Dirk Rapier's A Hole in One

Dirk Rapier’s A Hole in One

  By R. C. Barajas

  Copyright 2011 R. C. Barajas

  Chapter 1

  Birdie in the Hand

  “Georgette? Are you down there? Come on, there are customers waiting. Get that sweet behind up here and open the register!”

  Georgette Winnipeg rolled her cerulean eyes and tossed her mane of russet curls as she looked back up the steps from the storeroom under the office. Tad Hardly was standing there at the top, his muscular frame silhouetted against the warm and already moist July morning that beamed in through the counter window. She could just see the tops of the first customer’s hats as they lined up outside, waiting for their clubs and balls.

  “By Saint Brigid, who plays minigolf at ten in the morning anyway?” she thought as she shouldered the box of #3 balls and headed up the stairs at a run, grateful she’d thought to wear the sensible Naturalizer sandals rather than the strappy, slightly heeled Kenneth Coles. Sure those made her long legs look shapely, but she always ended up with a wee blister on her right little toe.

  “At least here, in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I can wear sandals. In my own country – Oh, Ireland! How I miss your green tracts of land! – it is always too cold to expose one’s feet like this. And customs there are so much more strict, the people so deeply religious that they just hate it when young eighteen-year-olds like me show any skin at all!”

  But Georgette did so miss Ireland – where she was from. When she’d arrived by steamship four months ago, she’d been amazed by the fast automobiles, the tall buildings and by the handsome but quite aggressive men. Why, a few had even asked her out on her very first day in this new country! Back home - in Ireland - boys had to ask permission of the parents of a girl they wanted to date, and even then, one of the girl’s relatives had to escort the pair, just to make sure nothing untoward happened. Why, until last week she’d never even kissed a boy! She’d come close once, when her Auntie Orfhlaith was chaperoning her date with a school chum. The sweet, toothless old lady had stepped out of the teashop where they were sipping mutton broth and nibbling corned oatcakes to use the outhouse, and Georgette had managed to hold Eoghan’s hand for a minute or two. She still dreamed of the feel of his huge hand in hers, his hard calluses against her soft palm. Auntie Orfhlaith had caught them, and smacked Eoghan so hard across the face with her pipe that she’d knocked out his front teeth. Georgette had gotten the hiding of her life that night, and Auntie O had called her “that whoor” ever since. But it had been worth every welt, even the hundred circles of shame she’d had to walk around the cistern of the churchyard, the heavy pails of slop weighing down her poor hands as she made her way through the sleet.

  “Georgette!”

  “Oh darn it!” She hadn’t realized that in her reverie, she’d stopped half way up the stairs. Adjusting the short pleated skirt of her uniform, she ran the rest of the way up the steps.

  Tad had his hands on the hips of his green Hugo Boss shorts. He loved watching Georgette coming up the stairs. There was something about the cleave of her white polo shirt, the gentle bump of her clavicle. Oh man, did he love a nice set of clavicles!

  Georgette brushed past him and put the box on the counter. She slid the glass back at the rental counter and gave a sunny smile to the first customer of the day.

  “How many in your party?” she asked the irritable looking mother in front of her. As she passed out clubs and balls and took imprints of credit cards, her mind wandered. Was it just last Friday that she’d spoken with him? Had it been a mere five days since then? Well, then it had been all too recent as far as she was concerned. Shaking her curls and coming back to the present, she focused on the pudgy man and his whining daughter in front of her.

  “Dad! I want the pink club! Daddy!”

  But her father was busy staring at Georgette, clutching his corndog, a grin on his greasy lips and a drop of mustard sliding down his Hawaiian print shirt. “So,” his eyes wandered over her front to her nametag, “ – Georgette, what special prize would you give me if I played a perfect game on this little course of yours? But hey, before you answer, I should warn you; I played varsity for Yale, and was famous for swinging the biggest club on the team, if you know what I mean.” He leered, and winked broadly.

  Georgette smiled and winked back, handing the man his credit card along with one pink club and one black one. People were so friendly here! “Yes sir, have a good time. Here - don’t forget your scorecard and pencil. Please return your equipment at the purple kiosk after the T. Rex at hole 18. Have a nice day!”

  The pudgy man left, looking disappointed, but Georgette was already far away. That darned Perry Chinthrust! Who did he think he was, anyway? Just because he did all the designs and the upkeep for the whole course, he seemed to think he could just boss everyone around. It made her Irish blood boil. Oh, she’d had words with him, all right, told him just what she thought of a man who said that sort of thing to a young innocent girl. Why, back home – in Ireland, where she was from – he’d have been beaten senseless with a blarney stone by a girl’s father. She could still hear his voice, low in her ear; “Lassie, would you mind terribly getting your pretty bottom off my newly repaired castle wall? I’d hate to have to throw you in the moat.” Then he’d actually put his hands on her waist and picked her up as if she was no more than a doll, depositing her on her feet right in front of him!

  She’d had no idea that it was the Perry Chinthrust, the tortured genius behind the award-winning miniature golf designs all around her, the man rumored to be beset by haunting memories of an accidental death on these very grounds. There’d been an investigation, Tad had told her, accusations that the closing jaws of the T. Rex had been too strong, the snapping razor-sharp teeth resulting in the grizzly demise of a girl at hole 18 on that fateful day last summer. Perry Chinthrust had been cleared of all charges, Tad had assured her, but the memory haunted him, and he had become stormy and prone to taking long, lonely walks along the crests of the mounds at hole 12. He was often to be found there, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the setting sun, his smoldering eyes staring handsomely into the distance over the top of the miniature Eiffel tower.

  Well, Georgette hadn’t known about all that when he’d made his off-color reference to her – to her behind, when he’d put his dirty hands all over her waist. All she knew of him was that despite his height – he was 6’3’’, Tad had told her breathlessly – and his broad, broad shoulders, it was commonly said that he had the flexibility of a gymnast and could get into tiny spaces to repair the most delicate of things anywhere on the course. But who cared a whit about that! It was of no interest to her whatsoever!

  She’d faced him that day, but only to look into his green eyes for a fleeting moment. Certainly they were green – green as the Irish Sea at sunset – and certainly they were deep and piercing – like the sword of blessed Saint Patrick! - but they were hard and impenetrable. Well, he didn’t frighten her, no sir!

  “You don’t frighten me - who do you think you are?” she’d said, tossing her long curls.

  “I? I am Perry Chinthrust, my girl. I assume you’ve heard of me. And you are...?”

  “Furious with you, that’s who I am! How is it you think you can mention my... my...”, she’d blushed, she was sure. Darn her creamy clear skin! “My you-know-what! And threatening violence upon a lady – what kind of man are you?”

  He’d actually smiled! The nerve of him! Never mind his straight white teeth – gosh, like piano keys! So unlike the teeth of any boy she’d ever seen back home in Ireland - and his lips – so smooth next to the rugged stubble that gave him a devil-may-care unconcern for his looks. His smile, she noticed, made his
eyes just a shade greener.

  “What kind of man? What kind of man am I?” At that, he’d taken a step toward her, staring into her face with mock seriousness. “Many people have asked that, few have bothered to find out. Why don’t you try a little harder than most?” And with that he’d taken her face in his strong hands and planted a kiss right on her lips!

  As she felt for the first time the heat of a man’s lips on hers, the manly scent of his breath, the force of his body, she was taken by surprise and felt her heart sizzle like potatoes sliding into a hot pan of fresh-churned butter. Then Georgette had pushed him away hard, had turned, had run.

  He’d called after her, laughing, “I’ll catch you next time, Lady Furious!” But all she heard was the hot summer wind in her ears, and all she felt was the burning of her cheeks, the feel of his angry lips on hers.

  “Dear? Georgette? Hello? You alright, little shiksa zoyne?” Georgette realized a kindly old woman was speaking to her across the rental counter, her face full of concern.

  “Oh, yes – I’m sorry, “ Georgette stammered, blushing to the roots of her hair and feeling distinctly over-heated. “How many in your party today, Mrs. Rosen?” The old woman smiled thinly. “Just myself and poor little Chaim here, as usual. You were miles away just now, weren’t you, bubele?” She raised her thickly penciled eyebrows. “Again.” The old eyes twinkled lustily. “It must be love! Which one is it?” She craned her neck to look into the tiny office, her eyes resting appreciatively on Tad’s pectorals. Georgette tossed her head as she handed the clubs and balls over the counter. “Love? Absolutely not, Mrs. Rosen – I may be feeling many things, but love is certainly not one of them! In fact, it’s the last thing I feel!”

  Mrs. Rosen shrugged, murmured kaltblutik klafte, while smiling at Georgette, then hooked her grandson by the collar, dragging him off in the direction of the first hole.

  “Getting kinda cranky with the paying customers, aren’t you?” Tad was leaning against the far wall, smirking. “Need someone to talk to, Georgie? A shoulder to cry on? Hey, I’m your man, babe. Just say the word – I give a mean backrub.”

  “That’ll be the day, Tad my lad!” Georgette shot back, her blue eyes the color and moistness of stormy seas. “I... I want to go out for a walk. I need some air!” She brushed past Tad, ignoring something he was saying about her job and the thick line of customers waiting restlessly at the window. She couldn’t help but notice the way his shorts fit so snugly against his sturdy thighs, the way his white polo shirt strained against his muscular neck. “What is the matter with me?” she thought as she ran down the steps and along the pathway that led behind the miniature windmill. “Father Flynn would whip me if he knew I was having these thoughts!”

  The day was hot and sultry already. Georgette peeled off her polo shirt – she always wore a tank top underneath, over her undershirt and sports bra – for modesty’s sake – and enjoyed the feel of the sun on her alabaster skin. Back home, in Ireland, she never got to sunbathe – Father Flynn had made his opinion on the practice quite plain in his sermons. Unbuckling her sandals, she stepped into the miniature moat, walking languidly, calming her thoughts. She ignored the balls that whizzed by her, and didn’t even hear the shouts of the customers as they waved their clubs angrily at her.

  She reached the grass and sat down behind the wall. For a while she picked at the green blades, her perfectly arched brows drawn down prettily as she thought over all that had befallen her. Finally the warm sun lulled her into relaxation and she lay back and let the hot rays play upon her skin, her curls spread out like a strawberry shag rug under her head.

  She was awakened by a shadow that suddenly came between her and the sun. Opening her eyes she could make out only a dark silhouette standing over her.

  “If I were the suspicious type, I’d say you were following me, Lady Furious,”

  Georgette blinked and pushed herself up on her elbows. Then she recognized the broad shoulders, the deep, mocking voice. It was surely Perry Chinthrust! He had dared to speak to her again – after what he had done! Oh, how she loathed him!

  “You!” she cried, jumping at once to her feet, grabbing her polo shirt and holding it over her heaving chest. “Any gentleman would make some sort of warning before addressing a lady. Are you always so unspeakably rude?”

  Perry Chinthrust looked down at her, his green eyes alight. “Lady? I see no lady here. I see only a spoiled, prudish, pretty little girl who needs to occasionally unclench her proud little jaw and smile at the world around her,” Then his face clouded and he added darkly, “Even if that world has gone mad,” and for a moment his green eyes gazed far away. “Know anyone like that, Lady Furious?” he murmured, his voice suddenly as sad as the cry of the Crested Coal Tit flying over the rolling hills of her Irish homeland.

  Her face softened. He looked so wounded, like wee Roibeárd O’Malley when she’d accidentally kicked him in the bollocks while they were learning the high-stepping Sean Nós dance. “And yet, as sorry as I feel for him, I am so angry! What can I do with these two seemingly opposite emotions? Oh, how can I solve this mystery of my heart?”

  And next thing she knew, she’d thrown herself into his arms, his manly heart beating furiously against her tank top.