Once Upon a Tee Time
Chapter 11

On Friday afternoon, Herman Winston sat in his Eagle Optics office with an ear to the phone. “Okay, okay,” Herman barked at his attorney, “but I want to know more about this Sherman MacPherson company. If they’re so hot for Zimmer’s lens, why can’t they write a check now?”

Herman looked at the calendar on his desk, counting the days until the first of December. “That’s thirty-two more days. They could change their mind.”

He tapped out a tune on the armrest while his attorney talked. Lawyers never got to the point in a hurry, not at two hundred and fifty an hour. Herman wondered how much $15,000,000 would earn in interest each day. That’s what he’d be losing every day for the next month! Then again, that was the very point. Sherman MacPherson wasn’t going to part with their money early for the very same reason.

“Well, stay on top of it,” Herman ordered. “I don’t want them spitting the hook at the last minute.” Martha buzzed him from her reception desk outside his door. The next appointment had arrived.

Mark Roarke, Herman’s Marketing Director, entered and handed him a single sheet of paper. The boss preferred information in summary form. Standing in front of Herman’s desk, he noted how clean the office was, and how empty. No papers on the desk, no file cabinets, not even an in-basket. A far cry from his own. Running the sales department by himself was no picnic. Herman had made him release his assistant as part of the budget-trimming process.

Roarke said, “That’s the value of Eagle Optics in today’s market, based on last year’s revenue.”

Herman’s eyes darted straight to the bottom of the page. $17 million. Hell, he was getting almost that from Zimmer.

“Of course,” his director added, “that number is low given the turn of events.”

“Go on,” Herman said. “I’m listening.”

“This whole Jingles thing has rocked our world, at least temporarily. Our orders are up two hundred percent this week.”

Herman grinned. The stars had fallen into perfect alignment. “Tell Martha to put Jingles Plumlee on our Christmas card list, okay?”

Roarke shrugged. “We’ve had to turn away eighty-four percent of the added business. We can’t deliver in reasonable time parameters. And that’s despite offering overtime to all our operators.”

Herman’s grin disappeared.

“Manufacturing says you have a couple options. You can either hire enough technicians to kick out lenses in three shifts, twenty-four-seven, or you can subcontract with other manufacturers to handle our excess and ship under our brand name. The problem with hiring more technicians is that it might take a month or two for recruitment, screening, hiring and training. Personnel would need some new positions to do all that, which would require time too. In the meantime, we’d be losing out on a unique opportunity to expand our customer base. Doctors will stop sending us orders when they know we can’t fill them at once. A lot of them know that right now. By the time we gear up to meet today’s volume of orders, it could be gone. Therefore, option one is problematic.”

Herman slapped his desk. “Not problematic! Out of the damn question! I’m looking to get out of this business, not deeper into it. I’d like to walk away right now.”

“Which brings us to option two,” Roarke said. “We could contract out our excess. The problem there is that our margin would shrink and we’d lack quality control.”

Herman pounded the desk again. “Proceed with that immediately. It’ll increase our income and keep our customer base growing while we exercise our third option.”

Roarke blinked. “Our third option?”

Herman shook his head. Why did he have to do all the thinking? “Sell the company right now! We’re riding a wave. Everyone knows we put the eyes on Plumlee. Get word out to the majors about our volume of orders. Tell them Eagle Optics is on the auction block. Give them all the information they need and invite them to tour our facility.”

Roarke considered Herman’s request. “You’d need to have Jingles under an exclusive promotional contract.”

Herman glared. “Why should I have to do that? You just said business is rolling in like crazy. I didn’t have to spend a nickel.”

“We’ve had a knee-jerk reaction to favorable word of mouth. What’s to stop one of the majors from signing Jingles to promote their lenses? I’ll bet some of them are talking about it right now.”

“But he’s wearing our lenses! We don’t have to pay him to publicize that fact. The newspaper already did it.”

“Sure,” Roarke replied, “he’s wearing ours today. He could be wearing another company’s lenses on Monday and we couldn’t stop him.”

“Sounds like risky business to me. Hitching my wagon to a seventy-year-old horse seems foolish, especially one that walks around like it threw a shoe. Personally, I think he’s a flash in the pan. The old bastard’s making every putt right now.”

The director shook his head. Herman’s notorious frugality could cost him plenty. “I got an e-mail from the AOA today. They’re contacting all the members to gauge interest in signing Jingles to a nationwide promotional deal.”

Herman made a sour face. He had no regard for the American Optometric Association. They’d been sucking dues out of him for too long.

“The point is, if you really want to piggyback on Jingles, you need to act quickly,” Roarke continued. “He could turn out to be an invaluable asset. Your brand could go through the roof. One of the majors might buy you out for two or three times the price you’re looking at now.”

“Okay,” Herman said, looking at his watch. He had a tee time in an hour. “Here are your marching orders. Call the attorney and have him draft a contract for Plumlee. I want it simple and irresistible, something he would sign at a glance. I want him to give us exclusive marketing rights for say, the next ten years. He’ll wear only our optics.”

Roarke took notes. “And how much do you want to pay him?”

Herman took a deep breath. “Want to? Not a damn penny. If you’re certain I can sell out if we get his signature, offer him a hundred thousand.”

Roarke nodded. “And what’s his scope of responsibilities?”

“Have him wear a stupid hat with our name on it. I don’t care. The only thing that matters is that he keeps wearing our lenses.”

Roarke smiled and turned to leave. “Hold on there,” Herman said. “I want you to send out the message that we’re up for bid. Do it right away. Make sure everyone understands we have an exclusive contract with Plumlee.”

“But we don’t …”

The owner winked at Roarke. “They don’t know that. They’ll leave Plumlee alone for the moment. Meet me here Monday morning at nine. Show me a contract with Plumlee’s signature on it. I’ll leave a check with Martha before I leave.”

The Marketing Director hurried out the door. So much for his weekend plans.

On Sunday morning, Jingles sat at his kitchen table, perusing a story in the Sun. The headline read: Jingles Takes on Sunland Today. Just plain Jingles. One name. A name that still seemed foreign. He seemed to be reading about someone else.

The day’s schedule called for lunch with Oliver near Sunland at 12:30. Tee time was an hour after that. In the meantime, Pat and he would attend a church service.

The conditions at Sunland had improved, allowing him to feel more optimistic about his prospects. With the soft greens, he could target the flags with his approaches. The fairways were rock hard, adding distance to his tee shots.

Jingles checked on Pat in the bedroom. Selecting suitable attire for both church and the golf course was proving to be a problem for her. Not for him. He could remove a sport jacket, change shoes, and walk to the tee.

With a few minutes to kill, he decided to putt on his living room green. The bubble lens was in the bathroom. Standing over the sink, he was lifting the lens to his right eye when Pat entered and bumped him. The lens dropped from his fingertip into the sink below, where it slid toward the open drain. Reaching for the sliding lens with his left hand, he scrambled to close the drain with his right. He accidentally turned on the cold water instead. Like a cup swallowing one of his putts, the hole in the sink swallowed the lens. He stared down in disbelief. It all happened in a second.

When he turned off the rush of water, a horrible thought struck him. Without the flood to sweep it away, he could have retrieved the lens from the elbow trap beneath the sink. He had sealed its fate himself, flushed it right down the drain.

Jingles looked from the sink to the ceiling. Dear God, he thought, is this what you had in mind for me? Some kind of test? You want to see what I’m going to do now?

He turned to Pat, who was staring at him. “Don’t panic,” he said breathlessly, more to himself than his wife. “I just lost my contact lens down the drain!”

He stumbled from the bathroom, clutching his chest, hoping that might keep his heart from bursting. The bedroom seemed to spin around him. What should he do? He thought of Oliver and how he hated to disappoint him. Pat still had the check. They could return it. How about the new convertible that made Pat giggle like a little girl when she drove it? They could return the keys to Larry Weinstein. And how about the sheer wonder of playing great golf? He would miss that the most.

Then he saw faces. Knickers, Mulligan, and Harvey. They were smiling at his misfortune. Those devils! They had their old Ray back, or thought they did. He had no desire to step on a golf course again. Not without that lens.

His mind jumped to Sunland. Thousands of people would be there in a couple of hours, no getting around that. He couldn’t run or hide. He’d have to play a last round of his life and do the best he could. He put his other right contact on his eye, dropping it twice in the process.

He rushed past Pat, who had been watching him wordlessly, and headed for the garage. “I can’t go to church. I have to practice putting without the lens. Pick me up at the practice green when it’s time to meet Oliver.”

He couldn’t bear to look back at his wife. How painful would that be? With one clumsy act, he had ruined everything. After showing Pat a glimpse of glory, he had snuffed out the lights.

In the garage, he opened the trunk of the Cadillac, which had pushed the Lincoln outside to the driveway. After taking his putter and some balls from his bag, he drove Birdie Chaser toward the practice area.

During the six-block drive, a handful of walkers greeted him with exaggerated smiles and waves. Even Speed Bump stopped and waited for him to pull over. Jingles saw none of them. He was trying to gauge the extent of his forthcoming humiliation.

The bubble lens shaved twelve to fourteen strokes from his scores. That was basically how many extra putts the old Ray needed to replace the cups. On the other hand, his regular contacts might be of some value. He hadn’t even tried putting with them. What kind of score could he produce at Sunland? Was par 72 within reach? Maybe if he focused and stopped feeling sorry for himself.

Then the cloud of reality settled over him. In the Phoenix area alone, there were probably a hundred golfers his age that could shoot par on a course like Sunland. Maybe even his competitors today. He could see tomorrow’s headlines: Jingles Returns to Earth; Jingles Bungles; Jingles Proves He’s Only Human. He had to summon the strength to deal with it.

As soon as he stepped on the practice green, spectators seemed to sprout from the ground. There were three, then five, and then ten before he attempted a single putt. His left eye wanted to close out of habit. Pinger felt heavy and awkward. His fingers were hopping around on the grip. Impending doom seized his entire body. He couldn’t think, couldn’t stop shaking. Dropping Pinger, he collapsed beside the green and tried to calm himself.

Accidents happened. Wasn’t the creation of the lens itself an accident? His receiving it was yet another. The final accident was the last chapter of what had been an improbable story from the beginning.

One of his first thoughts after losing the lens returned: He couldn’t run or hide. Why not? Why not call in sick like many of his employees had done over the years? In this case, there would be no deception at all. He was sick! He never felt so damn sick.

As he continued to ponder, to suffer, the right answer came forward. Honesty was the best policy. He would tell Oliver the entire story of the lens and let him decide how to handle it. After all, the exhibition was the bank’s investment. The reputation of Phoenix City Bank was at stake. Unfortunately, knowing the right thing to do didn’t make it any more palatable. A beautiful day had turned into the ugliest ever.

A car horn sounded. He looked up and saw Pat in the convertible. She got out of the car, walked part way to the green, and called to him. “C’mon! We’re going to church. You need church more than practice right now.”

The clock on the wall at Hog Heaven, a diner minutes from Sunland, displayed a time of 12:10. Oliver sat alone in a booth, reading about Jingles and the forthcoming exhibition in the paper. He felt comfortable with the organization. Eighteen branch managers “volunteered” their Sunday afternoon time with minimal protest. They were supervising dozens of resident helpers.

Sunland’s spokespeople initially agreed that attendance would be limited to community residents. Outsiders could enter only with passes distributed by Oliver himself. Yesterday, however, he reluctantly approved Sunland’s request to sell a thousand additional tickets to the public, with the proceeds supporting the community library. They assured him that parking wouldn’t be a problem.

The number of requests for media passes surprised him. All the local television stations would be represented as well as newspapers from around the state. National publications Golf Digest and Golf World had writers coming. Best of all, ESPN assigned a crew to cover the exhibition. Phoenix City Bank was in store for a major shot of publicity, not just the grassroots promotion he anticipated. The novelty of the old golfer’s sudden mastery of the game was too unusual to resist.

One thing was certain. The decision to utilize Jingles was already profitable. The bank opened over three hundred new accounts on Friday alone. On an average day, the bank picked up fifty-four new accounts and closed a slightly smaller number. His board would be impressed at their meeting on Thursday.

Oliver saw a new silver Cadillac pull into the parking lot. His star had arrived. Unfortunately, Jingles didn’t look like his normal cheerful self walking up to the booth. Were those tears in his eyes? Had he been crying?

“Oliver, I have to tell you,” Jingles said brokenly, “we can never thank you enough for what you’ve done. When Larry said that car was ours to keep, we couldn’t believe it. Pat loves it.”

And I love her, Jingles thought. After picking him up at the practice green, she’d said, “You need church more than practice so you can give thanks for your wonderful wife. I got a pipe wrench from the garage, opened the trap under the sink, and got your precious contact lens back. It was stuck in a wad of my hair. I always dye it at that sink.”

Jingles had held an arm around his wife throughout the church service. In the diner, he clasped her knee beneath the table.

While the Plumlees enjoyed hotcakes, Oliver talked about the headline in the morning paper. He made the same observation that Jingles had. “You know you’re a star when you’re referred to by a single name. Soccer had Pele. Basketball had Magic. Baseball had Babe. Now golf has Jingles, another one name wonder!”

Pat opened her purse. “I almost forgot, Oliver. We got this letter in the mail and had two interesting calls.” She handed him the letter.

“Nice,” the banker exclaimed. “Ping Golf! They’re interested in having you endorse their clubs, Jingles!”

Pat asked, “Could you talk to them for us, Oliver?”

Jingles shrugged apologetically. He hated to put his sponsor to any more trouble.

Oliver said, “I’d be happy to. I play Pings myself. Did you notice that, Jingles?”

The old golfer fibbed, “I did.” And lied again, “You hit them really well!”

“What else do you have?” Oliver asked.

“Two names and phone numbers that I wrote down.” She handed another paper across the table. “They both want to talk about endorsements too. One is the company that made my husband’s contacts. The other is the America Optometry Association, something like that.”

Very interesting, Oliver thought, looking at the notes. “Herman Winston, the owner of Eagle Optics, is a member at Desert Springs. I think I saw him at the course on Wednesday. I e-mailed AOA two passes for the golf today.” Oliver tucked the papers into a rear pocket. “I’ll call them tomorrow and let you know what’s cooking. Speaking of which, we all better get cooking. It’s getting close to tee time.”

Taking the lead in his car, Oliver pulled out for the five-minute drive to the course. Two parking places were reserved beside the clubhouse. Half a mile from the entrance to Sunland, the cars stopped in a line of traffic. Oliver got a bad feeling.

Ten minutes from the scheduled start, they were still nowhere near the gate. Oliver made an executive decision. He pulled off the road and motioned for Jingles to do the same.

“Open your trunk,” Oliver ordered. “We’ll grab everything you need. I called for a cart to pick us up.”

A cloud of dust on the berm ahead grew larger, and a golf cart emerged from it. Jane Friend sat at the wheel. She smiled as Pat and Jingles climbed in beside her and Oliver jumped on the back.

A minute later, they whirred past the barrier at the entrance, where a red-faced gatekeeper confronted a group of angry people who were trying to enter. Jane glanced back at Oliver. “Poor planning makes for great television. A crazy reality show is what we have here. Are you the man I should be thanking?”

Oliver ignored the commentary, so Jane added, “Well, I guess it’s clear that you are! From what I hear, lots of residents invited company to come yesterday and spend the night.”

Inside, every driveway was crowded with cars. More parked on both sides of the street, leaving only a single lane in the center. Jane drove on the sidewalk to get by.

The newscaster looked back at her sponsor again. “I’m hearing that seven thousand people are milling around the course. You estimated three, so I guess you were almost half right.”

Jingles whispered to his wife, “Jane’s riding poor Oliver like a rented mule.”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “You’d think the two were married.”

Oliver was in no mood for criticism, good natured or not. Communication had broken down and the buck stopped with him. Keeping the bank’s cost to a minimum had seemed prudent. How was he to know that Jingles would attract so much interest? He vowed to hire a PR firm to take care of the exhibitions going forward, if he survived this one.

The crowd recognized Jane and Jingles as the cart approached the first tee. Word of their arrival spread quickly, and the noise grew in volume. The gallery lined both sides of the entire first fairway.

The scheduled competitors were waiting anxiously. Howard Spencer, 65, was a former butcher from New Jersey and the current Sunland Club Champion. Sam Shumway, 53, had been the club pro for sixteen years.

Jane elbowed Oliver and pointed to another man by the tee. Slim Jim Gerken, Arizona’s senior U.S. Senator, stood waving to the gathering. To Oliver’s dismay, he held a driver in his hand. Was he hoping to use it?

The bank president walked over and shook hands with the 24-year DC veteran. “You’re looking well, Senator. Did you come to watch Jingles play?”

“Hell, no,” Gerken laughed. “I’m here to help promote your bank, Oliver. I heard there was only a threesome, so I dumped everything else on my schedule.” The senator continued to nod and tip his cap. Seniors visited the polls in greater numbers than any other age group. And the election was Tuesday.

Oliver didn’t care much for the senator personally. He didn’t like his politics at all. Most importantly, he didn’t want a novice to detract from the exhibition. However, Gerken was influential in the Senate and had friends on the Phoenix City Bank board. “Enjoy your round, Senator, and try not to hurt anybody.” Oliver laughed as if he were kidding.

After the scorekeeper added Gerken’s name to the scoreboard, Oliver took the microphone for the small audio system. “Welcome residents of Sunland, and your many, many ... many, many, many guests!”

Half the crowd heard his words from the speakers and applauded the humor. Oliver glanced at Jane and bounced his eyebrows a few times. She laughed and shook her head.

“Phoenix City Bank, the premiere caretaker of retirement savings throughout the State of Arizona, is delighted to bring you this day of golf. First up is a special guest, the Honorable U.S. Senator Jim Gerken!” One of the senator’s staff had slipped Oliver a card with a long introduction, but he kept it in his pocket. Simply allowing the politician to play was enough ass-kissing for one day.

Jane leaned to Oliver and whispered, “Crashing our party wasn’t very honorable of him.”

He whispered back, “Don’t give him any air time.”

The senator addressed his ball and Oliver expected the worst; he had played with Gerken at Desert Springs. Senator Gerken didn’t surprise him. He sliced his drive toward spectators to the right of the fairway. The ball hit an elderly man’s metal walker and bounced back into the fairway. After initial gasps, everyone laughed at the outcome. Everyone except Oliver. The last thing he wanted was an injured spectator. He hadn’t even considered the liability issue. More poor planning. Then again, he hadn’t planned to entertain the senator either.

Oliver next introduced Howard Spencer and Sam Shumway. Both hit lengthy drives down a fairway that was as hard as pavement. The club pro’s ball rolled to within fifty yards of the green, teasing that it might be a competitive match.

For Jingles’ introduction, Jane took over the microphone. “Has anyone here heard of Jingles?” she shouted. At the sound of her familiar voice, the real cheering commenced.

She cupped a hand by her ear and yelled louder. “Has anybody heard of Jingles?”

A chant of “Jingles” began. Some held up signs like they’d seen on television, waving them above their heads.

Pat nudged her husband. “It’s a high school pep rally! Only thing missing is a band.”

Oliver stood in awe. The reaction to the news anchor was incredible. People looked at her like a puppy - the cutest, sweetest thing ever. He saw a puppy too, but knew the breeding was special. She had the intelligence of a German shepherd, the energy of a retriever, and the tenacity of a Rottweiler, rolled into one. If she could ever be collared, he’d want her tag to read: Return to Phoenix City Bank.

Jingles took the tee, taking casual practice swings, waiting for the spectators to quiet down. As the chant continued, he understood their enthusiasm. It wasn’t him, the individual, they saluted, but what he represented. He was defying Father Time, living their dream. Age robbed most of beauty, strength, and alertness, but older people could still achieve. The seniors were cheering for themselves.

Reflecting on the bubble lens, he vowed to make the most of the day. Pat the Plumber had given him a second look at life the way he wanted to see it. The firm fairways represented opportunity. He had made half a dozen eagles on par-fives over three practice rounds. Six eagles for a golfer who had never made one! The greens had improved. He could put up a very low number. He knew it. His mind turned the people into shrubbery, tuned out all the noise. His body swung the club as it always did. With countless yards of roll, the Titleist stopped only a hundred yards shy of the green.

Oliver ushered him to a cart sporting a large Phoenix City Bank sign on the roof. A Weinstein Cadillac sign on the back both surprised and pleased him.

While waiting for Senator Gerken to play his second shot, and then his third, Jingles mused about his friends in the Dominican Republic. Were they playing golf right now? Probably not. They would have played in the morning. What time was it in that part of the world? Probably three or four hours later. Were they talking about him and the bubble lens?

On what would be a day of broken records, the first to fall was the length of time to play nine holes. Had it ever taken a foursome three hours? Anywhere? The golfers waited forever on each tee as the crowd settled around the fairways. Senator Gerken’s play contributed to the problem. His cart followed a connect-the-dots pattern that had far too many dots.

The event caught a major break on the tenth tee. The senator informed the group that he was leaving. Play was running longer than anticipated and he had a dinner engagement. Gerken got his first ovation when he waved farewell and drove off. Oliver was so pleased that he decided to vote for him on Election Day.

Looking at the mobile scoreboard, the banker thought about running for the U.S. Senate himself. If the election were today, and he had Jingles’ endorsement, he’d win in a landslide. The scorecard read: Shumway -2; Spencer -1; Jingles -9; and Gerken +17.

Even Jingles was surprised. Had anyone ever played nine holes in nine-under? Harvey would surely know. In any case, Jingles knew he had been both good and lucky. The two par-fives were the key. He reached both in two, one with a five-wood, the other with an iron. Two eagles! The first came courtesy of the approach itself, which left only an eighteen-footer. The other came off a sixty-footer from the fringe, the longest putt he faced. Two eagles. Five birds. Two pars. One excellent front nine.

Oliver was thinking ahead to the frenzy that might follow the round. Thinking ahead. He hadn’t done that adequately so far. The crowd needed to be controlled. A full-scale press conference would be in order. Where could that take place? He needed to get back to the clubhouse to start arrangements.

He noticed Larry Weinstein in the crowd, handing out business cards. Oliver tapped him on the shoulder. “Larry, would you be interested in driving Jingles around the back nine?”

The car salesman ripped the cowboy hat from his head and slapped his own ass with it. “You serious? If he lets me do that, I’ll write a check for that forty thousand option right now!”

Oliver grinned at Jingles’ good fortune. “It’s a deal, cowpoke. Just obey the speed limit.”

Jingles gladly pocketed the check, but things were different with Larry at the wheel. He raced the other carts to the tenth green so he could arrive first and tend the pin. He made a huge show of walking to center stage and greeting the encircling gallery. When Sam Shumway noticed that Larry’s boot heels were carving up the putting surface, he ordered him off the short grass.

Jingles assumed Larry’s behavior must be a car dealer kind of thing. Mulligan acted much the same way in the limelight. Personally, he didn’t care what Larry did. Pat had been worried about the taxes on the new car. He could hardly wait to see her face when she saw the giant check. He’d call it her replaceer’s fee.

Over the final holes, Jingles wasn’t quite as good or fortunate. Still, he couldn’t sneeze at six birdies without a single bogey. For a great grandpa, a score of 57 was an eye-popper on any course.

After his final putt, Jane rushed to protect him from the onrushing horde. She led him to his cart for the short drive to Sunland’s fenced-in tennis courts, which were set up for the press gathering.

Larry Weinstein, now a true celebrity, stayed behind to distribute more business cards. He wrote $1,500 on the back of each, along with his initials. Holders could get a special reduction on the price of a Cadillac: $100 for each stroke under par.

Jingles watched Jane drive through foot traffic, steering with her left hand while patting his head with the right. Her attention evoked memory of his beloved dog Tilly. Whenever the Labrador retriever fetched a downed mallard or goose, he had praised her in the same way. Jingles knew that if he had a tail, it would surely be wagging.

Jane said, “I’m going to your old home in Alaska. I’ll be leaving right after tomorrow night’s show. Do you think Pat would like to come with me?”

After the front nine, Jane had decided that a half-hour special on Jingles was in order. She’d focus on his background before retiring to Arizona, the story behind the man. The idea was only an hour old, but she always moved quickly. A replacement would anchor Newswatch during her three-day absence.

“Can I go too?” Jingles asked.

“Dream on,” she winked. “The bank has plans for you. You have to get ready for Raven’s Nest next Saturday.”

“I’m guessing Pat would love to go with you. We haven’t been up there in over a year.”

Jane nodded happily. Pat would open doors to all the interviews she needed. Her producer was already trying to locate a film crew out of Anchorage.

“There she is!” Jingles said, pointing to his wife inside the tennis enclosure. “We’ll ask her right now.”

Jane counted over twenty media people in line at the gate. In addition to a crew from ESPN, there were writers from USA Today, the Associated Press, and national golf publications. The rest were from media around the state. The Jingles story would be very competitive going forward. Hopefully, she’d be the first to chase it to Alaska.

Pat was delighted with the prospect of the trip, but reluctant to leave her husband alone. Oliver clinched the deal by inviting Jingles to be his houseguest while she was gone. He’d have a golf course in the backyard.