The Putting Green Whisperer

by McCarthy, Zoe M. ;

  Fifteen steps would take her to him, where she could praise his green-reading skills.

  Hold on. Ring check. His left ring finger was empty. If she gushed her esteem, he might think she was hitting on him. His talent, not the man, had fired her passion.

  Green Whisperer clapped the other caddy on the back and moved toward the sidewalk.

  Sheesh. He was getting away. Forget her fears. She pressed her lips together, getting an SPF 15 cherry burst, and maneuvered through caddies heading out to link up with their pros.

  An older caddy stopped Green Whisperer. Rats. She slowed her pace. The older caddy shook Green’s hand and then moved on. She increased her speed and zeroed in on her prey before any other well-wishing caddies could intervene.

  Green took a step forward, and then his gaze landed on her and held. He waited.

  She steeled her smile and blocked, “You have an amazing talent!” from spurting into the air too soon and landing on the wrong caddy.

  Green’s killer smile spread across his face, welcoming her approach. Had she imagined it, or had he executed a step in her direction?

  “Hey! Shoo!”

  Green’s hand whipped toward the speaker in a holding-off gesture. His gaze remained on her face.

  Shoo? She halted. Had Green responded to the name Shoo? As in Shoo Leonard, once called John, until his name had somehow changed to idiotic Shoo? Was this man the son of retired pro golfer Steve Leonard?

  She spun a one-eighty and hiked toward the check-in table. No way would she have any kind of conversation with the sleazebag who’d put her through two hours of torture when she was ten.

  The burly caddy ahead of her stopped short and shook out his folded bib. Allie sidestepped him, and her hip caught the edge of the check-in table, sending her stumbling sideways.

  She bounced off the big guy’s steamroller body. “Oh!”

  Pain shot through her hip as the volunteer’s laptop slid off the table. The volunteer reached for the machine, but it slipped through her hands and fell to the patio.

  Crack!

  Allie cringed. Caddies’ heads turned, and a hush settled over the crowd.

  The open laptop formed a tent on the patio. Blood would ooze from it any second.

  Allie bent to retrieve it. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve got it.” The volunteer scooped up the laptop and righted it on the table.

  Allie searched the woman’s face for the verdict on the machine’s wellbeing, her heart pounding.

  The volunteer’s eyes brightened, and she smiled. “It survived!”

  Allie released her imprisoned breath, gave the volunteer a nod, and churned her legs away from the cheering caddies…and John Leonard.

  ~*~

  What was that all about? Shoo stared at the retreating caddy, whose blonde ponytail protruding from the back of her golf cap danced wildly as she hurried off. He craned his neck to keep her in sight as she wove through the caddies on the cart path.

  Approaching him, she’d seemed like a girl on a mission. Her striking blue eyes, bright against her tanned skin, had focused on him, as if she’d rediscovered an old friend. No doubt about it, her smile had beamed at him. Then, bam! She’d done an about-face and slammed into the check-in table.

  But he didn’t know her. Did he?

  He mentally scanned his female acquaintances. No match surfaced. Unlikely he’d have forgotten the petite blonde.

  So, who was she?

  As she’d fled, her ponytail had lashed against MASTERSON on her bib as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. Maybe she thought she knew him, and then, embarrassed, realized he was a stranger.

  Peanut butter scented fingers snapped in his face. He jerked away.

  Mark stuffed a peanut butter cracker into his mouth. “Hey, man. Get back in the zone.” Orange crumbs sprayed.

  How long had Mark stood yakking at him?

  He extended his hand. “Mark, my man. What’s up?”

  Mark slapped his hand into Shoo’s palm. “Don’t tell me you zonked out for the sprite who rammed the table and then ran off. She’s not your type.”

  Mark’s grip awakened the pain in Shoo’s injured hand.

  Shoo freed his hand and flexed his fingers. “Have you seen her before?”

  “Nope.” Mark cocked his head. “I thought you were partial to more delicate ladies.”

  In his customary offhanded way, Mark referred to Christine. Shoo shook off the bitter reminder, then nodded toward the path the blonde caddy had taken. “She’s caddying for Mill Masterson.”

  “Maybe the sprite’s his granddaughter.”

  Yep. She had Mill’s radiant blue eyes. With their uniqueness, he should have made the connection. “More likely his daughter.”

  Mark ran his beefy finger down the pairing sheet, and then looked up. “Do you know who Masterson is paired with?”

  “Yeah, I know. But I don’t think she does.”

  ~*~

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Allie gritted her teeth. Just dig a hole and bury her. Right here on the practice green—with Dad a few feet away—oblivious to her disaster. She’d decay quickly under the unusually hot October sun.

  Allie anchored one hand on Dad’s black upright golf bag and cupped her forehead with the other. What a fool she’d made of herself. In Shoo Leonard’s presence, no less. She ran her hand down her face and chewed on her fingernail.

  Dad hunched over and sank three golf balls into a practice cup. He rotated his head toward her and smiled.

  She signaled her face muscles to lift her lips. They wouldn’t cooperate.

  Dad’s smile faded and he putted toward a different practice hole.

  She scuffed one sneaker against the other. Why did Green Whisperer, the golfer she’d allowed herself to get excited about, have to be the grown-up version of the boy who’d treated her so cruelly?

  A prickly shudder ran through her.

  But now wasn’t about the past. Now was about ensuring she never stood within a twenty-yard radius of John Leonard.

  Physically or mentally.

  Allie rubbed her forehead. What an un-believable situation. How was she to do the impossible and forget about Green Whisperer? She already admired the guy for his putting skills.

  Preposterous or not, she’d almost swooned over the golf icon’s incredible putts. From behind a holly tree, for goodness’ sake.

  Maybe Shoo had changed. Maybe he wasn’t into torture these days. Whether he played a slice or a hook, he’d somehow landed in her fairway. And she wanted to see his next shot.

  She rolled her eyes. When had she started drinking the sap from her three wood?

  On the other hand, John may have grown more demented in his treatment of little kids.

  Whatever. With the horrible start to the tournament, she was too vulnerable to deal with the guy.

  She’d hold on to that thought.

  She’d imagine him sucking the life from an innocent bird’s egg as weasels did. With such a vivid image in her mind, she’d make sure she, the vulnerable bird, stayed off the guy’s radar. That should work.

  Dad lined up golf balls for another putting round.

  Allie turned toward the buzz behind her as fans streamed past the practice green. Dad’s tee time would be soon. John’s—rather, the weasel’s—presence at check-in meant his player would tee off around the same time. Hopefully, his pro would tee off with the players starting on the back nine.

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him, as she’d planned only five seconds ago? “This is not the time to allow a crack in your shell.”

  Dad looked up from his putting stance. “A crack in my shell?”

  Had she said that aloud? She whipped a ball from the bag, hustled onto the green, and snatched the last ball in his battalion. “I think there’s a crack in this ball.” She stuffed the ball into her pocket and plunked the other in its place.

  Sheesh! Would he buy her cover-up?

  Dad regarded her for a moment. “Thanks.
” He winked. “Wouldn’t want to miss a practice putt due to a crack in the ball.”

  After his putting practice, Dad strolled over and handed her the balls and his putter. “Let’s head over to the tee.”

  She stared at the putter. Dad had decided to treat her like a bona fide caddy? Hallelujah!

  She stored the balls in the golf bag, brushed a grass blade from the putter head, and then wiped the entire putter with her towel.

  Grilled food aromas drifted from a nearby concession stand, and memories rose. During those three summers she’d traveled with Dad on the PGA tour, they’d lived on tournament hamburgers and hotdogs.

  Now she was his caddy. She smiled.

  She slid the putter into its slot, hoisted the golf bag onto her shoulder, and joined Dad as he made his way to the cart path. “Who are we paired with?”

  “Don Parker and”—Dad nodded toward a golfer hiking from the driving range—“Chris Reed.”

  John Leonard strode alongside Reed, clubs rattling in the bag he carried. He dipped his head toward her and then returned his attention to Reed’s conversation.

  Her body stiffened. She glued her gaze on him as she waited to see the proof on the back of his bib. Please, don’t let it say REED.

  “Egg-sucking weasel. Egg-sucking weasel,” she mumbled behind her hand. Another second and she’d know. “Egg-sucking…”

  The golf bag strap slid down her arm. Dad’s clubs clanged to the ground.

  3

  At the first tee, Shoo grabbed Chris’s driver from the back of the golf cart. If Chris did well today, Shoo might be able to afford a motel with a fitness room in Conover next week. If he was to have any chance to make it into the PGA, he needed a place to train.

  Shoo and Chris joined Masterson and Parker and their caddies waiting for the group in front of them to tee off. Fans crowded either side of the roped-off grassy areas along the fairway. Shoo took a gulp of his sport drink and capped it. The sprite, as Mark called her, seemed to be hiding behind Mill Masterson. What was with the woman?

  Shoo shook hands with Parker’s caddy, reached around Mill, and extended his hand to the sprite. Her face flushed. She was probably embarrassed about the check-in thing.

  Mill clapped Shoo on the back. “Allie, this is Steve Leonard’s son, John. John, my daughter, Allie.”

  Allie hesitated and then offered her hand. About as limp as a dead kitten. And no hint of the smile she’d beamed him at check-in.

  Shoo released her hand, and it dropped to her side. At least she didn’t wipe it on her white shorts.

  Mill drew on his golf glove. “Your dad and I go way back, John. To high school here in Cary.”

  “Dad has mentioned you were friends.”

  Allie turned away from the group.

  The woman was a mystery. She lightly chopped her heel against the grass as if she was impatient to be gone.

  Ah, yes. A challenge was coming on…with Allie’s name on it.

  “Most call him Shoo nowadays,” Chris Reed said.

  Mill chuckled. “How’d you get branded with a name like Shoo?”

  “It’s comical, really. All the guys on the Wake Forest golf team ragged me about being a shoo-in for the PGA tour.” Shoo lifted his injured hand. “Just when I was making a good start on my golf career, an accident with a cement block while working on a Habitat for Humanity house decommissioned me. But the name Shoo stuck.”

  Allie looked toward the group, interest sparking in her eyes. Then her gaze returned to the grass.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Mill said. “Has your injury removed you permanently from the game?”

  “I hope not.” Shoo flexed his hand. “With a whole lot of therapy, I’m working my way back.”

  “I heard your family lives in San Francisco now.”

  “Yes. We lived here until my freshman year in high school. I came back east to attend Wake Forest. I’m looking forward to seeing my parents during the Cup Championship at the end of the tour. Maybe you and Dad can get together. Come to dinner.”

  Allie’s head jerked up and she gasped.

  What was so alarming about the Cup Championship? Or the two high school friends getting together?

  Allie swatted the air and puffed a breath at some unseen insect—one immune to Parker’s cigar smoke, which would keep crows away never mind insects. No question. Allie Masterson was covering up her gasp.

  The announcer introduced Chris to the crowd. Shoo handed him the driver.

  As Chris teed up, Shoo let his gaze drift over to the blonde caddy, who’d repositioned herself and once again stood half hidden behind Masterson.

  What did he know about the Mastersons? Not much. A while ago, Mill had been on tour for a few years. Around that time, Dad had mentioned Mill’s wife had died in a car accident. That must have been hard on Allie. And Mill. He hadn’t returned to golf until this season.

  After the player’s drives, Shoo released the golf cart brake and followed Masterson’s cart. Maybe Chris, the veteran golfer, could fill him in on the Mastersons. “Did Mill remarry?”

  “Yeah, about a year ago. Nice lady. Karen.”

  “Does he have kids other than Allie?”

  “No. She’s it. Allie followed Mill everywhere when he made a comeback some years ago. She was in her early teens then. A good little golfer. Mill was doing well himself. Even won a few tournaments. Then Mill’s wife died. Haven’t seen Allie since she went off to UNC, but it’s nice to see the two back together.”

  The challenge was on. Before the day was over, Shoo would coax at least one smile from Allie Masterson.

  ~*~

  Allie eased the cart’s speed. Thankfully, Dad seemed oblivious to her frustration-driven heavy foot. But, man, spending eighteen holes with John—Shoo—Weasel—would be an irritating challenge. Could a guy have changed that much from a callous preteen? He’d sure charmed Dad with his talk about his cutesy new name and injured hand. Pardon her for not caring.

  And how about Shoo’s suggestion that Dad and Steve get together? Would Dad take him up on the idea? If he did, he could forget about including her. She had no intention of having dinner with that jerk.

  At the green, she stopped behind Parker’s cart and set the brake. Putter under her arm, she followed Dad.

  Shoo removed the flagstick from the cup and backed away from the hole.

  Shoo didn’t look like a creep. And after Dad introduced her to him, he’d kept quiet about their first embarrassing encounter at check-in.

  Creep or not, she’d like to hear the story behind his green-reading gift. It would never happen, though. Only a person with inborn malice could have done what he did to her on youth day at Carywood. Even after all these years, she couldn’t forgive him for his cruelty.

  Allie joined Dad and held out his putter. He took it and proffered his yardage book. She stared at the narrow book, then raised her gaze to his. His smile broadened as he inched the black book toward her. She accepted it as if it were the Holy Grail.

  Dad moved to the green.

  The first pages of yardage notes were rubber-banded, and the worn book flopped opened to today’s entries. She ran her fingers over the golf lingo in Dad’s neat print, and then stuck the book into her blue bib pocket.

  After she measured the distance to the chalk splotch where tomorrow’s hole would be cut, she entered the yardage into Dad’s book and snapped it shut. She chanced a glance in Shoo’s direction. He was smiling at her. She dropped her gaze and stored the yardage book in her bib pocket as if the task needed her full attention. Then she stilled for Parker’s putt.

  Did Shoo think she’d melt into a friendship with him based on his killer smile? Well, he was wrong. It would take more than a pleasing grin for her to believe he’d changed. Did he even connect the dots that she was the girl he and his buddies had demeaned and almost sent to a mental ward?

  Dad made his putt. The fans hooted and clapped. If she wasn’t his caddy, she’d yell, “Way to go, Mill!” Just as she’d sh
outed as a teen so many times on his first comeback tour.

  Had a breeze stirred, or was Mom exhaling a joyful sigh from heaven because Dad and she were together again?

  Dad retrieved his ball and stood beside her.

  She took his putter. “Nice putt.”

  On the green, Chris squatted behind his ball. After a moment, he motioned Shoo over. Shoo stood behind him, pointed to a spot on the green, and then moved away.

  “Chris would be crazy not to take Shoo’s advice.” She spoke more to herself than to Dad.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I saw Shoo on the fourteenth green at Carywood reading its terrain for several different putts. The ball sank every time. He’s gifted.”

  “Interesting. But puzzling.”

  “Why?”

  “You seemed…standoffish around John—Shoo.”

  “I guess I’m more nervous about today than I thought.” No lie. As soon as she’d realized Green was Shoo Leonard and he’d caddy with her group, her nerves had frazzled.

  Small lines formed between Dad’s eyebrows. “You OK now?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  Dig a hole and bury her. Everyone must have thought she was “standoffish” with Shoo. Including the wonder guy himself.

  She’d have to be more careful, but she was battling a war here. A clash between Golf Groupie and Wrathful Woman.

  Allie eyed Shoo’s suggested spot on the green and braced herself to witness Chris’s perfect putt.

  Chris stroked the ball. The white sphere traveled away from Shoo’s spot.

  Un-believable. Reed had ignored Shoo. The guy had no inkling he had a green whisperer for a caddy.

  If only she could glance up to see Shoo’s reaction, but he’d already caught her looking his way once.

  Dad chuckled. “Yep. Chris should’ve listened to his caddy.”

  She sneaked a look at Shoo. His eyes were trained on her. He raised his eyebrows and executed a discreet what-can-I-say shrug. She turned away and hid her smile, biting her Golf Groupie lips. Where had Wrathful Woman gone?

  Egg-sucking weasel. Egg-sucking weasel.