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“Want to try again?” offered Randy.
Tony cast his eye toward the deck behind the clubhouse, where he spotted the other members of his foursome, waving at him. “Looks like they’re ready to tee off,” he said. “I gotta go.”
“Bring ’em all ’round when you’re done,” suggested Bert. “We’ll still be here.”
“Will do,” promised Tony, shoving his club into his bag. He hoisted the bag on his shoulder and gave a little salute before heading up the hill to join the others.
By now a little crowd of onlookers had gathered, and a small queue of players had lined up behind her at the table, waiting their turns. Lucy handed over her ten dollars and was given a golf ball and a club, which Bert informed her was a putter. Telling herself not to think about the crowd of people watching, and picturing Tony’s swing in her mind, she stepped up to the tee and placed the ball. She stretched out her arms, wrapped her hands around the club, and was about to whack the ball when Randy stopped her.
“No, no, Lucy,” he said, taking the club from her and demonstrating. “You put your hands like this.”
“Oh, okay,” said Lucy, doing as he’d showed her and beginning to swing.
“Not so fast!” he warned, stopping her. “Your feet aren’t right. Spread ’em a bit apart, like this.”
Lucy observed Randy’s stance, and copied it. “Now?” she asked. “Should I swing?”
He stepped back, advised her to adjust one foot, and told her to keep her eye on the ball and give it her best shot. Lucy raised the club as she’d seen Randy do, whipped it around, and sent the ball flying over the pin with its fluttering pennant and on across the green into the rough grass.
The people in the crowd groaned, a few chuckled, and Randy patted her shoulder. “Good try,” he said. “Want another?”
“Uh, no,” said Lucy. “It seems I’m not cut out for golf. But I’ll stick around for a bit, in case you get a winner.”
Randy leaned forward, and whispered into her ear, “If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on Franny.”
“Really?”
He nodded, indicating the line at the table, where Franny was up next. Somewhat surprised, Lucy noticed she was wearing golf shoes and a windbreaker with the TCGC logo, and was toting a wheelie cart loaded with a bag full of various clubs, some topped with colorful little socks. Franny, it seemed, was a keen golfer, something which Lucy had not been aware of. She was thinking of a possible feature story for The Courier as she joined the growing crowd of onlookers.
They all watched, chatting among themselves, as Franny handed over her money and was provided with a ball. As she proceeded to the tee Lucy noted she walked easily, as if she did this sort of thing every day. Maybe she did, thought Lucy, watching as Franny plucked a club from her bag, placed her ball, and squared up. She held the club in outstretched arms and shifted her weight from foot to foot, swinging her hips, then eyed the distance between her ball and the pin. Satisfied, she lowered her head, swung the club, and sent the ball rolling neatly across the green to the pin, where it stopped a mere inch from the hole.
“Brava!!” exclaimed Bert, as the crowd applauded. “I think we might have a winner.”
“I’m not counting my chickens just yet,” said Franny, with a smile. “Somebody could get a hole-in-one.”
“Mebbe,” added Randy, “but right now you’re definitely in the lead.”
“Fingers crossed,” said Franny, replacing her club in her bag and pulling it along to the sidelines, where she greeted Lucy. “Great day for the fundraiser,” she said, with a nod at the growing line of contestants waiting their turns at the tee. “I think they’ll raise a lot of money for the library.”
“You’re the favorite so far,” said Lucy. “I didn’t even know you play golf.”
Franny shrugged. “I picked it up after I retired when I was invited to join a group of women who play every week. The guys complain we’re too slow but that’s ridiculous. We play hard and we’re actually quite competitive. We won the Mid-Coast Ladies Championship last year.”
“Good for you! I think this deserves a feature story.”
Franny wasn’t averse to the idea, but was quick to give credit where credit was due. “The other three are much better than I am, especially Sandy Lenk, Dave Forrest’s wife. She played in college and almost went pro, but got sidelined when she married Dave. He, you know, was a top player in college and did go pro for a few years before settling down at the Lenks’ jewelry store.”
“Speak of the devil, there they are,” said Lucy, observing Dave and Sandy, who had just arrived.
“Dave has a good chance of getting a hole-in-one, but I wonder if Sandy’s going to enter the contest, too,” mused Franny. “She hasn’t been playing much this year, which is a real loss for our team since we have to keep recruiting a fourth.”
“Health problems?” asked Lucy, thinking that even though Sandy and Dave were walking together toward the putting green, they weren’t chatting with each other and seemed somewhat distant, out of sync.
“Hardly,” said Franny, with a little smirk. “Rumor has it that she has a new interest.”
“I assume you’re not talking about stamp collecting,” said Lucy, noticing that Sandy had brightened up her hair color and was unusually tanned for spring in Tinker’s Cove. Spray on?
Franny chuckled. “Definitely not stamp collecting.”
