher from Atlanta. Stevens was a magician with a club, but he couldn’t perform under pressure. His game fell apart if money was on the line. In the few PGA events Stevens entered, every speck of his talent evaporated in the heat of competition. As a golfer, Stevens could hit any target; as a competitor, he couldn’t find the Grand Canyon.

  Art appeared from the pro shop. As soon as he settled his butt in a chair, Buck said, “Get me another Shiner.”