Read Online Hidden by Catherine McKenzie - Free Book Online Page B

me.
    “I’m good.”
    I pressed the pedal and followed the signs for the driving range, wishing I hadn’t answered the damn phone. Wishing the golf car went faster than ten miles an hour.
    These thoughts retreated when I caught sight of the nicest range I’ve ever been on. The grass looked like no one had ever hit a ball off it. The wooden pickets separating each practice area were whiter than the puffy clouds above, whiter even than the pristine balls filling the plastic baskets next to them. No chits, no ball machines, no marked-up, mangy range balls, just ones that looked like they’d been cracked out of their packets moments earlier. If making it to the majors meant real baseballs for practice, this was the Show of golf.
    A different kid in the same uniform took our clubs and set them up. I mumbled another apology, and he thankfully placed me far enough away from John that his curses and frequent whiffs wouldn’t distract me.
    I spent a few minutes watching his swing—hunched over,not coming back far enough, head lifting at the moment of contact—searching for some polite phrases that might actually help him without getting me fired. In the end, I suggested he stand taller and position himself differently to the ball, and he hit a few shots that didn’t arc into the woods. Satisfied, he waved me off, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
    Left alone with my golf bag and enough balls to ensure I’d be in need of a session in the Jacuzzi later—hopefully with a slippery and happy Claire—I got into a zone while I worked my way from my pitching wedge to my five iron, ten balls each. When my muscles felt loose, I took out my driver and used it to stretch my arms above my head.
    As I twisted my body from side to side, I noticed that John was sitting on the grass in his pen, his legs splayed out in front of him, flask in hand. He was watching the only other person on the range, a tallish woman wearing a white polo shirt and cropped khaki pants. A long black braid of hair poked through the back of her white baseball cap.
    I rested my driver on the ground, leaned against it, and watched her. She had, very possibly, the most natural golf swing I’d ever seen. She was using an iron—her seven, I think—to deftly flick a ball from the green plastic basket and up onto her tee. She drew the club back and—
whack!—
it flew off the face in a perfect arc and landed within feet of the fluttering blue flag a hundred and fifty yards away. I realized that she was, incredibly, making a ring around the flag. In a few minutes, there was more white than green in its radius.
    I’m not sure how long I watched, but I remember feeling like I could watch forever. This woman was amazing. She should be on the tour, she should …
    “That girl has a perfect ass,” John said, slurring his wordsand talking, I was sure, loudly enough for her to hear.
    She turned towards us, her features shaded by the peak of her cap. “Excuse me?”
    “I was admiring your ass,” John replied unabashedly, all politeness washed away by the contents of his flask. “Your golf swing really shows it to its best advantage.”
    Her iron swung in her hand like she was getting ready to use it. “And who are you?”
    “I’m John Scott.”
    From what I could see of her expression, she clearly wanted to tell John Scott to go fuck himself, but something was holding her back. Then it occurred to me—she must work for the company too. She couldn’t tell him to fuck off any more than I could.
    I walked over to John’s pen. “Maybe we should get back? Isn’t the reception soon?”
    “What? Oh yes, I suppose you’re right.” He struggled to get himself into an upright position. The woman shot me a grateful look.
    “Will we see you there, little lady?”
    “Indubitably,” she said, and turned back to her half-empty basket of balls.
    When I got back to the room, I found Claire sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a plush taupe towel. The room was thick