Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik Page B

your right, from wearing a glove. Ironed trousers, instead of wrinkled khakis. You’re not a pro—I’d know you, if you were—but you’re a player. Let me guess: You won last year’s Mid-Am?”
    â€œNo. Publinx.”
    â€œCongratulations. First Masters, right?”
    â€œRight. And last.”
    â€œYou don’t know that.”
    â€œLet’s just call it an educated guess.”
    â€œNow I know you’re a golfer. You’ve got that determined streak of pessimism.”
    Sam looked at the brunette as she took a sip of her drink. No doubt about it—she was gorgeous. Her thick dark hair, glinting in the afternoon sunlight that slanted through the grillroom window, was parted on the left and swept over to the right above her arched black eyebrows. Her flecked blue-green eyes seemed probing and serious, while her full lips and deep smile lines projected a sense of playfulness.
    Sam glanced at her left hand, not sure if it was his cop instinct or his libido that made him want to check out whether she was married. She wasn’t wearing a ring.
    He offered his hand and she took it with the kind of firm, full-palm grip he liked, but didn’t often receive, from a woman.
    â€œSam Skarda,” he said.
    â€œOh, I should have known,” she said, a wry smile cracking the corner of her mouth. “Caroline Rockingham.”
    Sam had no idea what to say next. He’d never seen a photo of Shane Rockingham’s wife, but he wasn’t surprised she was model-pretty.
    â€œShane talks about you,” she said. “You went to college together.”
    â€œWe played on the golf team together. I’m not sure Shane actually went to college.”
    â€œWhen you won your tournament last year, he said he’d always wondered what happened to you. So what happened to you?”
    â€œI became a cop,” Sam said.
    â€œNow, that I wouldn’t have guessed,” Caroline said, leaning back and looking him over again.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe I’m not used to seeing cops with golfer’s tans.”
    â€œI’ve been on a leave of absence for almost two years,” Sam said. “I got shot.”
    â€œWoah,” Caroline said, her forehead creasing. “Now that’s an occupational hazard. All Shane has to worry about is putting on enough sun block.”
    Caroline opened her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
    â€œOne thing I like about the South,” she said, lighting her cigarette and exhaling a cloud of smoke away from Sam. “Nobody ever tells you that you can’t smoke inside.”
    â€œWhat would you do if they did?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “Put it out, I guess. I’m not like Shane. I don’t like trouble in bars.”
    â€œHe does?”
    â€œDon’t all golfers get into trouble in bars?”
    â€œNot me,” Sam said. “Not usually, anyway.”
    â€œShane does. Even if they don’t know who he is. I think it’s his attitude.”
    â€œWhat attitude is that?”
    â€œOh, you know—‘I play golf for a living, and you probably drive a truck.’ That kind of thing.”
    â€œI don’t play for a living,” Sam said. “Maybe that’s why I don’t get in a lot of barroom brawls.”
    â€œI’ll bet you could break one up.”
    â€œI have.”
    She crossed her legs and leaned back with her right elbow propped on the arm of her chair, the cigarette up in the air. She looked at him with a mischievous smile.
    â€œSo you knew Shane in college,” she said. “What was he like then?”
    â€œCharming. Reckless. Arrogant. Fun.”
    â€œHe hasn’t changed,” Caroline said.
    â€œI know,” Sam said. “We played a practice round together this morning.”
    â€œOh, really,” she said, surprised. “Did my name come