I wisely decided to postpone the rest of my planned renovation activities until the next day. The shutter project and the new screen for the front door could wait until Monday.
There were maybe two good hours of sun left in the afternoon, and in Boston in late April one learns to treasure warm sun. I threw on an old sweater, poured myself a healthy Dewars on the rocks, grabbed a thick book on English history, and went out to the deck. I figured to use the sweater and the Scotch to scientifically counteract the steady diminution of the suns warmth as it set behind me. After an hour or so, I got up and refilled the glass. All in the interest of science, of course. A line of low, scudding clouds had blown up and I could feel the temperature begin to drop as the wind shifted around to come off the ocean. Tomorrow looked like it might be cloudy and rainy. Darn, I thought facetiously, might have to postpone those damn shutters for another day.
My telephone rang just as I decided to call it an afternoon. Coincidentally, my second Scotch was about gone. I went inside and answered it.
"Hacker, is that you?" a cheerful female voice asked. God, I cant believe what a pain in the ass it has been to track you down! You'll never guess who this is!"
She was young, I could tell, and she sounded vaguely familiar. But she was right. I couldnt quite place her.
"I give up," I said.
"Honie Carlton!" she exclaimed. "Remember me?"
I immediately felt old and I think five more hairs on my head switched over to gray. Honie Carlton had been a neighbor child back home in Wallingford. When I had left home to seek fame and fortune, she had been barely in her teens. The girl who lived Two Doors Down. Over the years, she and my parents had become close. They took an interest in her and she adopted them. Baked goods and gossip passed across the fence developed into an abiding love. I would always hear about her progress in school during my intermittent visits home. At Thanksgiving or Christmas she would sometimes drop in for a dram of holiday cheer. A pretty young thing, every year growing into her female gracefulness. Last report I had heard, a few years ago, was that she was in college and studying marketing.
"Honie Carlton," I said. "You sound all growed up. How did you find me?"
She laughed in delight: a clear, self-satisfied, tinkling laugh.
"Well, I started by calling New Orleans, where I thought youd be covering the Tour," she said. "I talked to some guy down there named Corcoran, who said he didn't know where in the hell you were."
"That's Billy, the information officer," I told her. "You should have talked to his assistant, Suzy. She knows more than Billy ever forgot, which is a lot."
"Well, then I called the sports desk at the Journal, but whoever answered said you were probably down in New Orleans, ummm, banging some golf groupies was the way he put it, I think." She laughed again.
I was too embarrassed to respond. The Honie I remembered had been such an innocent, clean-cut child.
"Then," she continued, "I did what I shoulda done first. I called your old man. He said you were on vacation and probably out fixing up your beach shack. He gave me the number. And here you are!"
"Well, damn," I said. "You get the gold metal for perseverance. What are you up to these days? Last I heard you were in college somewhere."
"I graduated in December," she said. "And after looking around and interviewing all over the damn place, I got a job two months ago."
"Which is . . ."
"Information officer for the Ladies Professional Golf Tour," she said proudly.
"Aha," I said.
"Oh, Hacker, now don't be that way," she said quickly. "I'm not calling to hustle you. Well, I guess I am, kinda, but not . . ."
I chuckled. "Just yanking your chain, kid," I said. "Congratulations. Thats a great job, especially for a young kid just out of college. And God knows they need the help."
The LPGA, although more than 50 years old, is always struggling, it seems, for financial support, a fan base, publicity, TV time. For whatever reason, the ladies tour just cannot quite get over the hump.
"But I thought you were majoring in marketing," I said.
"Yeah, this is kind of the first step," she said. "You see, what this tour needs is marketing and exposure. I'm working the exposure end right now, and I'm in line to move into marketing in another year or two."
"I didnt know you were a golfer," I said.
"Oh, hell, Hacker," she laughed. "I don't know a three-wood from a sand wedge. But my job isn't to play this silly game. Just to get it into the public's mind."
"And how are you doing?" I asked, knowing I shouldn't.
"Well," she said coyly. "That's one reason I'm calling."
"The other reason being, of course, you couldn't wait to catch up on old news from an old someone you probably remember not at all."
"You're right, Hacker," she laughed. "Except I do remember you. But business is business and you're the best golf writer I know. Hell, the only golf writer I know! I thought, at the least, you could give me some advice ..." She trailed off hopefully.
"Put out plenty of cold beer and coldcuts," I suggested. "The press will come running to do your bidding."
She laughed, saying "Oh, Hacker! But seriously, we don't get much coverage for some reason. I mean, were supposed to be an established sports organization and we can't get into the newspapers on a regular basis. I mean, the golf newspapers do OK, and the AP and local media show up for events, but we're always an afterthought. It's really too bad, because these girls can really play."
"I don't know why, either," I said. "At first blush, you could say the great American public doesn't go for womens' professional sports. But then you think about tennis, and the women there seem to be able to pack 'em in. And figure skating, skiing, womens soccer all do pretty good."
"Exposure is the key," Honie agreed. "We're trying real hard to get more of our tournaments on television, but in the meantime, I've got to try and recruit more print media attention. Which is why I thought of you," she said primly.
"Honie ..." I started.
"I mean, you're not busy with the men's tour right now ..."
"Honie ..."
"And we're in the middle of our Florida swing, and the weather's real nice down here .."
"Honie . . ."
"And it would really make me some Brownie points with my boss . . ."
"Honie . . ."
"And I can get you a free hotel room and interviews with anyone you want. We've got a real strong field this week, and . . ."
"Honie . . ."
"What do you think? Will you come down?"
I used to think they taught Hounding to women in college: Perseverance 101. But now I'm beginning to think it's just a natural, inborn trait of the species.
"Honie, its my time off," I said gently. "I don't want to work. I want to putter around here and bang my thumb with the hammer and read six good books I've been saving and drink a lot of Scotch and watch the waves crash against the rocks over there." I stopped because I think I was starting to whine. That's not good. Whining shows weakness. Women like weakness and know how to exploit it.
"Oh, that's all right, Hacker," Honie said. "I just thought you might like to spend a week down here in Miami. Did I mention that were playing at the Doral this weekend? I could get you a suite, I think. But if you'd rather not, I understand. I guess." She tried unsuccessfully to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
The great Bobby Jones used to say he believed that the results of every tournament he ever played were determined in advance by some great Divine Providence before anyone teed off, and that all he and his fellow competitors were doing was playing out the predetermined Will of said Providence.
I think the Divine P wanted me in Miami, because just at that moment, I saw Mo Daughtry come striding toward the front door of my cottage. In the fading twilight, I saw that she was carrying a bottle of something ... sherry, I guessed ... and two glasses.
"Yoo-hoo, Peter!" she chirruped from the doorway. "I find myself in need of a corkscrew. Have you one handy?"
The yoo-hoo got me. So did the Peter. No one called me Peter. But so did the sudden clarity with which I saw my predicament. The two glasses were the tip-off. My corkscrew would lead to her offer of a neighborly sherry in thanks. And then two or three more. She would be liberal with the refilling. That would lead to slightly slurred words, batted eyes, casual caress, shy giggles and a sudden, more meaningful glance. There would be a sudden attack with her hot, slack mouth, hoping that the three, or was it four?, sherries would have broken down any remaining resistance and inhibition. There would be a frantic shedding of clothes, the rapid unveiling of that knobbly body with her broad shoulders and sharp angles and its pale white of desperation. But after three, or was it four?, sherries, who cares? And then would come the rushing, gasping, frantic chase, faster and harder. Bony hips digging into thighs. Release, oblivion, collapse. Until the morning, or an hour or so later, when the time would come to sort out the emotions and determine the question of what's next in the cold and harsh light of daybreak.
And even if I were able to somehow avoid that scenario tonight, tomorrow would bring another attack, a different strategy, a ratcheting up of the siege.
"Honie," I said into the phone, "I've changed my mind. Miami sounds great. I'll be down tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh, Hacker. . .thanks!" she exclaimed. "You are a prince! There's a flight from Boston at two that gets in at five-thirty. Ill meet you."
I thought about this for a second. "How did you know what time the flights were?" I wondered. "That's . . .that's . . ." I cast about for just the right epithet to hurl at her across the telephone.
"Professional," she said. "Very professional."