Chapter 20

Monday, May 28

In the end, I got my car. Sort of. There were conditions. Like maintaining straight A’s my senior year, paying for my own tax, title and license, gasoline and insurance (which would probaly require me to sell the damn car) and letting my sister learn to drive it. The last one was almost a deal-breaker.

Dad agreed to take the E89. I was given the option of getting a 2008 E85 ragtop the dealership had recently received as a trade-in or waiting indefinitely as they hunted down another E89. Even at a decade old, the E85 had less than 50,000 miles on it and plenty of options (cruise control, AC, Bose stereo system with CD player and satellite radio) that made it more than attractive.

To grease the skids and take the insurance guys out of the equation, Dad agreed to buy Mom a new X5 SUV and trade in the minivan. I don’t know what “winning” two cars wound up costing him and I was never going to ask.

The good news as far as I was concerned was the E85 was a six-speed stick. That didn’t keep Kacie and Morgan from excitedly chattering on about their plans for “their car.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them that with only two seats, only one of them at a time could ride with me as neither of them could drive a stick. I’d let them figure that out on their own.

Mrs. Ensberry wasn’t sure she liked the idea of me taking Morgan on a date in such a car.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll stick with Dad’s Buick and its big back seat.”

The roadster suddenly didn’t offend her sensibilities as much.

During our long wait, I went ahead and showered and changed into fresh clothes. It was nearly 3 p.m. before we got to eat, but I was content to just graze on the buffet the rest of the afternoon and evening.

Shortly after the awards presentation at the golf shop, during which Dad and I received DVDs with footage of our achievement, Dad gave me one of those little life lessons that one just has to grin and bear. Leading me into the 19th Hole, he announced to the crowd: “A round for the house! My son is buying.”

Thus I was introduced to one of golf’s grand traditions: The cost of a hole-in-one. It appeared almost all the participants from the scramble were there and I knew more than 30 teams had entered. It looked like upwards of 150 people were in the bar.

“How the hell am I supposed to pay for this?” I asked my dad. Even if everyone bought the cheapest beer in place, I was easily looking at a $500 bar tab. And I wasn’t old enough to drink!

“Don’t worry,” Dad said. “I’m on the hook for a round myself. You just sign the slip.”

As the other patrons made their selections, I settled for an Arnold Palmer — half iced tea, half lemonade. It seemed an appropriate choice.

While it was still daylight, Mr. Horton drove up in a cart with a gentleman wearing a camera around his neck. We were told to grab the clubs we used to hit our aces and a substitute ball and to come to No. 14 for pictures.

We posed separately and together, in and out of the car. My favorite shot, the one they wound up running in the local paper, had me and Dad leaning against the front fenders, holding our club and ball. The fellow with the camera talked to Dad for a little writeup that ran with the photo.

It was after 6 before we got back to the pool and I could make another trip through the buffet line. I was seated at one of the round tables with Kacie and Morgan when Arlene Jenson and Melinda Hernandez came up arm-in-arm.

“This looks encouraging,” I said.

“Come by my cabana when you’re done,” Arlene said and continued down the pool deck.

Five minute later, Kacie, Morgan and I entered No. 16 to find Arlene and Melinda seated on the couch, each with a plastic cup of wine. The girls took the patio chairs on the other side of the coffee table and I leaned against the counter of the kitchenette.

“I wanted to apologize for causing any trouble yesterday,” Melinda said. “I’m the last person you have to worry about spreading gossip, especially if it gets the law involved.”

“Most of Melinda’s family are undocumented,” Arlene said. “Both sets of grandparents crossed the border when her parents were still young children and none of them have ever applied for citizenship. She’s not in trouble because she was born here, but INS is a constant threat to her family.

“I know some good lawyers who know some good lawyers who specialize in immigration issues and have agreed to help.”

“That’s great news,” I said. “I know kids at school who are in the same situation.”

“There is one catch,” Arlene said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You have to take us for a ride in that hot new car of yours,” Melinda said.

“Get in line, sister,” Morgan said, drawing a laugh from the others.

Arlene’s news lifted a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying and made the rest of the day that much more enjoyable. It got even better as the sun began to set and people began to gather for the fireworks. A lot of people elected to remain at the pool, but a large seating area had been arranged on the first fairway far enough out that lights wouldn’t be interfering with the display.

Morgan and I were just strolling the grounds when she hip-checked me.

“You wearing boxers?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” I said.

“Lose ‘em. Go commando the rest of the night.”

My curiosity piqued, I slipped into the men’s locker room to do as she asked, stashing the underwear in a pocket of my golf bag.

I rejoined Morgan, who took my hand and led me out to the first tee. I noticed she’d grabbed one of the cloth napkins from the main dining room.

The fireworks were supposed to start at 9 p.m., so we still had a little time to kill. Morgan pulled me down for a kiss, then whispered in my ear while she had me close.

“Whatever happens, just stay quiet,” she said.

I stared at her, but she gave away nothing.

We continued to walk hand-in-hand down the cart path toward where they had the white plastic patio chairs set up. As it got darker, she pulled me toward the back row of seats and grabbed a chair. I reached for one for myself, but she stopped me.

Dragging the chair to the edge of the fairway near some trees, she looked around before deciding the situation was to her liking. Setting the chair in place, she pushed me into it.

“Sit,” she commanded, then perched herself on my knee.

Morgan was wearing a cute little halter-top minidress that covered only marginally more than her bathing suit had on Saturday. The biggest differences were a more modest neckline and the skirt, which fell to midthigh.