Par for the Course (standard:drama, 2156 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Mar 16 2012	Views/Reads: 3151/2073	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It has been a year since Dennis O'Conner lost his wife after having a brain aneurism. He passes his time at the Bodega Bay Golf Club, between hitting gold balls and attending to mundane activities as club secretary, nothing much happens until one, stormy

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golfers. But there's still a void in his life; one that playing golf, 
work and socializing didn't fill. Nothing more than a tiny vacuum, not 
enough to nourish self-doubt, just there, brooding, like a head cold 
that he knows one day will go away. He just hasn't come across the 
right potion to clear it out. 

After so many years working for the bank; the years of endless
globetrotting, hotel bedrooms, deadlines, meetings, broken promises, 
and stomach churning nights, he thinks of her still and how it ended. 

The diary note for today is to put the finishing touches to a five-year
development plan for the club, an innovation which has panicked many of 
the older members. By lunchtime, with the last details decided, he goes 
through to the lounge. There is one thing to do before having a bite to 
eat and that is to get out a trophy from the large glass cabinet. Out 
on the course the final match of the Kendall Jackson sponsored 
competition is reaching a conclusion somewhere around the sixteenth 
green. There'll be a presentation after lunch. Dennis relocks the 
cabinet as Charles Digby, club captain, sidles up; a tall angular man, 
about fifty years of age, with a nose that somehow appears to have 
outgrown the rest of his face. Owner of a large auction house group and 
real estate agency, he usually wears clothes best suited to the 
occasion. Today he relaxes in a yellow cashmere pullover over a checked 
shirt and red tie. The story he heard is that some years ago, after a 
Bohemian Club meet Charles was introduced to a young English woman, 
Isabella-Jane, fifth daughter of Reynold Claus, President of the World 
Bank, who'd been a guest of Henry Kissinger in the Mandalay House of 
the Bohemian Grove. After three years Charles finally put to her a 
well-considered proposal of marriage and eight years later finally 
rescued her from what would have otherwise been a life of spinsterhood. 
This union had given him, at least in his own estimation, an elevated 
position in Sonoma society circles and the surrounding districts. Being 
captain of the golf club went along with other positions he occupied 
including President of the Board for the Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn, 
and Grand Master of the local Masonic Lodge. He'd declined some offers 
of lofty positions, notably from the local branch of the Cannabis 
Growing Federation, and the Sonoma Women's Flower Arranging Club. 
Dennis turns away before remembering there is something he has to ask 
Charles. 

“By the way, Charles, do you know why the club's attorneys have
summonsed us to this meeting?” Dennis asks, referring to a letter that 
had arrived ‘recorded delivery' earlier. 

Charles, brushing away an imaginary speck of dandruff from the shoulder
of his pullover, shakes his head and looks distantly away. 

“The match looks as though it's nearly over,” he remarks in usual
clipped tone, pointing though the plate glass window toward a group of 
men standing on the 16th green. 

It is at that exact moment something else catches Dennis' attention; a
drone, a dull whirring noise, sounding lower than he's accustomed to 
when hearing the Medevac helicopter flights fly over on their way to 
Santa Rosa Memorial. 

Fletcher Christiansen and Nigel Smith continue their play on the
sixteenth green without regard to the approaching rumble in the sky. 
Only when a shadow falls over them do they look up, holding tight onto 
their headgear. The Sikorsky's white under belly, hovers and tosses on 
the wind like a child's kite. Back in the clubhouse Charles remarks: 

“As Club Captain and secretary shall we go and investigate?” 

Dennis makes no reply, understanding that the club captain does not
appear overly surprised by this unannounced intrusion onto the course. 

The machine hovers on a downdraft of air that bends trees nearby, then
drifts to the ground and settles deeply.  The engine is cut and the 
rotors slow, the din subsides before a man, about fifty years of age, 
carrying a crocodile skin briefcase alights wearing a heavy dark 
overcoat which he buttons over a double-breasted suit, his eyes 
purposefully focused on the golfers gathered in a huddle on the 
sixteenth green. 

He walks toward them and bellows: “This is the Bodega Bay Golf Club?” 

Nigel, his hair disheveled by the downdraft of the rotors, in
disgruntled fashion hands his putter to the caddy and turns his 
attention to the figure standing before him. 

“You've put that bloody thing down at a very pinnacle point of a club
competition? I take it this is an emergency landing.” 

The combed-over silken haired man glowers, saying “No,” with all the
conviviality of a Rottweiler. 

Nigel, confronted by the authoritative voice, takes a pace back. 

Dennis, with perplexed amusement on his face, notices a lady wearing a
figure-hugging business suit emerge from the helicopter with two other 
men, one hand clutching a Gucci handbag, the other holding down a wide 
brimmed hat. 

The square set figure, his hair more designed than grown, turns to them:
“Did you hear that Melania?” 

The woman takes a step closer to him, hiding behind a pair of
sunglasses, incongruous on such a day, and remains silent. 

With the golfers and caddies now gathering even closer,  Fletcher
Christiansen decides enough is enough and plucks up courage to confront 
the unwelcome visitors. 

“You have no right landing here,” he says with utter conviction, “this
is private property.” 

The stranger ignores the objection, all the while taking in the views. 

“Better than I thought,” he mutters to the woman from the side of his
mouth. 

In his mind blueprints are turning into reality. Where there is a
fairway he sees a ribbon of tarmac; in place of greens large detached 
houses with fine views to the beach. He takes a few forward paces and 
digs a heel into the lush turf. The fine sandy soil, even after the 
deluge, trickles through his fingers to his obvious satisfaction. 

Fletcher, needing to make this putt to keep the competition alive, can
hold back no longer. “What the hell do you think you're doing? That's a 
green you've damaged.” 

“Is that so,” says the figure, half listening while being offered a
light for his cigar by another cohort. His steely blue eyes narrow 
unnervingly. “Quite frankly, I don't give a damn, because I'm going to 
buy  this golf club.” 

Fletcher, unmoved, steps closer to the man, getting properly into his
face. 

“Really! Well I'm going to make this putt, pal, and you're going to get
that machine gone and your overdressed entourage off this green. 
Pronto.” 

He's pulled back by his playing partner. “Fletch...I've just recognized
him.” Too late as it happens. 

The figure takes a long pull on his freshly lit Gran Habano, blows
sweetly and whispers: ‘Come, Melania' before ambling toward the 
clubhouse, one hand set deeply into his coat pocket, with the 
over-dressed, though tastefully elegant  woman following a pace or two 
behind,  struggling with her hat and  losing ground as her high-heeled 
shoes dig  into the  soft going. Hearing her beleaguered mutterings, 
the figure looks over his shoulder, hair lifting like a tent flap, 
glowers, and continues on. 

Charles Digby, observing their approach, rushes to greet the guests.
Dennis begins to follow but stops on hearing the telephone ring in his 
office. He closes the door behind him and takes the call. Outside the 
window he watches as the whole team of Hayton and Winkley, the clubs 
legal representatives, get out from a spectacle of luxury automobiles. 
A light bulb in Dennis' head is turned on. 

When he replaces the receiver there's a quiet knock on the door. The
lady with the broad brimmed hat edges in. 

“How can I help you?” Dennis asks. 

She replies, somewhat embarrassingly, in soft voice. “I wonder if you'd
be so kind as to call a limousine?” 

“There's a public phone in the foyer.  You'll find the number of the
limousine company on a card.” 

She bites her lip in tempting style, the large sunglasses hiding most of
her face while everything else about her is pleasing to Dennis' eye. 

“I don't have my secretary with me,” she admits, rather pompously,
furtively reaching into her bag for a cigarette, “Do you mind?” 

Dennis says yes, he does mind. She leaves the unlit cigarette between
her fingers. 

“Are you the lady I saw walking towards the clubhouse with the guy in
that ponderous overcoat; the one coming out of the helicopter?” He 
asks, knowing her answer. 

“Yes, that's my husband, Donald Trump. And the coat is a Corneliani, not
a ponderous!” 


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