Wayne drove the ball downrange. He immediately felt something wrong with his swing and, without looking up, scooped another ball onto his mat to try again. This time his performance met his standards and he tracked the shot, watching it arc up into the distance and then drop near the target placard he’d been aiming for. Allowing himself half of a celebratory exhalation, he lined up his next drive.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said somebody from behind him.
Wayne turned, annoyed, to face the discourteous speaker. It was a woman.
“But could you show me how to do that?” she continued.
Wayne evaluated her quickly. She was young and pretty, and her clothes and clubs suggested that she’d spent a good deal of money to be properly outfitted. Her nervous bearing, however, indicated that, although she might look the part, experience was severely lacking. He decided to forgive her error in etiquette.
“What’s your name?” he asked, before answering her question.
“Emma Conner,” she told him. “I’d like to learn,” she said. “The lady in the clubhouse told me that you occasionally taught lessons.”
“Did she, now?” said Wayne. “The lady behind the counter told you that?”
Emma nodded. She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
Wayne readjusted his hat. “She’s my wife,” he said.
“So, could you teach me?” Emma pressed. “I’m a quick learner.”
“I suppose,” Wayne agreed. “How about you set up in the box beside me, here, and try to hit a couple. I can take a look and see what we’re working with.”
She hurried to do so, while Wayne looked back towards the clubhouse. It was true that he’d once given lessons, but the last time had been ten years before. He wondered what his wife was up to with this suggestion.
“Ok, I’m ready,” said Emma excitedly, addressing the ball with an entirely incorrect stance.
Wayne returned his attention to her. “Go for it.”