William Bernhardt - Final Round

“I guess so. What do all these relatives think about you being a cop?”

“They’re concerned. My female relatives, who are legion, have spent most of my life trying to teach me how to be a proper Southern lady. I’ve been relentlessly drilled on all the essential rules of Southern living.”

“Such as?”

“Never serve pink lemonade at your Junior League committee meetings. Never wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day.”

“All the essentials.”

“You can see now why I went away to college. Except that I joined a sorority house, and it turned out they had even more rules than my family!”

“You were a sorority girl?”

“And what’s so incredible about that, may I ask?”

“I just can’t quite picture the rough and tough police lieutenant flirting with frat boys and singing secret songs.”

“I was a top-level soror, I’ll have you know. I pledged Pi Beta Phi-that’s Piefie, for short. Just like my mother and grandmother and-well, eleven or so cousins. You get the picture. It was a matter of tradition.” She paused, then smoothed a crinkle in her dress. “I try to stay in touch with some of the Piefie girls, but it gets harder as time goes on.”

“What caused you to become a cop?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just wanted to do something more than pick out silver patterns and layettes, I guess. Gives my poor mother fits, though.”

“I can imagine.”

“She keeps reassuring her society friends at the Junior League meetings that there’s nothing wrong with me. ‘Girls are getting married later these days,’ she tells them. ‘Lots of girls over thirty-five are settling down and having lovely weddings.’ ”

Conner laughed. “I’ll bet your mother thinks you’re a pistol, no matter what she says.”

O’Brien allowed herself a little smile. “I think maybe she does at that.” She pushed her seat back a few notches and relaxed. “So what about you, cowboy? Where are you from?”

“Little town called Watonga. Population 3,234. 3,233 when I’m on tour.”

“Do tell. How did you ever get linked up with golf?”

“Lieutenant-was that a pun?”

“Was what a pun?”

“Never mind. We didn’t have an Augusta National back in Watonga, but we did have Bobby Ray Barnett’s public nine-hole golf course-slash-bait and tackle shop. The Dusty Duffer.”

“Sounds magnificent.”

“It was-or at least it seemed like it was, when I was a kid. Everyone in town referred to it as “the Club.” It was about the only green pretty spot in that whole windy red-dirt town. I fell in love at first sight.”

“I’ve heard that happens to young boys. Except that they usually fall for girls, not landscape.”

“Girls came later. When I was just a squirt, all I wanted was to play golf like a pro-to spend the rest of my life on pretty green courses. I wanted it to be my one-way ticket out of town.”

“Except that you still live there.”

“Funny how things work out, isn’t it?” He shifted gears and took a hard right following the billboard that pointed the way to the Magnolia Glade. “John was the one who really made it happen. He had the talent. I had the drive, the determination. But John was a pro from the second he picked up a club. He was always better than me-better than just about anyone. If it weren’t for him, I’d be back in Watonga right now, probably scooping balls out of the water trap and washing down golf carts.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, hotdog. You are on the PGA tour.”

“True. But I never would’ve gotten there without John. In addition to being more talented, he was also a hell of a lot smarter than me. He got a scholarship to Stanford, made the Dean’s Honor Roll, and was on the tour before he’d even graduated. Meanwhile, I was back in Norman at OU, rarely attending class but always attending the golf course. It’s a miracle I graduated.”

“And when you got out?”

“I tried out for the tour. The qualifying school is a bear-and-a-half. To make a long story short-I didn’t make the cut.”

“But I thought-”

“The first time. I thought I was finished, but John wouldn’t leave it at that. He took me under his wing, got me private lessons. I even got instruction from the late great Harvey Penick himself, God rest his soul. And I practiced like a demon. And next year-I made the tour. Got my official membership card and secret decoder ring and everything.”

“That’s a great story.”

Conner blinked. “I wonder if I could get a book deal? Pardon me while I call Random House.”

“But you left one part out. What about your real life?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know-off the course. Are you married?”

Conner glanced at her out the corner of his eye. Her eyes darted away. “Nah. Got close once, but-well, she didn’t want to spend the whole year traipsing from one golf course to another.”

“Fancy that. How long can you keep this up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you don’t plan to play golf forever. Don’t you ever think about growing up and getting a real job?”

Conner thought it best to let the question remain unanswered. He beeped his horn. “Sorry this is taking so long. I’m stuck behind someone determined to coast at fifteen miles per hour.”

“Relax,” O’Brien replied. “Down here, a lot of folks learned to drive on a John Deere, and for them, this is the right speed.”

“I could live with that, but he’s also got his left turn signal blinking.”

“Must be a Yankee. Most of the locals don’t use turn signals, and ignore those who do.”

Conner’s lips turned up. “Sorry to disillusion you, Lieutenant, but he’s got a Georgia license plate.”

“Do tell? Then you may rest assured the signal was on when the vehicle was purchased.”

A big sign arching the front drive told him he had arrived at the Magnolia Glade Country Club. He leaned toward the front guard post and identified himself. The gate popped up and Conner eased onto the driveway… which stretched into infinity. It was like driving down the Yellow Brick Road. Conner could see no end in sight. It was more than a minute later when the car emerged from a thicket and the clubhouse appeared.

And magnificent it was, too. A huge marble edifice-even larger than the Augusta National clubhouse-with Doric columns flanking the front porch.

“Isn’t this where Scarlett O’Hara lives?” Conner asked.

O’Brien laughed. “Was. Nowadays she’s got a condo downtown.”

One look at that enormous mansion house, with the huge gushing fountain out front, was enough to make Conner glad he’d decided not to wear his Bermuda shorts. He parked in the first available spot-which was still a good ways from the front door-popped out of the car and raced around to the other side to open O’Brien’s door for her.

“And who do you think you are?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Rhett Butler?”

Conner suddenly felt himself flushing pink. “I just thought… since you’re all gussied up…”

“I always appreciate a gentleman.”

Conner beamed. “Gee, can I carry you to the front door? Looks like it’s about a mile away.”

“I bet we don’t have to walk.” She scanned the horizon. “Yup. Look.”

A black stretch limousine pulled up in front of them. The passenger side window lowered. “May I take you to the ballroom?” the driver asked.

“If you insist.” O’Brien scampered into the back seat, Conner close behind.

During the short ride, Conner resisted the impulse to play with everything. There were buttons controlling the air, buttons controlling the windows, buttons controlling the music and buttons controlling the dividing glass between the seats. There was even a small television, an electronic stock ticker, and a minibar. For those who couldn’t make it to the front door without a quick snort, Conner presumed.