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think? You haven’t got a hole in one yet. I’ll fetch the balls so you can keep swinging.”
    I felt my own shoulders slump forward. “Are you serious? We’ll be out here all day,” I whined. “I’ll probably never get a hole in one.”
    “Oh, have some bloody faith in yourself, Augusta. You’re bound to get one in sooner or later. Hopefully sooner, because I’m getting hungry.” London began walking away again, then he stopped once more and turned back around. “Of course, if you honestly believe you’re incapable of getting a hole in one, then I suppose we could go back to practicing with the putter like we did before.”
    He didn’t have to say another word. I put the nine-iron away, pulled out my putter, and teed up a ball. If you don’t count the hundred hole-in-one attempts, then I finished that par three with a respectable 10 using only my putter.
    The rest of the morning was uneventful. Dad and I didn’t talk much as we walked the course; mostly we just plodded along from shot to shot minding our own business. He was not limited to use of a putter, so he took considerably fewer shots than I did, but eventually we both finished the round. After my ball dropped in the final cup, I commented on how much better I did on the final hole than I had done on the first. “Mark me down for an eight,” I said proudly. “That’s what you call improvement.”
    The final green was only a short distance from the driving range, and as I was replacing the yellow flagstick in the cup, a thin woman in her late forties came hurrying up the cart path from that direction. She was dragging along a set of well-used rental clubs in a bright orange bag. “London!” she shouted. “London! Hello!”
    My father turned and smiled cordially. The woman was waving gracelessly with one hand while trying to adjust the weight of the clubs with the other. The way she positioned the bag across the front of her body told me instantly that she’d never set foot on a golf course before. “Oh. Hello, Delores. Fancy meeting you here.”
    The woman flashed a flawless smile and tossed her auburn hair gently over her shoulder. “Well, I saw you coming from a mile away and I just had to say hello. And who is this strapping young man with you today?” She touched me softly on the arm. “It wouldn’t be your son that I’ve heard so much about, now would it?” Her comment caught my father by surprise, and I could tell by his awkward expression that he’d have preferred I not hear it. It caught me off-guard as well; I never would have guessed that my dad spoke to others about his semiestranged offspring who couldn’t golf worth a hill of beans.
    I learned that Delores was a frequent customer at my father’s restaurant, Scotland Yards. She’d mentioned recently to London that she was looking for a new hobby to fill her free time. He casually suggested she take up golf, and that’s exactly what she did. After brief introductions, Delores explained that she was setting aside time every Saturday to come to the driving range for practice. She wanted at least a month or two of hitting balls on the range before venturing alone onto the fairways.
    “Alone?” asked my father as we walked together back toward the driving range and parking lot. “You should find somebody to play with who can show you the ropes.”
    “Oh, don’t you worry.” She beamed. “When I’m ready to play with someone, London, you’re on the top of my list.”
    “Oh,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean me. I only thought—”
    “I know what you meant. But you’re still on the top of my list.” It was obvious that she was flirting with London, but he didn’t flirt back. Instead, he quickly said good-bye and took off to put his clubs away. Delores giggled like a schoolgirl as she watched him leave, and then she returned to the driving range to hit more range balls.
    With Delores gone, London suggested we go inside the clubhouse for a quick bite. I objected at