Chapter Eleven
A little after one on Tuesday afternoon, I stood staring at my wardrobe choices in the small closet I shared with Liz.
Was this a date?
Horseback riding had been perilously close to a date, but I’d gone only to experience riding an Arabian. He was an acquaintance before the ride, and we’d become friendlier. That was all.
I’d driven there and back all by my lonesome.
But he was coming to pick me up and take me golfing. Okay, it was miniature golf, but it still meant clubs, little balls, and hand-eye coordination that I seriously lacked.
It was a date.
What should I wear on a date? I hadn’t been on one in forty years. Even “date night” with my husband consisted more of eating popcorn while we streamed a movie. I’d dress up in my most comfortable pajamas, while he’d wear sweats and a T-shirt.
Sometimes we’d even make love afterwards.
But that wasn’t happening here. No way, no how. I had no interest in getting naked with a man, even my doctor. I’d keep my clothes on.
The thought forced me back to my dilemma. What clothes was I going to put on?
“Can I help?” Liz asked, poking her head in the door.
I looked at her hopelessly.
“Have you done a lot of miniature golfing?” I asked.
“Some. My grandkids love it.”
“What do I wear?”
“I don’t think it’s the golfing that’s the problem,” she said. “It’s the man.”
“Can I call him and tell him I don’t want to go?” I asked.
“A half hour before he’s supposed to pick you up?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“A half hour! That’s all I’ve got?”
“Diane’s prepared to stall him outside. Said something about showing him how to dump.”
“She wouldn’t!” I protested.
“Well, then we better figure this out. ”
I stepped aside from the closet. “Have at it.”
Liz did a quick inventory of my hanging clothes, then looked through the drawers where I stashed my T-shirts. She pulled one out, a pretty peach one that I’d bought in Georgia on our way through there. It was decorated with a discrete depiction of the fruit on one shoulder.
“Wear this with your powder-blue capris,” she said. “Get dressed, then we’ll do something with your hair and makeup.”
“I don’t want to do anything with my hair and makeup,” I protested. “We’re just going to play golf.”
“Get dressed.”
As she searched through my few bottles of makeup, I pulled on the pants and shirt.
“Your sandals will have to do,” Liz said. “Cute tennis shoes would be better, but we have to work with what we’ve got. Now sit down.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and let her fuss with my hair.
“You need a haircut,” she said.
“I need a new life,” I muttered. “One where I wasn’t dumb enough to accept an invitation from a man.”
“Oh, hush. You’ll do fine.” She spread a little blush on my cheeks, darkened my eyebrows, and handed me my lipstick. “Although some new cosmetics wouldn’t hurt. These look like you bought them in the last century.”
“Only about ten years ago,” I admitted. “The cows don’t care about makeup.”
“He’s here!” Diane shouted from the front.
“Oh, God,” I said, sending up a quick prayer to Mother Mary that I wouldn’t make an utter fool of myself.
As I walked to the front of the RV, familiar feelings came over me. It was the same “lamb to slaughter” emotion I’d felt when Michael had come to pick me up for a date. My parents and sisters were eager voyeurs as I’d awkwardly answer the door to let him in. That event was always followed by equally difficult small talk with my parents.
My sisters weren’t having any problems now, though. They were both outside, talking with Rodrigo and admiring his car.
At least he hadn’t picked me up in a ranch truck, like Michael had done on prom night. I’d almost landed on my ass trying to climb up into the cab with my long dress twisting around my legs.
As soon as I walked down the steps, Rodrigo stopped talking and looked at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. My gaze riveted on his, and that same fluttering I’d felt before occurred again .
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” I said, walking up to him.
Then that same stupid awkward moment occurred.
My sisters were staring.
Waiting.
How were we supposed to greet each other?
“Good.” He looked at my sisters. “Nice seeing you again.” Then he took my arm to walk me to the passenger door which he opened.
I got in as gracefully as I could.
He walked to the other side, took his seat, and soon we were off.
“Your sisters are very protective,” he said as soon as we left the RV park.
“I’d hoped they would have grown out of it by now,” I said.
“Hung around when dates picked you up?” he asked.
“There was only one date, but yes. The two of them and my parents.”
“I understand. The parents of any girl I dated in high school were like ogres. One dad had a pair of old-fashioned silver pistols hung on the wall. He kept looking at them every time I picked up his daughter.”
I chuckled. “Dating can be dangerous.”
“That’s for sure.” He glanced over at me. “Even at our age.”
“Is that what we’re doing? I thought we were just friends,” I said, trying to keep it light.
“We can be whatever you wish,” he said.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Would he be insulted if I didn’t want to date? Which, to be fair to myself, I didn’t.
“How about we concentrate on having a good time today and not worry about labels,” he said.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Do you mind if I turn on some music?” he asked. “I find it very relaxing when I drive.”
“That’s fine.” It also meant I didn’t have to come up with topics for conversation.
He pressed a button and a pleasant Latin singer crooned over the sound system.
“Nice,” I said.
He nodded.
We settled into a comfortable silence as he drove toward San Antonio.
~ ~ ~
The miniature golf place was attractive, with lots of manmade streams and waterfalls that Rodrigo informed me were water hazards.
I nodded as if I’d understood his explanation.
He rented our clubs—putters—and a couple of balls. The scorecard he handed me made no sense, but I wasn’t here to win. There wasn’t a chance of that.
As we walked away from the desk, I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.
“They’ll let anyone in here.”
I turned.
The man was older, dressed in a pressed short sleeve plaid shirt, his khaki pants pulled up high on his large belly. His scowl was focused on the two of us.
Next to him, a woman half his age fidgeted with the pearls around her neck and looked in the opposite direction.
“They certainly do!” I announced loudly.
Rodrigo turned briefly, then continued down the stairs to the start of the fake golf greens.
I gave a good stink-eye to the jerk, then followed.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Rodrigo said.
“I most certainly did,” I said. “People get away with way too much.”
“It’s easier to let it ride,” he said. “It’s better than it used to be. And most people around here treat everyone the same. It’s more the tourists that seem to think the area belongs to them.” Rodrigo barked out a laugh. “They never consider the things they come to see—the missions, the festivals, the food—are all contributions from the people they consider to be lesser beings. It’s ridiculous.”
He looked at me for a few moments, and I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good person. And you’re right. We need to continue to point out bad behavior. It’s become too common.”
The man who’d been so rude brushed past us to take over the first green space. His girlfriend—or wife, poor thing—scurried behind him.
Rodrigo and I laughed.
“While we’re waiting, I’ll explain the game to you,” he said.
I listened and asked questions while he showed me how to putt and what the scoring meant. It was pretty simple.
Once the man left, we started our game .
Things went fairly smoothly until the fifth hole. The green was nestled between two rushing streams of water with a vigorous fountain at the top of one of them. The noise, as well as the stress I was beginning to feel from taking so many shots to get the ball in the hole, made me nervous. My hands were slippery.
I swung a little too hard.
The club escaped my grasp, flew up in the air, and landed on a rock in the water feature to our left. It ricocheted off the rock, went up, and landed right before the hole in the lower green … right after the jerk hit his ball toward it.
“Damn it! That ruined my shot! I would have made it!” he shouted. “Mark that down as one stroke. Got that?”
“Y…yes,” the woman said.
“I think we should get out of here,” Rodrigo whispered. He scooped up the balls, grabbed my hand, and pulled me behind the mountain supporting the fountain.
“Who threw that?” the man bellowed.
I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
“I’ll sue you! I could have been seriously injured!”
My chest hurt from holding in my hysteria.
Rodrigo tugged on my hand.
We walked past the next two holes, and Rodrigo was lining up his shot when the man stormed through.
“Did you see anyone throw a club?” he demanded.
“No, not at all,” Rodrigo said as he glanced between the bottom of his club and the ball on the green. Then with a smooth move of his body, he sent the ball rolling down its perfect path to its destination where it landed with a soft clunk.
“You have crazy people in Texas,” the man said, glaring at me.
“I’m from Montana,” I said with the sweetest smile I could muster. It wouldn’t do for him to wonder why we only had one club between us.
“Just as bad.” He glared at us one more time then stomped back to where he’d come from.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I bent over double and started to laugh.
It only took a few moments for Rodrigo to join in. We must have laughed a full five minutes before we calmed down.
“Want to take your shot?” he asked.
“I … I … lost my club …” Hysteria threated to return.
He held out his, then placed my ball on the green .
What the hell. I was so bad at this game, a few chuckles weren’t going to make any difference.
I walked over to the ball and placed the club next to it. I swung it gently back like I saw him do and prepared for the ball to develop a mind of its own and go where it pleased.
“Stop,” he said.
I did.
He came up behind me.
“Can I help you? Put my hands over yours?”
He was already too close.
“Um … okay.”
He reached around and placed his hands on mine. “Loosen up a little. You don’t have to keep a death grip on it. It’s not going …” He must have thought about what had just happened. “Never mind. Just don’t hold it so tight.”
I tried to loosen up, but it was difficult when I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.
“Now look at where you want the ball to go. Is the flat of the club perpendicular to it?”
I did what he asked and made a little adjustment.
“Almost.” His hands guided the club a little more. “Good. Now swing back a little. Like you were.”
His hands guided me through the whole stroke.
To my amazement, the little white orb followed his into the cup.
“I did it!” I threw my arms in the air, the club still in one hand.
“Easy there, Kathleen. We’ve only got one club left.”
“Oops.” I pulled my arm down and thrust the putter at him.
He had a big grin on his face. “Now isn’t this fun?”
“It definitely is,” I said, meaning it. Who knew that putting that stinking ball into a hole in the ground would prove so satisfactory?
“Onward?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“Absolutely.” I tucked my hand in his.
Nothing had felt so natural.