Egret
Frank took up golf when he and his wife moved to Lost Lakes Preserve three months ago. He hadn’t broken ninety, and today looked like the day. He’d covered the front nine in 44, chipped in for birdie on 11, and holed a thirty-footer for another birdie on 14. Standing now on the 16th tee, he knew he had only to bogey his way in for an 89—a small thing, maybe, but he understood that the small successes were the only ones left to him. Last year he’d finally been promoted to president of his ad firm after being bypassed again and again for younger candidates with new ideas, or older candidates with more experience, or stronger leaders, or better consensus builders—always someone else. Now he’d finally reached the top of his small regional agency, and there was nowhere else to go unless he was willing to sidle his way into one of the nationals, which would also mean a temporary step backward for the promise of something better. At 58, he’d keep the sure thing, especially when the sure thing had given him and Jeanne the means to build their dream house on one of the last remaining golf course lots at Lost Lakes.