"Oh Jesus," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "Here we go with the soulmate stuff again."
"Shut up," she said, slapping at his shoulder. "Soulmates exist. Sometimes people just don't know when they're looking at one."
"Have you found your soulmate?" Jake asked her, knowing it was an intensely personal question but interested in what her answer would be.
She looked at Greg who was looking at her, also curious about how she would answer. "I don't know," she finally said. "I like to think I have. I love Greg and I know he loves me. We're compatible with each other and we like the same things but I'm not sure that alone is what makes a soulmate. Sometimes, I think, it takes awhile for you to realize that you've found your soulmate."
"And does the reverse apply as well?" Greg asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Does it sometimes take awhile to realize that someone is not your soulmate?"
"I suppose it does," she said.
"And what happens when you've been married for five years and you suddenly realize this person is not your soulmate?" Greg asked.
"Or," said Jake, "when you've been married five years and you suddenly meet the person who is your soulmate?"
She smiled. "Interesting questions," she said. "And there is no correct answer. What any individual person would do in either of those circumstances is as varied as human personalities themselves. But I do believe one thing with all my heart."
"And that is?" Greg asked.
"Finding one's soulmate is very rare. I wouldn't think that more than one out of every hundred couples in this society are what I would define as soulmates. When such a thing occurs it should be cherished above everything else."
There was silence on the table as everyone pondered that thought. Finally Greg swallowed up the rest of his beer. "Well then," he said. "How about we go hit that back nine now? I got some money I need to win from Mr. Kingsley here."
"Let's do it," Jake agreed, finishing off his own beer.
They went back out to their carts and drove to the tenth hole. As they pulled up and walked up to the tee Greg pulled out two more cigars and prepped them. As he and Jake lit up Greg said, "You seem to be on your game now, Jake. Would you care to double the stakes for the back nine?"
"Double just for the back nine or for the entire eighteen?" Jake asked.
"Just for the back," Greg said. "I'm up a hole on you for the whole eighteen so it would hardly be fair to double that stake."
Jake thought it over and then smiled. "It sounds like a bet, Greg," he told him. "I believe I still have the honors?"
"I believe you do," Greg said.
Jake stayed on his game, helped along by the pressure he was being put under. Greg, on the other hand, seemed to be hindered by the pressure. Jake won number ten with a par. They pushed number eleven, another easy par three. Number twelve was a long par five and Jake was on the green in four and sank an eight foot putt for par, which, when coupled with stroke he got on the hole was enough to take the win. The thirteenth hole was the number two handicap but it turned out that Jake didn't need the stroke he was entitled to. He put his second shot on the back of the green and then sank the forty-five foot birdie putt. This put him up six holes to four for the game and, more importantly, put him three holes up on Greg for the nine.
"Looks like the old automatic press just kicked in," he told Greg, who was no longer in such good humor.
"I guess so," Greg said sourly.
Jake and Greg both shot pars on fourteen and fifteen. Since number fifteen was a hole Jake got a stroke on he went up one more hole there. At this point it was no longer possible for Greg to win the back nine. Number sixteen was another long par five but Jake did not get a stroke there. He shot par on this hole as well. Greg put his third shot close and was putting for birdie. Had he made it he would have won the hole. He didn't make it. He tapped the putt too hard and it rolled in and out of the cup.
"Damn it all," Greg said, looking at the sky in frustration. He knew the significance of missing the putt. By not winning number sixteen it was no longer possible for him to win the eighteen. The best he could hope for at this point was to win the next two holes and tie for the eighteen and the press. No matter what else happened though, he would still owe Jake two thousand bucks for the back nine.
Number seventeen was the clincher hole. Greg had to win it in order to stay alive. The number four handicap hole, it was a 198-yard par three over a lake. Jake still had the honors so he teed up and hit the ball fat with his four iron. It plunked into the lake five feet from the opposite shore.
"I think you just opened the door for me," Greg said, stepping up to the tee with renewed confidence. He then blasted a near perfect shot that came to rest six feet from the pin.
Jake walked up to the drop area and put down another ball. He took a few practice swings with his six iron and then made his shot. He connected solidly and landed the ball eight feet from the pin.
"Nice recovery," Greg said, clapping him on the back as Celia dropped her own ball in the drop area.
Once on the green Celia three putted and took her six. Jake then walked up to his ball and examined the lay of the green for a few seconds. It appeared there would be a significant break to the right. He aimed twelve inches to the left of the cup and took the shot. The ball broke just as he'd anticipated and dribbled into the hole with a clunk.
"Bogey four," Jake said. "And I get a stroke on this hole. Looks like the pressure's back on you, Greg."
"Looks like it," Greg said, walking up to his ball. If he missed this putt he would lose not only the back nine but also the entire eighteen and the press. He spent the better part of three minutes examining the shot from every angle. Neither Jake nor Celia disturbed him. Finally he leaned over the ball and putted. It wasn't even close. The ball rolled to a stop more than a foot short of the cup.
Greg ground his teeth for a few moments while looking off toward the ocean in the distance. Finally he turned around and shook Jake's hand. "Good game," he told him. "You play well in the clenches."
"That's where I'm at my best," Jake replied.
They played out the eighteenth even though it was meaningless to the bets at this point. Jake and Greg both shot par while Celia sank a long putt for a bogey. They headed back to the bar and had a few more beers while Greg pulled out his checkbook and wrote Jake a check for five thousand dollars.
"It's those damn strokes I had to give you that cost me the game," Greg said as he handed it over. "Next time we play I'm only giving you seven."
"Deal," Jake said, putting the check in his wallet.
Soon they said their goodbyes and Jake headed back to his house. He stopped at a bank and deposited the check on the way. After a two-hour nap he showered, got dressed in his going-out clothes, and then went out to the Flamingo. Within an hour he found himself a tall brunette who was willing to do anything he wanted.
Chapter 7c
Jake and Helen boarded a DC-10 the next day for their trip to Omaha to pick up Jake's plane. Jake had booked them first class, a form of air travel that Helen, with more than two thousand hours of flight time, had never experienced before. She marveled over the plush seats and the attentive stewardesses but seemed a little nervous as the aircraft actually began to accelerate for it's take-off roll.
"Something wrong?" he asked her as he watched her fingers gripping the armrests.
"I hate flying in these things," she told him.
He raised his eyebrows a little. "But you're a pilot," he said.
"That's exactly why," she said. "I'm not in control of this aircraft and I have no way of taking control. How do I know what kind of idiot they have flying this thing? How do I know what kind of morons they have maintaining it? How do I know what dimwits they have staffing the air traffic control computers? All it takes is one little mistake by any number of people and we're all a bunch of body parts scattered over a mountainside."