Once Upon a Tee Time
Chapter 17

Martha Porter lived in a one-bedroom condo near Eagle Optics, her employer for the last eleven years. As a single woman in her fifties, without relatives in the area, she typically spent Thanksgivings alone. This one had been no different. She sewed a couple new outfits for her collection of Barbie dolls, watched a parade on television, and roasted a Cornish game hen for her special meal. She called it a Barbie turkey.

Martha disliked secretarial duties and abhorred her boss, but the paycheck always arrived on time. Her salary covered modest housing expenses, kept her 2005 Toyota Corolla running, and put food on the table for her - and on the floor for Cosmo, her cat.

The bonus promised by Mr. Winston, a year’s pay, would amount to $34,000 before taxes. Based on the agreement she signed, the bonus was due when the sale of the company was finalized. The extra money would go a long way toward securing her future, especially if she had to search for another job. Because of that, she had surprised herself by jotting down Karl Zimmer’s phone number before leaving the office yesterday.

She wondered how the Zimmers were spending the holiday. They couldn’t be happy. Her prayers that Karl would exercise his option had gone unheeded. The financial reward for his remarkable invention, the contact lenses that made Jingles Plumlee so famous, would go to Mr. Winston instead – and indirectly to her. Herman Winston: the man who had been turned into the devil by greed. She was determined not to let that happen to her.

“Well, Cosmo,” she said to her cat, which sported a stand-up hairdo like the Seinfeld character Kramer, “we’re not going to let money turn our heads, are we?”

She picked up her phone and punched in the number. Karl Zimmer was no longer registered at the hotel. Had he left a forwarding number? Yes.

When Karl answered, she recognized his accent. “This is Martha Porter from Eagle Optics.”

“Yes, Martha.”

“Where are you?” she asked out of curiosity.

“I’m in a taxi here in Phoenix, coming home from New York.”

“I know things aren’t going well for you. I heard about the cancellation of the option, and it’s partly my fault. Jingles got one of your lenses because of me.”

“Jingles? What’s Jingles?” Karl asked.

“It’s a who, not a what. I thought everyone knew that name.” She recapped the story of the old golfer and what transpired in Herman’s office over the last two weeks, recounting every detail.

“I’ll replace an attorney in the morning” Karl said. “Will you come with me to confirm all this?”

“Why?” Martha gasped. “I’d prefer to stay out of it. I thought you could tell Sherman McPherson and they’d proceed as planned.”

Zimmer sighed. “It’s not that simple. I don’t even know how to reach Mark Sherman. He might not even take my call. I need legal advice.”

“Why not talk to Jingles himself? He seems like a very nice man. Wouldn’t he want to know the truth about the lens he’s been using?”

“Do you know how to reach him?”

“Yes. I have two numbers you can try.”

Karl wrote down the information. “Martha, you have done the right thing. If this all works out, you will always have a job with me. And a much bigger bonus than the one Mr. Winston offered. Can I call on you for testimony if I need it?”

Martha drew a deep breath. “This is very uncomfortable for me. I’ve been at Eagle Optics for a long time. If you could just exercise your option by Monday, that would be best.”

In the back seat of the cab, Karl shared Martha’s revelations with his wife while typing Jingles on his iPhone. Sheisse! Page after page of search results!Endless pages! Jingles Plumlee was a major celebrity. If he played soccer instead of golf, Karl would have known all about him.

After arriving at his apartment, the inventor read about Plumlee for another half hour. Lots of talk about incredible putting. No mention of how he accomplished it. Interesting.

Karl called the first number Martha provided. “This is Quinn,” a voice answered.

“I’d like to speak with Jingles Plumlee, please. This is the man who made his contact lens.”

“You’re with Eagle Optics?” Quinn asked.

“Not any longer. I developed the telescopic lens and Eagle Optics is trying to steal it from me.”

“Holy shit,” Quinn whispered aloud. “What’s a telescopic lens? What are you talking about?”

“I should probably speak to Mr. Plumlee personally.”

“This is Mitchell Quinn, his agent. I represent Jingles on all matters. Please, explain about this lens.”

Glad to replace an open ear, Karl launched into his story. With a flood of questions to answer, he was on the phone for an hour.

Quinn finally said, “Your problems are over, Mr. Zimmer. If this stays between you and me, I can guarantee it. How fast can you get to the Phoenix airport?”

“Twenty-five to thirty minutes.”

“There’s a nine-twenty flight from Phoenix to LA on United. I’ll book your seat and have a car pick you up at baggage claim. Look for your name on a sign.”

“My wife can drive me to the airport.”

“Good. Can you e-mail a copy of your full report before you leave?”

“Just give me an address.”

Gillian was waiting for the Plumlees at the Los Angeles airport on Friday morning. They arrived in the company of two other passengers.

Jingles rushed ahead of the others and whispered, “I’m anxious to hear what Mr. Quinn said about my lens, but we need to talk about that in private.”

She nodded. “Haven’t heard a word from him yet.”

Pat introduced the Greens, who made an immediate fuss over the Olympian, just as she and Jingles had. “They’ll be traveling with us to Hawaii. I got tickets for them on our flight. We’ll need a couple more rooms because Oliver’s coming too. He’s going to caddy for Jingles.”

Gillian said, “I’m worried that all the hotels might be full. You can blame your husband for that.”

“You can always stay in our room,” Pat said to Lucy. “They usually have two beds.”

“And Oliver’s a big boy,” Jingles added. “He’ll figure something out.”

Gillian smiled. “If we can’t replace anything, we three girls can stay in my room while the men use the other. Our flight to Hawaii doesn’t leave for five hours, and Mr. Quinn has apparently cleared your schedule for the day. I thought there was a contract to sign, but I guess it can wait. What would you like to do? Visit Universal Studios? Take the Hollywood tour?”

“Universal Studios!” Lucy said. “That’s for me.” They all agreed.

“Will Oliver be on our flight?” Gillian asked.

Pat glanced at the agent, who had smiled at her first mention of the banker. Why the special interest in Oliver Pruh? Had she been missing something?

Jingles answered. “No. It’s a late flight for him. He had to work all day.”

Gillian frowned just enough to confirm Pat’s suspicion. She took Jingles aside. “I think there might be something going on between Oliver and Gillian!”

Jingles shook his head. “Naw, he’s old enough to be her father.”

“He is and he isn’t,” Pat whispered.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He is old enough, but he isn’t her father.”

The limo waited at the curb outside. Harvey and the ladies were all grins, but Jingles couldn’t crack one. Knickers’ words about riding like royalty had made an impression.

As they arranged themselves in the car, Jingles suggested that Pat sit with the Greens toward the front. He had business to discuss with Gillian. After taking a long walk by himself last night, one that led to Tom Klein’s bench, he had called her to share the full story of his lens. Hopefully, the agency could guide him in the right direction.

Jingles leaned close to Gillian. “Did you tell Mr. Quinn everything?”

“I called him last night, but only left a long message. He’s not taking calls this morning either. He’s been in a closed-door meeting.”

Jingles shrugged and shifted gears. “I can play for any charity on Sunday, right?”

She nodded. “Have you chosen one?”

“How hard is it to set up a nonprofit corporation for a new charity? How long does it take?”

“It can be done online. We have people at the office who can do that lickety-split.”

“That’s what I want to do,” he declared. “I’d like to set it up before the press conference tomorrow.” He took Harvey’s notes from his pocket. “Most of what you need should be right here.”

Gillian took the sheet. “No problem. The driver can drop me off at the office. I’ll call you if questions come up.”

Jingles tipped his head toward Harvey, who was staring out a window. “I’d like you to take him to the office with you. He understands what I want better than I do. There’ll be blanks to fill in, and he’s the man for the job. And show him all those client pictures on the wall. He’ll get a big kick out of that.”

Gillian’s phone sounded. “It’s Mr. Quinn!”

She listened, then put her hand over the phone. “Do you have that contact lens we talked about?”

“Right here,” Jingles replied, touching his right pants pocket.

“Mr. Quinn wants to have someone look at it. I’ll return it when we meet for the flight.”

Jingles handed her the little white case, surprised by how readily he let it go. He pointed to the compartment with the R.

“I have it,” Gillian said into the phone. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

After two months in hotels, Karl Zimmer hoped Friday night had been the last. Although he would have enjoyed talking to this Jingles himself, hearing firsthand about his adventure with accentuated vision, he had at least examined the lens that made the old golfer famous. It was indeed one of his own. Mitchell Quinn referred to that confirmation as the final piece of the puzzle.

Leaving the hotel lobby for the short walk to Quinn’s building, Karl looked out on a bright Saturday morning and slipped on new designer sunglasses. Across the street, a beautiful fraulein stepped out of a taxi, all long legs and five-inch heels. She appeared to have a mark or scar above her right ankle. Closing his left eye and opening the right, Karl read a scripted tattoo: Shelly. Lovely name for a lovely lady.

On the ninth floor, a receptionist led Karl to an office where he spent most of the previous day and the entire night before that. Mr. Quinn, who had been sitting at his computer, rose immediately. Crossing the room to a couch, he sat and patted the neighboring cushion, inviting Karl to join him. “Well, Mr. Zimmer, it’s time for a decision on how I can best help you. Obviously, you have a solid case against Eagle Optics. However, the owner has a lot to lose and will spend big money defending himself, so you’ll need a deep pocket too.”

Karl nodded. Mr. Winston would pay for his treachery.

“Here’s what I can do,” Quinn continued. “I’ll buy your option from you for ten million dollars. I’m willing to risk that much because I believe in what you’ve done.”

Where was the risk? Karl wondered. Jingles Plumlee had shown everyone that the lens was both valuable and viable.

The deeply-tanned face smiled at him. “You can then go ahead and sue Eagle Optics. Who knows? You might end up owning the whole company.”

Karl shook his head vigorously. “Was ist das? Why would I want Eagle Optics if I didn’t own the lens? You would own it!”

“That’s true,” Quinn nodded, “but you don’t own anything now. The clock is ticking. Ten million is a lot of money.”

Karl glared at Quinn as he stood, moved to his desk, and gathered some papers. Did this man see him as ein dummkopf, a total fool? The lens was far more valuable than any damages a court might award, far more valuable than Eagle Optics itself.

Opening his right eye, Karl looked past Quinn to his computer screen. From fifteen feet, he could see every word clearly. The email was from ChinaLink, the massive conglomerate with a hand in nearly every aspect of Chinese life.

Quinn returned with a contract, spread it out on the coffee table, and started to review it. Karl leaned back on the couch, laced his fingers behind his head, and pretended to listen as he read the message. “Our research team has reviewed your report on the Jingles Lens. Your request of $300,000,000 U.S. plus $5.00 U.S. royalty per lens is acceptable with one necessary provision. We require an exclusive thirty-day option period in which to examine and evaluate the actual product. In consideration of that exclusivity, we will forward a nonrefundable payment of $30,000,000 U.S. upon receipt of both a signed copy of the attached agreement and twenty of the lens prototypes from the listed inventory.”

“Scheisse!” Karl said aloud. No wonder Mr. Quinn didn’t mind putting his money at risk. China was a logical place to market the lens. Getting approval for production and distribution would be a snap over there, especially for ChinaLink. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself? This Quinn was smart and fast - in addition to being a liar. Why was everyone trying to cheat him? Was that how all business was conducted in America?

Based on the speed of the Chinese company’s offer, Karl assumed it was already familiar with his lens. ChinaLink probably got wind of it a month ago, when Mark Sherman paid six optical engineers to review his research. Each had signed a confidentiality agreement, but that was all just paper. People talked, especially when the subject was so intriguing, the potential so great. Thanks to Jingles, that potential had been put on public display. The old golfer was the reason for ChinaLink’s aggressive action. They wanted the “Jingles Lens.”

Karl stood abruptly, stopping Quinn in mid-sentence. “I need some changes to that contract. You’ll loan me fifteen million to exercise my option. In return, you’ll double your money within a week. That’s my last and only offer.”

Quinn’s tan faded instantly. “What are you talking about? How could you guarantee that?”

Karl pointed to the computer screen. “Why don’t you read your e-mail? You’ll see there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll give you the entire deposit from ChinaLink, the thirty million. You should be rewarded for the royalty idea.”

Quinn looked from the computer to where Karl was standing. Back and forth.

Karl enjoyed the man’s confusion for a moment, then lifted his sunglasses and squinted at him. “Never underestimate the power of my lens. Have a copy of our revised personal agreement sent over to the hotel right away. Direct ChinaLink to put my name on their purchase agreement and include that. I’ll review it all and get back to you.”

“Let’s negotiate this,” Quinn pleaded.

“Would you prefer that I contact ChinaLink myself? I’m sure they’ll cover my option payment. Your participation is convenient, not necessary.”

Quinn nodded and collapsed on the couch. “I’ll do what you asked.”

Karl headed for the door, then stopped and turned. “Were you acting on Jingles’ behalf? Did you tell him I made his lens?”

The agent shook his head. “Like I told you, he thinks it’s a factory defect. An old optometrist told him that and he believes it.”

Karl instantly revised his plans for the weekend. Jingles was playing golf in Hawaii tomorrow, and he was hearing the call of the islands. “Try to get the paperwork to me before noon, Mr. Quinn. Like you said, the clock is ticking.”

From his balcony at the Hapuna Beach Prince Hotel, Jingles looked down at the parking lot three stories below. Pat thought his stardom should have merited an ocean view, but that was the last thing on his mind. Gillian had returned his contact case and bubble lens. An accompanying note from Mitchell Quinn conveyed only good luck wishes, not a single word about the lens. After Gillian’s subsequent calls to Quinn went unanswered, Jingles decided to act on his own.

With the noon press conference only twenty minutes away, Pat, the Greens, Oliver, and Gillian were gathered in his room. He awaited only Jane Friend. Although she was part of the media, she was also part of the family now.

After a tap on the door, Jane entered. She looked radiant and sported an orchid in her hair. “What’s up?” she asked. “Doesn’t everybody have to get downstairs?”

Jingles summoned everyone to the balcony, where they crowded around him. “Do you see the red Lexus down there?” He pointed and everyone nodded. “Can any of you read the license plate number?”

“Are we supposed to guess?” Lucy asked. “No one can read it from here.”

“Four, seven, nine, C, four,” Jingles said. “Does anyone want to go down there and check?” When no one answered, he turned to check their faces. He saw only confusion.

“Okay, let’s go inside then,” he continued. “Oliver, will you take a dollar from your wallet and stand over there against the door?” The banker followed his directions.

“Now,” Jingles said, “does anyone here believe they have excellent vision?”

Jane answered first. “I’m sure I do. I just got a new prescription because of you.”

Jingles instructed Oliver to hold the bill against his chest, serial number showing. He asked Jane to walk toward the bill until she could read the number. From about five feet away, she announced, “I see an F and a one.” She extended her head slightly forward. “Seven, seven ...”

Standing at the foot of the bed, sixteen feet away, Jingles finished the serial number. “Four, seven, five, nine, zero, and the letter G. Is that right, Jane?” He had removed his sunglasses and stared through a single open eye.

With everyone staring at him, Jingles began his story. “As you can see, I have some kind of Superman vision through this one contact.” He removed the lens and handed it to Jane. “You can all look at it. It seems like any other lens, but it’s not.”

He brought his hands together, forming a circle with his fingers. “This is the size of a cup in a green. Through that contact lens, a cup looks like this!” He formed a shoulder-wide circle with his arms.

Jingles summarized receiving the lens, discovering the difference it made in his putting, and Sid Wexler’s explanation. “I saw it as just a weird thing that allowed me to focus better, to maximize my putting potential. To me, it was no different than having a scope on my rifle. But now, some of my friends have intervened. They helped me see the world better. I mean, how fair is a shooting contest if only one competitor has a scope? They think it breaks the code of fairness ... and now I agree. I’ll never use the lens again. I’m giving it back to Eagle Optics.”

Gillian interrupted to say they had to leave to meet the press. Jingles followed her out the door before anyone else said a word.

As the others filed out, Jane pulled Oliver aside. “What just happened here? Can you explain all this to me?”

“Not really. He must think that the lens gives him better vision than he’s entitled to.”

“Does that even make sense?” Jane asked, looking at the contact on the palm of her hand. “I mean, good for him that he can see so well. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Can I see it?” he asked.

Oliver removed his own soft lens and replaced it with Jingles’ hard contact. “Whoa! What the hell?”

“What do you see?” Jane asked anxiously.

“Hold on a second. It’s very blurry. I’m looking through a circle or something, but I can’t really tell what I’m looking at ... his prescription’s very different than mine.” He removed the lens and wrapped it in a tissue from a box on the dresser. “I’m going to hold on to this, okay? I’ll talk to Jingles about it later. I’ll have him to myself for a few hours during his practice round.”

The magnificent hotel on the Kohala Coast of Hawaii’s Big Island was alive with activity, its ballroom packed. All 500 chairs in front of the podium were occupied, some by the media, the rest by resort guests. More spectators stood at the sides and the rear of the room. The only empty seats were the five on the stage, where two dozen TV cameras were aimed.

In the hall outside, Gillian provided last-minute coaching. “I’ll be right there in front of you, kneeling in the first row. Just talk to me and the people around me.”

“I’m not worried,” Jingles said. “I’ve had lots of practice by now. I know I’ve thrown a lot at you the last couple of days, but you’ve risen to every occasion. Thanks for everything.”

A side door to the ballroom opened. The host for the conference announced it was show time. The four golfers followed him to the speakers’ table, where they sat in their assigned seats. As the hot ticket, Jingles was scheduled to make opening remarks last.

The other competitors in the Senior Skins Game were Sam Sitton, 55, the Champions Tour leading money winner for two of his five years on the circuit, Earl “Scruffy” Welton, 51, a bearded giant who won two of the Tour’s major championships on the year, and George Blackwood, 50, who won the other two Senior majors. Each smiled through a flattering introduction and took the podium for several minutes. Their remarks followed the pattern that Gillian predicted. They expressed gratitude for the invitation, complimented the resort, expounded on the beauty of the course, and discussed the charities they chose to represent.

Only Scruffy Welton broke the mold. Rather than basically repeat the first two speakers, he mentioned the fabulous parties of the last few nights and demonstrated the hula that he learned at a luau. In a game dominated by serious-minded competitors, Scruffy had always been a crowd favorite.

Sitton was playing for breast cancer research and Blackwood championed the Kids Need to Read Foundation. Scruffy represented his own foundation, Welton for Youth Wellness. Over the last decade, the foundation raised nine million dollars for extra counseling positions at city schools in his hometown of Houston.

As Welton concluded his brief speech, Jingles looked out at his small contingent. To the right, about ten rows back, Pat sat between the Greens and Oliver. All the family back in Alaska were watching on television. How did he ever arrive on this world stage?

The emcee made a few comments about Appleman and conveyed wishes for a rapid recovery. He mentioned that the injured golfer had already been extended an invitation to compete in next year’s event, news that was warmly applauded.

“By popular demand,” he then said, “we have broken tradition and invited a non-tour golfer to participate in the Skins Game for the very first time. Ray Plumlee, a man known throughout our country as Jingles, has captured our imaginations and hearts almost overnight. I don’t have to tell you his story. It’s been chronicled by sportswriters nationwide over the last several weeks ... and celebrated by every optometrist.” He paused while everyone laughed and clapped. “I got contact lenses for the very first time last week! Did any of you do the same?” Hands went up throughout the ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jingles!”

Jingles took his place in front of the microphones. The audience was standing, whistling, and cheering, calling out his name. The other golfers at the table glanced at each other and laughed, then saluted the older man. Jingles nodded and smiled, waiting for Gillian’s signal. When she finally raised a hand, he lifted his arms and everyone took their seats.

Jingles cleared his throat and began. “I’m not a great golfer. These other three men are, and so is Mr. Appleman. They’ve proven it over long professional careers that I’ve enjoyed following along with everyone else who loves the game. I’m nothing like them. I just lucked into a hot streak with my putter. I’ve been luckier than you can possibly imagine.

“My greatest luck of all is just to be here today. As you get older, you start thinking more about making a difference in the world … a lasting impact. I commend these younger men for having done so much already. I think they’d all tell you that when everything’s said and done, it won’t be trophies or bank accounts that define their lives; it will be their sense of how they helped others.”

For a second time, the audience stood and applauded. Jingles felt it in his knees and grabbed the podium to keep his balance.

“My friends and I have talked about what we should do. There are so many worthwhile causes and missions out there. Everybody has their own ideas about what matters most. In my case, I believe in what team sports can mean in the life of a child. It’s not about the games themselves; it’s about the special feeling of working hard to achieve team and personal goals. It’s about exercise, feeling the goodness of sweat, and dealing with both success and failure. It’s all those things.

“Those same friends of mine just returned from a trip to the island of Hispania ... dang it ... Hispaniola. They saw two entirely different countries there in the Dominican Republic and Haiti. Despite being neighboring nations of equal population, they are more different than the same.”

Jingles stopped briefly to pick up his notes. “In Haiti, the literacy rate is just fifty-three percent, compared to eighty-seven percent in the Dominican Republic. Life expectancy is just sixty-one years in Haiti, compared to seventy-four in the Dominican Republic. In Haiti, per capita income is six times smaller.” He looked at Harvey, who collected the data, and nodded.

“The national pastime in the Dominican Republic is baseball. The season never ends. Over five hundred past and present major leaguers continue to be part of the culture there, inspiring others to succeed at whatever they choose to do. Haiti doesn’t have those recognizable heroes. Haiti has no baseball to speak of. My friends and I believe it should. We don’t think baseball is necessarily the answer to solving Haiti’s problems, but we think it can be one of them. Most importantly, it’s something that we understand and feel capable of providing.

“I will be playing for the new Baseball Is an Answer Foundation, and plan to volunteer my time and effort to its cause. I see it like “Field of Dreams”, one of my favorite movies. I believe if we fund construction of ball fields throughout Haiti, employing local people to build them, and start youth baseball programs from the ground up, the children in that nation will flock to them. In doing so, we’ll also be building a bridge between the two countries of Hispania ... dang it! I guess I’ll never get that right. Anyway, among the first to cross that bridge will be many of the Dominican baseball heroes who are ready to inspire, promote and teach.

“The foundation will be headed by Mickey Collins and Juan Felipe, former major leaguers. Mr. Felipe is a resident of the Dominican Republic and has assured us that dozens of stars from his country are eager to help.

“While golf will be my mission tomorrow, it will be the final day of that mission. I will not be playing on the Champions Tour. I won’t be competing in any other organized golf events. My full attention will be on helping to make the new foundation a success. Thank you very much.”

Three thousand miles to the east, Mulligan and Knickers sat in front of a television with their wives. They listened in wonderment.

“Surprise, surprise,” Bess exclaimed, punching her husband’s arm. “I guess he pulled one on you!”

Knickers hopped up from the couch. “I’m on my way to Hawaii. Anyone coming with me”

“I’ll replace reservations,” Bess said. “Just give me a second.”

“We can take my car to the airport,” Mulligan offered. “Mary and I will go pack a bag and pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“How far is Hawaii?” Knickers asked.

“What’s the difference?” Mulligan said, disappearing out the door.

In the Hapuna Beach ballroom, questions came at Jingles like machine-gun fire.

“How can you just walk away from golf?”

Jingles smiled. “I’m not walking away. I’m walking somewhere new, that’s all.”

“Seriously, how can you quit now?”

“I love golf, but I loved coaching Little League even more. I did it for thirty years.”

“Do you have a physical problem standing in the way? Something to do with your limp?”

“I only tend to limp because my left knee is stiff sometimes. It’s nothing.”

“What about your endorsement contracts? What about the deals with Calloway, Cadillac, Hilton, and the others we’ve been reading about?”

“I don’t think they require me to play, but I don’t know all the details. If we have to give the money back, that’s fine.” He pointed to his wife in the audience. “That’s my best half, my wife Pat. Honey, we haven’t spent all the money yet, have we?” Pat squirmed at the sudden attention.

After some laughter, the next question rang out. “What about your millions of fans? Aren’t you worried about disappointing them?”

The question hit like a hammer, even though Gillian told him to expect it. He lowered his head to collect himself. What would they think when he made a full disclosure about his lens in a few days? Would he be considered a fraud?

He remembered his planned answer. “There’s no shortage of sports heroes in our great country. I think everyone will appreciate my decision in time. I’m most concerned with creating fans in Haiti … baseball fans!”

“How can people donate to your foundation? It sounds like a fine idea.”

Jingles looked at Gillian, who was smiling. Always smiling. “We’ll have a website up and running soon. From what I understand, it will be updated regularly with lots of photos and information.”

“Have you practiced on the course yet?”

“I only arrived late yesterday. My practice round is scheduled for this afternoon.”

“How do you expect to handle such a challenging layout and the windy conditions?”

“Because it’s the Skins Game, I at least have a chance. A lucky shot here or there can make all the difference. I just hope not to embarrass myself.” That was the absolute truth. In his mind, exposing his unaided game to a national audience would serve as punishment for all his sins.

The host walked over and whispered to him. Jingles nodded and turned back to the audience. “My time is up. I’ll be available after the golf tomorrow.”

Questions were directed to the other three golfers, but the subject remained the same. The press asked for their thoughts about Jingles’ game and his surprise announcement.

Mrs. Plumlee had observed her husband’s performance with mixed emotions: anger; frustration; and some pride too. He was dashingly handsome and charming behind the microphones, no doubt. Lucy had even whispered George Baily in her ear. His ability to handle his earliest interviews had surprised her. Now she was flabbergasted. Who was this mystery man? Though her unexpected public introduction had been embarrassing, the glow of it remained.

Still, through all the fluff, anger prevailed. Had her husband just given away everything? Would they have to return all the money? Was she about to step back in time? It was all Knickers Collins’ fault. Everything had been fine until they went home for Thanksgiving. Why did her husband tolerate his so-called friend? He was nothing but trouble. One thing was certain: Knickers was now officially out of her life, and her husband’s too. She could demand it!

Or could she? Why had Jingles announced his intentions before discussing them with her? She would have changed his mind about that lens. That was a foregone conclusion. Was that the very reason he chose not to confide in her? She’d have to think more about that.

Oliver sat beside Pat, thinking about the lens in his pocket and the mystery of Jingles’ behavior. Why would anyone think they could see too well? Maximization of visual potential was the very reason that people invested in prosthetic eyewear in the first place. No two eyes were identical. Clearly, Jingles had a gifted right eye.

On the other hand, there had been something odd about his brief glimpse through Jingles’ lens – something that a different prescription might not explain. The circle. Could the evaluation of a ninety-year-old optometrist be relied upon? Could the lens indeed be a mistake?

Oliver took the tissue from his breast pocket, unwrapped the lens, and studied it. Some of the greatest scientific discoveries had been serendipitous outcomes of accidents or errors. Was this lens the next one? He would advise Jingles to send it to another optical company for examination. If the lens was flawed, perhaps something could be learned from it.

The banker reflected on Jingles’ plan to give up golf. How would that affect the Plumlees’ finances? The Eagle Optics contract presented no problem; it required him to wear their lenses, nothing more. Larry Weinstein would have no objection. His bet on Jingles had already paid off. As for the contracts negotiated by the Quinn Group, he had no idea. He’d seek answers from Gillian.

Phoenix City Bank already had a life-size cutout of Jingles on a window at every branch. Most of the impact had already been realized. Oliver chose not to worry about Prescott Hills either. If marketing started soon, the development should still do well. The Jingles story wasn’t over, just evolving. It had already improved his own life dramatically. Jingles first delivered business success and excitement. Now the golfer had helped him capture the affection of a wonderful lady, opening the door to starting a family some day.

Jane Friend wandered around the back of the ballroom, eavesdropping on conversations. Only she knew the reality of the situation, but perceptions were an important part of news coverage as well. Jingles’ revelation in the hotel room added new depth, a fresh twist. He now seemed intent on making the details of his vision public. Hopefully, he would grant her an exclusive interview. She was compassionate. She understood. She would help others understand. And her ratings would fly off the chart.

Harvey Green sat glassy-eyed, awed by the spectacle he created. If he hadn’t tossed his wedge in the pond that day, Jingles wouldn’t have gone to the driving range to arrange for its recovery. Mrs. Beckerman’s flying club would have landed harmlessly on the ground. Jingles would not have visited an eye doctor.

Lucy and he had considered both Arizona and New Mexico as retirement destinations. Even after settling on Arizona, they looked at four or five different developments in the Phoenix area. Why had they chosen Leisureville? Was it because dogs were so welcome and Lucy thought she might like to have a pet one day? That may have been it. For whatever reason, they certainly made the right choice.