The Perfectly Good Lie

By Rose Gonsoulin

Can bad luck pass from one generation to the next?

Pro golfer and confirmed heartbreaker Buck Buchanan starts to wonder when he earns his PGA tour card the same day his mother dies.

Left to care for his nerdy, half-brother Art—a high school dropout with limited skills and zero prospects—Buck's only choice is to force Art to be his caddie. Except Art hates golf and after an epic fail on the No. 18, they miss the cut in their first pro tournament.

With his bank account on life support and only one chance left to keep his PGA card, Buck finds salvation in an unlikely place—the rinky-dink driving range where former LPGA champion Carla Davila gives lessons.

Can Carla help Buck save his career, especially after both Buck and Art fall in love with her? Or will Buck choke in the straightaway?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reed & Wright, LLC
• Release date: Aug 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733035224

Book preview

The Perfectly Good Lie

Rose Gonsoulin

Copyright © 2019 by Rose Gonsoulin

All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or transferred in any format without permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-7330352-2-4

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For Doug...

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Much appreciation and gratitude to Kathryn Craft, Cynthia Kiefer, and Tj Hartgrave as my editors.

To my writing friends Susan Budavari, Phyllis, Scott, Jeff and many others who reviewed the early drafts—thanks for reading.

The ball shall be played as it lies...

The Gimme Putt

On a cold, blustery December morning, Buck Buchanan was at the top of the leaderboard when the final round of the Midvale Golf Invitational began. It was his tournament to lose.

The wind advisory predicted gusts up to 35 mph by mid-afternoon, typical for the dustbin of west Texas. To hedge their bets, the tournament officials had double-teed the field and pushed up the starting times by two hours. If half the competitors made it through eighteen holes, play could resume Monday morning.

If not, they’d call the tournament with fifty-four holes instead of seventy-two.

Waiting on the No. 1 tees, Buck couldn’t decide if he should thank the weather gods or curse them.

He swept his 3-iron loosely through the grass. His caddie, Denny Thornton, stood nearby.

They’d trained for the mini-tour event together, both with aspirations of winning the coveted PGA tour card that came with the trophy. At the beginning, they’d made a pact: if one of them missed the cut, he’d caddie for the one who made it through to the final two rounds.

A short gust pushed Denny’s cap off his forehead. He grabbed the bill, saying, Pretty soon balls will be blowing around like they’re made of cotton candy.

Buck kept the 3-iron moving.

There’s a damn good chance you’ve already won, Denny said.

Buck breathed in deep. I want to prove I can go the distance.

You just want to hear the applause. Denny laughed.

Buck smiled. Shut the fuck up, Thornton.

Missing the cut hadn’t mattered to Denny as much, because some day he’d inherit the Thornton family cash cow, Big Tex Tires.

The only legacy handed down to Buck was the right to fail.

The fairway cleared and the starter nodded at Buck.

He walked onto the tee ground, keeping his eyes on the flagstick bending against the wind.

The starter called out, Ladies and gentlemen, in first place, please welcome the 2009 Texas State Junior champion, the 2011 Southwest Regional Amateur champion, and two-time NCAA champion from Baylor University, Mr. Lawrence Buchanan.

To tepid applause, Buck went through his routine, a loose shoulder-height swing with an exaggerated turn of his wrists. He teed up his ball, mapped the target in his head, and then checked his alignment by letting the 3-iron rest gently in his left hand.

He took the club with both hands, flexed his knees, and settled into his stance, easing his grip slightly. After a slow, measured backswing he whipped the club around and struck the ball dead-center solid.

It was the conservative, low loft ball he’d wanted. But, two hundred yards out a side-wind slapped it into the rough.

The wind proved unpredictable at best, and its powerful punch seemed to have a personal vendetta against Buck. By the time they approached the No. 7 green he was down by three strokes.

A ranger in a cart pulled up to them. Play is halted until further notice.

About time, Denny said.

They started toward the clubhouse and soon the scoreboard came into view.

Buck was in a three-way tie for first place.

Those numbers won’t count for squat, Denny said. This time next month we could be playing in Pebble Beach.

Denny danced a little jig, as though Buck was about to win a green jacket.

In reality it felt more akin to graduating from junior high because Buck should have already crossed this milepost a couple of years ago. And he didn’t want to jinx his chances today by anticipating the win. Assuming anything was a dangerous head game.

That’s way over my pay grade. Buck picked up his pace. Phoenix is more like it. As soon as the words slipped from his mouth he regretted it.

You and me running with the big dogs, Denny said.

Buck shook his head. It was more like survival because Buck had made a resolution at the beginning of the year—either make it to the PGA this year, or give up.

Beginning in January, he’d trained hard and focused on finding that mental space, deep and secluded, where he could break out of the mini-tour grind.

When September came and it hadn’t happened, Buck doubled down. Quit his job at Sports Barn. Gave up his room in an apartment with a barely working toilet and two roommates. Left Austin with only his clothes, his van, and his clubs. He arrived in Midland with a full two weeks to train. He and Denny played the course repeatedly, sometimes three times a day.

This time, luck had been on his side. Denny’s father, Keith Thornton, was not only a member of the Midvale Golf Club, he was on the governing board. Buck stayed in the Thornton’s guest room and enjoyed member privileges at the club.

But today’s wind made him uneasy. There was a good chance he’d be on the course again, scrambling to retake the lead. He had to keep his head on straight.

Keith Thornton waited outside the clubhouse door.

Dad, how many have made it off? Denny asked.

Four, last I checked.

Denny cocked his head to the side and grinned at Buck. It’s happening, man.

Let’s not jump the gun, Keith said.

Exactly what I told him, Buck said. I’m not taking anything for granted.

Keith held the door open for them. That’s right, son. Don’t take the gimme until it’s offered.

Buck liked hearing Keith call him son. He knew it was only a habit and didn’t mean anything, but staying with Denny’s family had given Buck a glimpse of the sweet life.

Inside the clubhouse Denny set the golf bag next to Buck.

Buck, you want to store your clubs? Keith nodded in the direction of the pro shop.

No. I’ll keep them with me. Buck took hold of the shoulder strap.

Suit yourself. They’re holding a table for us in the grill. Keith turned to walk away and Denny followed.

Buck lifted the bag onto his shoulder. Catch up with you in a minute.

In the locker room, other players milled about and a few nodded, but everyone mostly kept to themselves.

Buck set his bag by his locker and then took off his cap. He gave his head and face a good scratch. He took out a couple of wet wipes and tried to remove as much sand from his ears as possible.

He reached inside his duffle bag for his wallet and phone.

When he powered on the phone, a missed call from his mother popped up. She’d left a voice message too.

You’d think by now his mother would know not to call in the middle of a competitive round. That was the difference between Denny’s family and Buck’s.

Keith understood and supported Denny’s career.

Buck’s mother, Ruthie Rimlinger, never bothered to learn anything about golf and didn’t care a lick if he made it to the PGA. In fact, she’d made it clear she thought he ought to give up trying.

He shoved the phone and wallet into this jacket. He had no desire to talk to her, or even listen to her message. She had an innate ability to ruin things; a razor tongue could do that.

He wondered why she’d called, though. They hadn’t spoken for months. Not even over the Thanksgiving holiday.

Buck placed the hood over his clubs and zipped it closed. He didn’t want anything walking off accidentally. With luck, the clubs were in the bag for good today. Or was that just wishful thinking?

#

The grill was crowded and most of the people clustered around the bar. A large television was tuned to a big-money golf tournament in Dubai.

Buck found Denny and Keith at a table in the corner near a picture window. Outside, the metal fasteners on the flagpole clanged. Buck leaned his bag against the wall. He took the empty club chair and swiveled around so he had a clear view of his clubs. Once settled, he didn’t quite know what to do with his body; the nervous energy had nowhere to go.

Denny looked up. They’re saying gusts up to forty now.

That’s a big wind, Keith said. There was a tumbler on the table for him and a soda for Denny.

A waitress came closer and touched Buck on the shoulder. What can I get for you?

Mountain Dew with ice. Buck met her eyes. Lots of ice, please.

You want an extra glass?

You read my mind. Buck smiled and winked at her.

Hey Dad, Denny said. Buck’s thinking about the Phoenix Open in January. Maybe we could take a trip next week and check it out.

The wind quieted for a moment and the flags outside fell slack.

Buck held up his palms. Whoa. Don’t start making plans.

Son, it’s high season out there. I doubt you could get on the course. Keith drained his glass and then stood. I’ll get an update. See where things are at.

I need to hit the head. Denny bolted from his seat and followed Keith.

Alone again, Buck sat there trying not to think.

The young waitress returned with a cold plastic bottle of Mountain Dew and two full glasses of ice.

Anything else you need? She dipped her head and lowered her eyes to him.

Buck tilted his head and stretched an arm along the back of the chair.

Besides golf, flirting was Buck’s next favorite sport. It came as natural as his backswing and he prided himself on having a decent hit ratio.

Every game needs a scorecard.

Before Buck could say anything to the waitress, a tall, blond man approached.

Phenomenal round yesterday. The man stuck out his hand. Josh Laird.

The waitress turned to Josh. Do you need anything, sir?

Uh, no. Josh was already halfway into Denny’s seat when he asked, Mind if I join you for a minute?

The waitress faded into the crowd.

Josh sat forward. He rested his elbows on his long thighs, pressing his fingers together into the shape of a cathedral. You working with anyone?

Buck drew a blank.

Do you have representation? Josh asked. I’m an agent with SGI. What’s your number? He held out his phone.

If the waitress had asked, Buck would have popped off his number without a second thought. But with this guy, Buck felt like prey.

Don’t you have a card or something? Buck asked.

Uh, yeah. Josh handed Buck a business card.

Without glancing at it, Buck slipped it into his jacket.

Josh rose to his feet. Thanks for the time. And good luck.

Except for the recent support from Denny and his family, no one besides Buck had invested in his career. The business of finding an agent, a manager, a major sponsor—he’d assumed all that would take care of itself when the time came.

Keith showed up without Denny. Nothing’s official yet. He stood by the table, looking down at Buck. Listen, I know you and Denny are tight and you’re like part of the family, so I can understand why you’d want him to carry your bag. But he has other responsibilities.

Keith put his hand on Buck’s shoulder. And, son, I’m not sure it’s in your best interest either. You ought to have an experienced caddie who can show you the ropes.

I can’t afford it, Buck said.

Well, that’s where I can help. Keith sat down.

Buck put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His thumbnail flicked the stiff edge of the business card.

I’d front your expenses. Say a couple grand a week plus the caddie fee. In return, you’d wear a Big Tex shirt and cap. We’d settle up at the end of the season. Once I cover my nut on the expenses, I’d take forty percent of the winnings. That’s sixty for you. Better than most.

Buck stretched his leg and sank back in his chair. He wanted a sponsor, not a sugar daddy. Especially not if he had to ditch Denny and put golden handcuffs on for Keith. The offer felt more like a bribe than anything else.

Denny joined them before Buck could respond.

Dad tell you they’re calling the tournament at three o’clock?

Buck checked his watch. Pressure seized his chest and he breathed in deep.

So what did you two agree on for the caddie’s fee today? Keith asked.

Denny looked away.

They’d not discussed money between them. Standard ten percent, of course, Buck said.

Denny beamed. Ten grand for a two-day job. Sweet.

That’s only if Buck wins, Keith said. What’s a caddie earn if his player misses the cut? It’s not a living wage. Not the way you want to live, Denny.

Dad, we’re going to win. How can you doubt it after yesterday? Man, Buck and I scorched the course together. We’ll be an awesome team. I just know it. Am I right?

Denny held out his fist, but Buck didn’t respond.

Dad, come on. Golf is what gets my blood going. Tires are great and all, but if I have the chance to be part of the PGA, even as a caddie, man, I’m going for it.

We’ll see, Keith said, fixing his gaze on Buck.

I need to make a call. Buck bolted out of the chair. Watch my bag, will you?

He walked into the hallway leading to the pro shop and found a secluded alcove. He didn’t bother to listen to the voice message before he punched Ruthie’s number.

What took you so long to call? It was Art, his nerdy brother, half-brother actually.

I’ve been busy.

Did you listen to my message?

No.

Why not?

I told you, I’ve been busy, Buck said. Just tell me what’s going on.

Momma’s sick.

Buck heard the quiver in Art’s voice. How sick? he asked.

The ambulance came. Art said.

Buck stared at his feet. How bad is it?

It’s bad. When are you going to be here?

Buck looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice, his heart racing. I can’t come yet. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Text me the address for the hospital. And if anything happens, call me.

Why? You don’t answer your phone.

I can’t always talk. Leave me a message.

But you don’t listen to them, Art said, his voice sounding desperate.

It would be career suicide for Buck to leave now.

Hang loose. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Buck stepped outside, remaining in the shelter of a narrow doorway. He couldn’t see the flags, but the frantic snapping and clang of the fasteners wasn’t far away.

His mother always rebounded, and besides, it was an eight-hour drive to Houston. One extra hour wouldn’t make a difference. Flying was out of the question. No way he was relinquishing his clubs to an airline. That reminded him. He’d left them in the grill with Denny.

He double-stepped back inside.

What’s the matter? Denny asked.

Nothing. Buck went to his bag.

A soft light poured in through the window, and incredibly, the wind reduced to a whimper.

Buck. Keith nodded at the official walking toward them.

Congratulations, Mr. Buchanan.

The official led Buck toward a spot near the bar that had been cleared for the ceremony.

Normally, Buck would have been riding high on the adrenaline. Instead he felt mechanical and disjointed as he followed the man.

Standing alone with the tour official, he stared out at a group of mostly strangers. Denny in the front, grinning and clapping, Keith next to him with his arms folded tight across his chest. Josh Laird waved from the opposite side of the room.

Even after all these years, Buck searched the crowd for his stepfather, Leon Rimlinger, the man who’d first put a club in Buck’s hands.

The official was talking but the words didn’t penetrate until Buck felt the trophy, a cut-glass vase, placed in his hands. As though he’d practiced it a million times before, he raised the vase to his lips and he kissed it. He should have been bursting with confidence. Instead a chill swept through him, as though some long, icy finger had reached inside and pinged his heart.

Maybe it was because the win felt like a gimme putt, and that sowed doubts in his mind about whether he’d really earned the trophy. Or maybe he was just impatient to be on the road. Whatever the reason, he rushed through an interview with the local press and then loaded up on Mountain Dew and bananas and beef jerky while telling Denny and Keith what little he knew about his mother being in the hospital.

It was dark when he turned onto the two-lane highway heading southeast of the city. There was no direct interstate freeway so he faced miles of no-passing zones. The traffic petered out to an occasional passing pickup. He opened the windows, blasting the heater to counter the sharp night air. It wasted fuel, but he didn’t care. Not with a hundred grand in winnings burning in his pocket.

One indulgence led to another.

Inside his head, he envisioned what would happen when he arrived at the hospital. It would go something like this:

Ruthie would be sitting up in a hospital bed. Buck would have the biggest shit-eating grin on his face when he thrust the trophy into her hands.

See. I told you I could do it, he’d say, and then his mother would break into tears of joy and tell him she’d believed in him all along.

No. Start over.

He’d give the trophy to her as a get-well card, a peace offering, and the promise of a new life for both of them.

She’d quit smoking and get healthy. Pretty soon he’d be making good money and would buy her a house. She and Art would live together and everything would work out.

Then a deeper wish materialized. His mother would say she’d been tough on him all these years only to make sure he succeeded. That the neglect and negativity had come from a place of love, not indifference.

#

Buck missed the exit in a tangle of intersecting loops where I-45 and the 610 crossed paths on the north side of Houston. He wasted a quarter of an hour driving five miles out of the