“Sounds magnificent.”

“It was-or at least it seemed like it was, when I was a kid. Everyone in town referred to it as “the Club.” It was about the only green pretty spot in that whole windy red-dirt town. I fell in love at first sight.”

“I’ve heard that happens to young boys. Except that they usually fall for girls, not landscape.”

“Girls came later. When I was just a squirt, all I wanted was to play golf like a pro-to spend the rest of my life on pretty green courses. I wanted it to be my one-way ticket out of town.”

“Except that you still live there.”

“Funny how things work out, isn’t it?” He shifted gears and took a hard right following the billboard that pointed the way to the Magnolia Glade. “John was the one who really made it happen. He had the talent. I had the drive, the determination. But John was a pro from the second he picked up a club. He was always better than me-better than just about anyone. If it weren’t for him, I’d be back in Watonga right now, probably scooping balls out of the water trap and washing down golf carts.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, hotdog. You are on the PGA tour.”

“True. But I never would’ve gotten there without John. In addition to being more talented, he was also a hell of a lot smarter than me. He got a scholarship to Stanford, made the Dean’s Honor Roll, and was on the tour before he’d even graduated. Meanwhile, I was back in Norman at OU, rarely attending class but always attending the golf course. It’s a miracle I graduated.”

“And when you got out?”

“I tried out for the tour. The qualifying school is a bear-and-a-half. To make a long story short-I didn’t make the cut.”

“But I thought-”

“The first time. I thought I was finished, but John wouldn’t leave it at that. He took me under his wing, got me private lessons. I even got instruction from the late great Harvey Penick himself, God rest his soul. And I practiced like a demon. And next year-I made the tour. Got my official membership card and secret decoder ring and everything.”

“That’s a great story.”

Conner blinked. “I wonder if I could get a book deal? Pardon me while I call Random House.”

“But you left one part out. What about your real life?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know-off the course. Are you married?”

Conner glanced at her out the corner of his eye. Her eyes darted away. “Nah. Got close once, but-well, she didn’t want to spend the whole year traipsing from one golf course to another.”

“Fancy that. How long can you keep this up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you don’t plan to play golf forever. Don’t you ever think about growing up and getting a real job?”

Conner thought it best to let the question remain unanswered. He beeped his horn. “Sorry this is taking so long. I’m stuck behind someone determined to coast at fifteen miles per hour.”

“Relax,” O’Brien replied. “Down here, a lot of folks learned to drive on a John Deere, and for them, this is the right speed.”

“I could live with that, but he’s also got his left turn signal blinking.”

“Must be a Yankee. Most of the locals don’t use turn signals, and ignore those who do.”

Conner’s lips turned up. “Sorry to disillusion you, Lieutenant, but he’s got a Georgia license plate.”

“Do tell? Then you may rest assured the signal was on when the vehicle was purchased.”

A big sign arching the front drive told him he had arrived at the Magnolia Glade Country Club. He leaned toward the front guard post and identified himself. The gate popped up and Conner eased onto the driveway… which stretched into infinity. It was like driving down the Yellow Brick Road. Conner could see no end in sight. It was more than a minute later when the car emerged from a thicket and the clubhouse appeared.

And magnificent it was, too. A huge marble edifice-even larger than the Augusta National clubhouse-with Doric columns flanking the front porch.

“Isn’t this where Scarlett O’Hara lives?” Conner asked.

O’Brien laughed. “Was. Nowadays she’s got a condo downtown.”

One look at that enormous mansion house, with the huge gushing fountain out front, was enough to make Conner glad he’d decided not to wear his Bermuda shorts. He parked in the first available spot-which was still a good ways from the front door-popped out of the car and raced around to the other side to open O’Brien’s door for her.

“And who do you think you are?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Rhett Butler?”

Conner suddenly felt himself flushing pink. “I just thought… since you’re all gussied up…”

“I always appreciate a gentleman.”

Conner beamed. “Gee, can I carry you to the front door? Looks like it’s about a mile away.”

“I bet we don’t have to walk.” She scanned the horizon. “Yup. Look.”

A black stretch limousine pulled up in front of them. The passenger side window lowered. “May I take you to the ballroom?” the driver asked.

“If you insist.” O’Brien scampered into the back seat, Conner close behind.

During the short ride, Conner resisted the impulse to play with everything. There were buttons controlling the air, buttons controlling the windows, buttons controlling the music and buttons controlling the dividing glass between the seats. There was even a small television, an electronic stock ticker, and a minibar. For those who couldn’t make it to the front door without a quick snort, Conner presumed.

The limo eased beside the front steps. Conner hopped out, again holding the door open for O’Brien.

“Enjoy the reception,” the chauffeur said, with a tip of his hat. Then he pulled away in search of other arrivals.

Conner stood next to the fountain. It had an enormous round base, with water spurting up in four different directions at once. Lights at the base made the water change color every few seconds.

O’Brien tugged at his shoulder. “I think we should split up.”

“Why? I wore the tux. I used mouthwash.”

“We can cover more ground separately. Talk to more people. We’ll meet later and compare notes. Make sense?”

“Well…” Conner tried to mask his disappointment. “I suppose.”

“Besides, I’m starving. I gotta find me a deviled eggs plate.”

“What, at a classy soirée like this?”

“You’re in the South, Conner. There’s always a deviled eggs plate.”

Conner entered the clubhouse agog. The reception was located in an immense ballroom-seemingly larger than a football field. The decorations were festive and fabulous. There were vines, flowers, and colored lights everywhere he looked. Ivy and other greenery twined the bannister on a central staircase leading upward, and was draped over the tables and walls as well. Silk streamers shimmied down from the ceiling.

The guests in attendance were no less impressive. O’Brien had been right. All the men were strapped into monkey suits, and the gowns worn by some of the women looked as if they had been borrowed from the finalists at the Miss America pageant.

After a brief survey of the ballroom, Conner discovered the wedding cake-which to his great disappointment was still uncut. It was a seven-tiered number with a miniature staircase descending from each layer. Sparklers jutted out all over the cake. On each staircase was a miniature replica of one of the bride’s friends or relatives. At the top of the cake, of course, stood the bride and groom, in what appeared to be exact replicas of their wedding attire.

“Not bad, eh?”

Ace, looking as if he had stepped out of a Fred Astaire movie, was leaning over Conner’s shoulder. “I assume you’re talking about the bride.”

“Ding, ding. I wouldn’t mind licking off her frosting.”

Conner rolled his eyes. “Keep your tongue where it belongs, Ace. You don’t want the camera crew to get the wrong idea.” He gestured toward the cake. “I notice the bride is wearing white. Isn’t this her second marriage?”