Country Club Secrets Samples

Prologue
I hurried into the upstairs bedroom and searched for my appointment book. The rented St. Paul, Minnesota home had tan, nubby-silk wallpaper and hand-carved mahogany ceiling moldings. A whirlpool rose from one corner of the bedroom, its surrounding Italian marble having collected more dust than footprints the past year. A picture of a beautiful female sales executive I had met recently brightened the room.

Two golf trophies from the NCAA and USGA Junior tournaments that I had won years earlier sat in a corner. An expensive painting my father gave me of downtown London, where I was born prematurely, looked out of place. Rain and fog today obstructed a panoramic view of the Mississippi River.

The bedroom had become somewhat of a torture chamber. At least twice a week, when my tense body finally succumbed to sleep, the nightmare would return. Unlike murky dreams, the colors were vivid. Like an instant replay.

I had walked outside the Florida warehouse located in a run-down area northeast of Orlando’s International Airport. It’s where my father’s Hanzel Golf and Sports employees assembled golf shafts and heads imported from the Orient. I needed a break from a stressful meeting.

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