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Duster had walked the property and sadly shaken his head. Too many rocks. Not enough grasses, he'd said. The skeptic now sat in the porch rocker drinking a glass of Isabel's lemonade. Beside him, the birdcage hung with the lovebirds softly singing.
John called for his wife, who walked through the grove with a basket picking lemons. It seemed as if the trees had been producing bushels of lemons overnight. Isabel hadn't taken the ribbons off. She claimed she'd keep them on those trees forever as a symbol of their love.
"Hmm?" Isabel said as she set her basket down and came toward him. -
John had selected the niblick club and a Perfect Flight golf ball—the very one that had dropped out of the sky at the well spot.
"Darlin', I'm going to line you up, and I want you to hit this ball as hard as you can."
She shaded her eyes with her hand. "How come?"
"Because wherever this ball lands is where I'm going to find oil"
"No petroleum on this property," Duster declared with a slow rock and a sip of lemonade.
"Well see," John called to him. Then he handed the club to Isabel and set the ball on a tiny mound of dirt he'd made. "All right, darlin', you give it your best shot."
"But I don't know how to hit it."
"I'll show you." He cuddled her in front of him and made her lean back into his hips. "There you go. Sway a little. Loosen up."
She did so, pressing her shapely behind into him. He had to fight off the urge to forget about hitting the ball, tell Duster to go repark himself at the Republic, and take Isabel into the house and lie over her on the bed.
"Well, if that isn't the backward way to do things," Duster hollered, breaking John out of his thoughts.
"Just you watch," John replied without looking up.
"Really, John, I think we'd have better luck if you hit the ball."
"Darlin', you are my luck. Now you're going to do fine."
He put his hands over hers to fit around the club's handle. Then he helped her shift her weight and get into the right position. "Just swing your hips, Isabel, and lay into it."
"All right."
He straightened and backed away from her, giving her room to move. She didn't. She got out of position and turned to face him. "You know who gave you these clubs and balls, don't you?"
They'd been through this before. He'd never come out and admitted that he thought Bellamy Nicklaus had left him the golf gear and put the ribbons on her trees. Deep down, he knew the crafty buzzard had done it. How, he didn't know.
Because on Christmas day, that house on Ninth and Mill had been deserted as if nobody had ever lived there at all. The only thing remaining was the tree in the yard, all decked out with holly berries.
"Yes, I reckon I do, Isabel," he finally said.
"I just thought we ought to clear that up before I go hitting the ball. If we don't believe, this won't work." The silk poppies on her hat waved with the bob of her head as she turned around once more. "So, are you going to admit Bellamy Nicklaus is a legend?"
He drew up behind her and corrected her stance. Whispering into her ear, he said, "I believe that somewhere in time, the name Nicklaus will be a legend linked with golf. How's that?"
After a moment's silence, she nodded. "It's a start."
"Good." Backing away again, he gave Duster an encouraging nod.
Duster merely snorted.
"Go ahead, darlin', whack the hell out of it."
On that, Isabel sliced the club through the air and the ball sailed high in the sky. She came to stand beside John and he pulled her close with his arm.
Together, they watched the
