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 words and talking, I was sure, loudly enough for her to hear.

She turned in our direction, 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 went 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 with steam, and her hair was wet and slicked back from her face. Pale skinned, she already had a slight sunburn across the bridge of her nose.

“Damn. If only I’d gotten here a few minutes earlier.”

She looked away from the television and grinned. “One-track mind.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

I walked toward her to give her a kiss, but her attention was drawn back to the screen. I followed her gaze. Anthony Bourdain was biting into what looked like a raw sea urchin, plucked from the crystal ocean behind him.

“Where is he this week?”

“Sydney.”

“Australia?”

“Yes.”

I watched the screen for a moment, listening to her breathing, feeling the stillness expand between us.

“It’s beautiful,” I said eventually. “No wonder Tim loves it there.”

“Shouldn’t we get to that cocktail party?” She stood, hugging the towel around her tightly.

“You’re right, we should.”

I walked past her to the bathroom and showered quickly, trying not to think about Claire and Australia and Tim. Eventually, I shifted my thoughts to the driving range as a distraction. And it worked, after a fashion.

I told Claire about John as we dressed.

“He’s a jerk,” she said. “But you shouldn’t let it bother you.”

“Wouldn’t it bother you?”

“Of course. But a lot of the old guard are like that. You have to roll with it.”

“Are you saying you get treated like that?”

“I used to. Sometimes.”

“By who? And why haven’t you told me that before?”

“Because I knew you’d want to beat the crap out of them, and that wouldn’t have been good for my career, now would it?”

“I might’ve taken some pleasure from it, though. Seriously, who talked to you like that? Was it that Ed guy?”

“It was no one in particular; part of my old life. Now come on, we’re going to be late.”

I stifled my annoyance and finished tying my tie.

Outside, we walked along the path to the clubhouse. It was dusk, and as we walked, a set of lanterns stuck into the lawn snapped on, illuminating the path. Bugs and birds buzzed and twittered in the trees above us. The air smelled like freshly mown grass and new paint. Venus was rising, bright above the horizon.

Claire curled her fingers into mine. After a moment’s hesitation, I squeezed her hand.

“Is this going to be excruciating for you?” I asked.

“Of course not. I’m sure I and the other wives will spend the night talking about our kids.”

I laughed and felt lighter because of it. “I do work with a few women.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to them, then.”

The clubhouse had a long wraparound porch. Little white lights were strung through the balustrade, and the din of cocktail conversation spilled into the night. We collected drinks from a waiter and spent the next hour winding through the crowd, having those brief exchanges you always have at these types of events. “Where are you from?” “What department do you work in?” “This is my wife.” “This is mine.” “Isn’t this place great?” “It really is.” “Do you work for the company too?”

Claire kept an eye out for the waiters passing with canapés, and by the end of the hour we had a good drink-to-bite-sized-food ratio going.

When the Milky Way was a streak above the now nearly invisible golf course, a gong sounded, calling us in to dinner. We searched the seating chart for our table and found out that we were sitting with John and his wife. I knew Claire actively disliked both of them, and I was pretty sure she’d hate John by dessert.

Hell, we might both hate him by dessert.

When we got to the table, John and Cindy were already seated, making inroads into a bottle of red wine. His face had a florid, other-side-of-sober look to it. He patted the seat next to him when he saw Claire. She sighed, and I whispered to her that she didn’t have to sit there if she didn’t want to. She told me she could handle it and sat down, her shoulders squared as if for a fight. I took the seat next to her, introducing myself to a middle-aged woman in a cocktail dress who was the chief operating officer’s wife.

The COO was deep in conversation with a very pretty, very young woman, the newly acquired wife of our sixty-year-old CEO. She was the talk of the company, her “modeling” photos circulating around the office. Some of them had been enhanced and/or captioned. You can imagine. I hoped the guys behind it weren’t on the outs with IT.

The seat next to hers was empty, for the CEO presumably. I couldn’t for the life of me understand how we’d ended up sitting here.

“What are we doing at this table?” Claire murmured.

“I was wondering the same thing.”

“I see big things in your future, young man,” she said, squeezing my thigh under the table. “Big things.”

The thought of that possibility made me nervous, and I decided to switch to water. Drinking as much as I wanted to seemed like a bad idea in the circumstances.

The first courses of salad and soup passed slowly. The COO’s wife was very nice, but we had less than nothing in common, and I began to regret my no-drinking decision. When the waiter came to refresh our drinks, I decided to allow myself a glass of wine. One glass with each course ought to keep things reasonable but bearable.

The main course was set up as a buffet against the back of the room. As we rose to take our place in line, Claire told me to go ahead, she’d meet me back at the table. I suspected she was going out for a smoke, but I didn’t call her on it. We had a sort of don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy with respect to her smoking.

I tucked into line behind a woman whose long, wavy black hair hung loosely over her bare shoulders. We waited next to each other at the turkey station, while a man in a chef’s hat carved to order. The woman glanced at me when I asked for a large helping of dark meat.