The Mulligan Read Online Free Page B
back home think I’m the artsy dreamy type—a girl who would rather paint scenery than attend the Wyoming County Fair and shoot hoops for a stuffed teddy bear. But they are wrong. I won more than Robert last year. I snap back to look up into an expression I would entitle ‘the look of impatience.’
“You want to come in or daydream in the hall?”
Drew’s height gives him a distinct advantage over me, not to mention he’s the teacher and I’m the student.
“There was an accident.” My tone always turns deep and scratchy when confronted by anyone. “A bad one.” I hate that I don’t sound all high-pitched and feminine like other women do when they want to impress someone. “Police and everything.” No, my voice finds the basement of my voice box and etches out sentences like blades on ice.
Clearing my throat to try again, I stop as he steps aside to hold the door open for me.
I dip my head and hunker past to the seat in the back, praying it will still be mine to claim on day two. Again, the stares and whispers trail behind me.
“Please don’t go to Orlando.” My brother’s voice comes to me as I slide into my seat. Our conversation happened two weeks before I left home. “You don’t understand how tough the competition will be,” he said as soon as I entered his room.
“Then you don’t know me.” I gripped my coffee cup tighter as I settled in the big chair in the front room near him.
“I know that most people who go to a golf college end up working in the industry—not as golf pros.” Robert tossed me a magazine. “Read the article.”
I picked up Golf Today . An article about how to gain employment on a golf course caught my eye. I tossed it back on his nightstand. “So what. That doesn’t mean I can’t be the one who makes it. I’m going to get the training and maybe learn something more in the process.”
I’d found a website the day after the accident and had pored over the details about a golf college. Normally I could convince Robert of anything. Normally.
He and I share this deep sense of closeness. When one of us hurt, both hurt. As kids, we’d watched out for each other, and that didn’t change during our growing-up years.
The last time I needed a subject for a portrait, Robert offered to help rather than attend a golf tournament down in the city with some friends. When he needed to snag a date for a last-minute event, I turned down my own date and attended with him. I even bought him a new offset putter for Christmas last year after hearing him talk about it with my father. It had taken a huge chunk out of my savings, but seeing his eyes light on Christmas morning made it worthwhile. But a new club will never make up for this.
A cough sounds beside me. I try my best to pay attention, but can’t seem to manage it today. With half a night’s sleep, it’s a wonder I’m sitting upright.
“We’re having a tournament next week for the freshmen. It’ll be down at Reunion right after class lets out on Monday. Bring your best attitude and effort.” Drew passes out information sheets and drones on about what to expect.
A tournament. I’ve hardly had an opportunity to improve my shots. One quick glance around the room tells me what I need to know. I’ll be living on the course until then.
****
When I was twelve, my father built us a tree house in one of the old maples that borders our property. He made certain I could use the narrow steps he’d nailed into the broad trunk before he left me alone to climb up and daydream among the branches.
I’m sure it was there where my dream to paint landscapes was born. No matter what direction I gazed from my towering perch, the lush scenery jolted my imagination like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer night. I would try in vain to press the scenes into my subconscious so I could take them out later at night and study the finer details when I was alone and when sleep eluded me.
My young heart almost stopped beating
“You want to come in or daydream in the hall?”
Drew’s height gives him a distinct advantage over me, not to mention he’s the teacher and I’m the student.
“There was an accident.” My tone always turns deep and scratchy when confronted by anyone. “A bad one.” I hate that I don’t sound all high-pitched and feminine like other women do when they want to impress someone. “Police and everything.” No, my voice finds the basement of my voice box and etches out sentences like blades on ice.
Clearing my throat to try again, I stop as he steps aside to hold the door open for me.
I dip my head and hunker past to the seat in the back, praying it will still be mine to claim on day two. Again, the stares and whispers trail behind me.
“Please don’t go to Orlando.” My brother’s voice comes to me as I slide into my seat. Our conversation happened two weeks before I left home. “You don’t understand how tough the competition will be,” he said as soon as I entered his room.
“Then you don’t know me.” I gripped my coffee cup tighter as I settled in the big chair in the front room near him.
“I know that most people who go to a golf college end up working in the industry—not as golf pros.” Robert tossed me a magazine. “Read the article.”
I picked up Golf Today . An article about how to gain employment on a golf course caught my eye. I tossed it back on his nightstand. “So what. That doesn’t mean I can’t be the one who makes it. I’m going to get the training and maybe learn something more in the process.”
I’d found a website the day after the accident and had pored over the details about a golf college. Normally I could convince Robert of anything. Normally.
He and I share this deep sense of closeness. When one of us hurt, both hurt. As kids, we’d watched out for each other, and that didn’t change during our growing-up years.
The last time I needed a subject for a portrait, Robert offered to help rather than attend a golf tournament down in the city with some friends. When he needed to snag a date for a last-minute event, I turned down my own date and attended with him. I even bought him a new offset putter for Christmas last year after hearing him talk about it with my father. It had taken a huge chunk out of my savings, but seeing his eyes light on Christmas morning made it worthwhile. But a new club will never make up for this.
A cough sounds beside me. I try my best to pay attention, but can’t seem to manage it today. With half a night’s sleep, it’s a wonder I’m sitting upright.
“We’re having a tournament next week for the freshmen. It’ll be down at Reunion right after class lets out on Monday. Bring your best attitude and effort.” Drew passes out information sheets and drones on about what to expect.
A tournament. I’ve hardly had an opportunity to improve my shots. One quick glance around the room tells me what I need to know. I’ll be living on the course until then.
****
When I was twelve, my father built us a tree house in one of the old maples that borders our property. He made certain I could use the narrow steps he’d nailed into the broad trunk before he left me alone to climb up and daydream among the branches.
I’m sure it was there where my dream to paint landscapes was born. No matter what direction I gazed from my towering perch, the lush scenery jolted my imagination like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer night. I would try in vain to press the scenes into my subconscious so I could take them out later at night and study the finer details when I was alone and when sleep eluded me.
My young heart almost stopped beating