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Joey Grasty
2026-08-23 15:47:46 -05:00
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{\rtf1\ansi\deff0{\fonttbl{\f0\fnil Helvetica;}}
\f0\fs24 The kitchen clock read 5:47 when Ella came downstairs, her golf shoes already on her feet, bag propped against the wall by the garage door. She'd been awake since five, lying in bed listening to the mockingbirds outside her window, running through her swing in her mind the way her father had taught her to do. First weekend of summer. Thirty-six holes ahead of her. She could hardly stand it.\par
\par
Her mother was at the stove, sliding eggs onto a plate without being asked, because Elikapeka Hayes always knew what her daughters needed before they knew themselves.\par
\par
"Sit," her mother said.\par
\par
Ella sat, but only on the edge of the chair.\par
\par
She ate quickly, cleaned her plate, drank her orange juice in three swallows, and carried everything to the sink. It was 6:02. Their tee time was 7:24. Pompano Beach was twelve minutes away, maybe fifteen with the light on Sample Road. She wanted forty-five minutes on the range, minimum. That left them needing to leave the house no later than six-thirty, and even that was cutting it closer than she liked.\par
\par
She stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened. Upstairs, her sisters were still asleep. She could hear the particular silence of rooms full of sleeping people. And from the direction of the master bedroom she heard the low murmur of the television her father turned on every morning while he dressed, and she knew from long experience that the television was a bad sign. The television meant he was not rushing.\par
\par
She went back to the kitchen and sat down again, this time not even pretending to be relaxed.\par
\par
Her father came out of the master bedroom at 6:09 in his golf shirt and khaki shorts, his hair still damp, and went directly to the coffee maker. He poured a cup and leaned against the counter and looked out the window at the canal, where the first light was going silver and pink across the water. The sailboat in their dock shifted almost imperceptibly against its lines.\par
\par
"Morning," he said.\par
\par
"We need to leave before six-thirty," Ella said.\par
\par
"Morning, Ella."\par
\par
She exhaled through her nose. "Good morning. We need to leave before six-thirty."\par
\par
Her father smiled at his coffee cup, and that smile\u8212?patient, unhurried, the smile of a man who had been doing this for thirty years and believed there was very little in life that required actual rushing\u8212?made her want to tip the cup out of his hand.\par
\par
"Bobby's probably already there," she said.\par
\par
"Bobby can wait."\par
\par
"Bobby doesn't like to wait. Neither do I."\par
\par
"Then Bobby and you are well matched." He sipped his coffee. "Your mother made eggs?"\par
\par
"There's some in the pan. Dad. We need a good warm-up. I need a good warm-up. You can hit six balls and walk to the first tee, but I need time on the range."\par
\par
"You'll have time on the range."\par
\par
"Not if we leave at seven."\par
\par
"I didn't say we were leaving at seven."\par
\par
"You're on your first cup."\par
\par
He looked at her over the rim of the mug. "This is my second cup."\par
\par
She stood up from the table and walked to her golf bag and crouched down and unzipped the front pocket and took out her glove and put it on and took it back off again. She had no reason to do this. She did it anyway.\par
\par
Behind her she heard the scrape of a skillet, her mother serving her father his eggs, and then the soft sound of them exchanging some words she couldn't quite make out, and her mother's quiet laugh, and the terrible, leisurely normalcy of it all. It was 6:14.\par
\par
She went out the back door and stood beside the pool. The water was still and dark blue in the early light, and the neighbor's bougainvillea spilled over the fence in a great cascade of orange-pink that was almost violent in its color. She breathed in the morning air, which smelled like canal water and cut grass and the faint diesel memory of some boat that had gone out before dawn. She tried to think about her swing. She'd been working on keeping her right elbow closer to her body on the downswing, something her father had shown her three weeks ago at the range, and she'd had it and then she'd lost it and she wanted to find it again before she was standing over a shot on the first hole.\par
\par
The door opened behind her.\par
\par
"Five minutes," her father said.\par
\par
She turned. He was carrying his coffee cup. Still.\par
\par
"You're bringing that?"\par
\par
"I'm finishing it."\par
\par
"In the truck."\par
\par
"In the truck," he agreed, and something in his tone told her he'd been planning to leave at six-thirty all along and had simply declined to tell her, because he found her impatience amusing and saw no reason to relieve it prematurely. This was, she knew, a form of love. It did not feel like one.\par
\par
She picked up her bag and went through the house to the garage without waiting for him.\par
\par
---\par
\par
They drove north on Federal Highway with the windows down, her father's coffee cup sitting in the holder between them, still half full. The morning was already warm the way South Florida mornings were in late May, the air thick and sweetly humid, and the palm trees along the road were motionless in the stillness before the sea breeze came up. Ella sat with her left knee bouncing and her arm out the window.\par
\par
"You need to stop rushing the range," her father said.\par
\par
"I don't rush the range."\par
\par
"You rush the range. You go too fast and you don't let the feelings settle. You hit twelve balls when you should hit eight."\par
\par
"Bobby hits fifty balls."\par
\par
"Bobby's habits are Bobby's business."\par
\par
She looked out the window. A sprinkler system was running in the parking lot of a strip mall, arching water across the empty asphalt for no apparent reason. "I just want to be ready," she said.\par
\par
"You're already ready. You've been ready since you woke up." He glanced at her. "Probably since last night."\par
\par
She didn't say anything.\par
\par
"How long have we been doing this?" he said.\par
\par
"Since I was six."\par
\par
"And have I ever not gotten you to the course in time for a proper warm-up?"\par
\par
She thought about it longer than he deserved to wait. "No."\par
\par
"Okay then."\par
\par
She let her knee stop bouncing. He reached over without looking and turned on the radio, and they drove the rest of the way with the windows down and the warm air coming in and a country station playing low enough that it was almost just texture rather than sound.\par
\par
---\par
\par
The parking lot at Pompano Beach Golf Course was mostly empty when they pulled in, only a handful of cars clustered near the clubhouse entrance. Ella had her door open before the truck stopped rolling, which earned her a single patient look from her father that she ignored. She shouldered her bag and walked fast toward the entrance, her spikes clicking on the asphalt.\par
\par
Through the glass door she could see Bobby Carpenter already inside, sitting on the bench beside the pro shop counter with his arms folded, his own bag leaning against the wall beside him. He was wearing a Pompano Beach Golf hat and a green shirt, and when he saw her come through the door he made a show of checking his watch.\par
\par
"Six-forty-five," he said. "I've been here since six-forty."\par
\par
"Then you've had five minutes to contemplate your many swing flaws," Ella said, going directly to the counter.\par
\par
"My swing flaws." Bobby unfolded his arms and stood up. "You're the one who started blocking it right under pressure last month. What was that on sixteen at the district qualifier?"\par
\par
"That was the wind." She slid her father's credit card across the counter to the young man working the register. "Two, on the Pines. Hayes."\par
\par
"That was not the wind," Bobby said. "There was no wind."\par
\par
"There was some wind."\par
\par
"There was no wind, Ella."\par
\par
"Good morning to you too, Bobby," her father said, coming through the door behind her, carrying nothing, having left both his golf bag and his apparently now-finished coffee in the truck.\par
\par
Bobby grinned and shook Andy's hand. "Morning, Mr. Hayes. I've been telling Ella I've been here since six-forty."\par
\par
"I know," her father said. "She mentioned it."\par
\par
"I didn't mention it," Ella said, signing the receipt and taking the card back. "I acknowledged it. There's a difference." She picked up her scorecard from the counter and turned toward the door that led to the range. "We have nineteen minutes. I'm going to go use them."\par
\par
Her father looked at Bobby and Bobby looked at her father and some small communication passed between them that she caught only from the corner of her eye and chose to ignore entirely.\par
\par
She pushed through the door into the morning light, already thinking about her elbow.
}

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{\rtf1\ansi\ansicpg1252\cocoartf2870
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@@ -7,4 +7,4 @@
\f0\fs26 \cf0 The first scene of the book is told in third person from the viewpoint of Ella Hayes. It is the first weekend after the end of Ella\'92s junior year in high school. She\'92s a skilled golfer and has been taught to play from a very young age by her father. It\'92s Saturday, and like most Saturdays, she\'92s planning to play 36 holes of golf with her father. On this Saturday, they will be joined by a father who teaches his son in the same way that Andy teaches Ella. Ella and the boy, Bobby, are on their high school golf team, both are the best golfers on the team. There is no romantic interest between Ella and the boy; they are friends but their relationship is mostly just a shared interest in golf.\
It\'92s early on Saturday morning, more than an hour before their tee time, and Ella is anxious to get to the course. They have the first tee time at 7:24AM, as both Ella and her friend Bobby like to play fast, and the best way to play fast is to be first on the course, dew sweepers, they are often called. Her father is dawdling over a second cup of coffee. Ella likes a long warmup, whereas her father usually hits a few wedges and a few drives and is good to go. There is always tension between her and her father to get him going.\
The other daughters aren\'92t even up yet and Ella has finished her breakfast that her mother prepared and is ready to go. She dearly loves her father but wants him to get off his butt and go to the course RIGHT NOW!\
Create the first scene of the book, not to exceed 1500 words.}
At last they leave the house, their clubs in the back of Andy\'92s old pickup truck. They arrive at Pompano Beach Golf club and she finds her friend Bobby already having paid and waiting for her inside. She pays for herself and her father with his credit card. They exchange some snarky comments and then proceed to the range to warm up.}

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\pard\tx360\tx720\tx1080\tx1440\tx1800\tx2160\tx2880\tx3600\tx4320\fi360\sl264\slmult1\pardirnatural\partightenfactor0
\f0\fs26 \cf0 This novel is the story of three half-white, half-Hawaiian girls (in the parlance, Hapa) as they make their way in the world in the year 2000 before the widespread availability of smartphones and before the 9/11 terrorist attack, now widely thought to have been a government sponsored false flag. 9/11 will play no part in the story nor will politics of any sort. This is a Christian romance novel.\
The novel is fundamentally Christian and much of the tension in the story is driven by the conflicting themes of Christianity and feminism. These three girls have been regular church-goers since birth, all three baptized at birth and confirmed into the United Methodist Church. In addition to his job as a jet aircraft repair technician, Andy Hayes is a deacon of their church. His wife Elikapeka, a native Hawaiian of a proud and prominent family on the Big Island, is a devout Christian who is a stay at home mother who enforces Christian morals and is a fierce anti-feminist.\
The style of the novel is in the style but not substance of Ken Follett. Each scene is in third person from the perspective of one of the characters.\
Care must be taken to give each character a distinctive voice. Andy Hayes is an alpha male, gregarious, a natural leader, always aware of his status, good looks, and natural attraction from women. He speaks with a distinctive Florida cracker accent. He has a tendency to flirt with women but has not strayed from \
His wife is a charming and charismatic woman, who speaks with a vaguely Hawaiian accent. The three girls all have a similar mix of Florida cracker accent with just a touch of Hawaiian.\
At the start of the novel, none of the three girls has ever had a boyfriend and it isn\'92t until Emma\'92s sweet sixteen birthday party that the girls would have ever had boys in the house who weren\'92t relatives of Andy\'92s large extended family, all of whom live nearby. Only rarely do the Hawaiian relatives of Elikapeka visit.}
{\rtf1\ansi\deff0{\fonttbl{\f0\fnil Helvetica;}}
\f0\fs24 You are the temporary drafting engine for a fiction-authoring system.\par
\par
Write exactly one scene in response to the complete package supplied by the user. The package is the complete and authoritative context for the requested scene. Do not assume prior conversation context or ask for clarification.\par
\par
Treat the labeled package sections according to their stated purposes. Follow STYLE, use LEXICON spellings exactly, preserve continuity from STORY, CHARACTERS, RECALL, PREVIOUS, and NOTES, and execute the plot movement in BRIEF. DIRECTIVE controls scene-local execution, including the word maximum and how the scene ends.\par
\par
Return prose only: no title, chapter heading, scene label, explanation, summary, planning, acknowledgement, package echo, or closing commentary. Stop at the end of the requested scene. Do not continue into a later scene.\par
\par
Do not invent facts that contradict the package. If an exact quotation or other exact text is supplied in NOTES as required verbatim text, reproduce it exactly.\par
}

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{\rtf1\ansi\deff0{\fonttbl{\f0\fnil Helvetica;}}
\f0\fs24 The kitchen clock read 5:47 when Ella came downstairs, her golf shoes already on her feet, bag propped against the wall by the garage door. She'd been awake since five, lying in bed listening to the mockingbirds outside her window, running through her swing in her mind the way her father had taught her to do. First weekend of summer. Thirty-six holes ahead of her. She could hardly stand it.\par
\par
Her mother was at the stove, sliding eggs onto a plate without being asked, because Elikapeka Hayes always knew what her daughters needed before they knew themselves.\par
\par
"Sit," her mother said.\par
\par
Ella sat, but only on the edge of the chair.\par
\par
She ate quickly, cleaned her plate, drank her orange juice in three swallows, and carried everything to the sink. It was 6:02. Their tee time was 7:24. Pompano Beach was twelve minutes away, maybe fifteen with the light on Sample Road. She wanted forty-five minutes on the range, minimum. That left them needing to leave the house no later than six-thirty, and even that was cutting it closer than she liked.\par
\par
She stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened. Upstairs, her sisters were still asleep. She could hear the particular silence of rooms full of sleeping people. And from the direction of the master bedroom she heard the low murmur of the television her father turned on every morning while he dressed, and she knew from long experience that the television was a bad sign. The television meant he was not rushing.\par
\par
She went back to the kitchen and sat down again, this time not even pretending to be relaxed.\par
\par
Her father came out of the master bedroom at 6:09 in his golf shirt and khaki shorts, his hair still damp, and went directly to the coffee maker. He poured a cup and leaned against the counter and looked out the window at the canal, where the first light was going silver and pink across the water. The sailboat in their dock shifted almost imperceptibly against its lines.\par
\par
"Morning," he said.\par
\par
"We need to leave before six-thirty," Ella said.\par
\par
"Morning, Ella."\par
\par
She exhaled through her nose. "Good morning. We need to leave before six-thirty."\par
\par
Her father smiled at his coffee cup, and that smile\u8212?patient, unhurried, the smile of a man who had been doing this for thirty years and believed there was very little in life that required actual rushing\u8212?made her want to tip the cup out of his hand.\par
\par
"Bobby's probably already there," she said.\par
\par
"Bobby can wait."\par
\par
"Bobby doesn't like to wait. Neither do I."\par
\par
"Then Bobby and you are well matched." He sipped his coffee. "Your mother made eggs?"\par
\par
"There's some in the pan. Dad. We need a good warm-up. I need a good warm-up. You can hit six balls and walk to the first tee, but I need time on the range."\par
\par
"You'll have time on the range."\par
\par
"Not if we leave at seven."\par
\par
"I didn't say we were leaving at seven."\par
\par
"You're on your first cup."\par
\par
He looked at her over the rim of the mug. "This is my second cup."\par
\par
She stood up from the table and walked to her golf bag and crouched down and unzipped the front pocket and took out her glove and put it on and took it back off again. She had no reason to do this. She did it anyway.\par
\par
Behind her she heard the scrape of a skillet, her mother serving her father his eggs, and then the soft sound of them exchanging some words she couldn't quite make out, and her mother's quiet laugh, and the terrible, leisurely normalcy of it all. It was 6:14.\par
\par
She went out the back door and stood beside the pool. The water was still and dark blue in the early light, and the neighbor's bougainvillea spilled over the fence in a great cascade of orange-pink that was almost violent in its color. She breathed in the morning air, which smelled like canal water and cut grass and the faint diesel memory of some boat that had gone out before dawn. She tried to think about her swing. She'd been working on keeping her right elbow closer to her body on the downswing, something her father had shown her three weeks ago at the range, and she'd had it and then she'd lost it and she wanted to find it again before she was standing over a shot on the first hole.\par
\par
The door opened behind her.\par
\par
"Five minutes," her father said.\par
\par
She turned. He was carrying his coffee cup. Still.\par
\par
"You're bringing that?"\par
\par
"I'm finishing it."\par
\par
"In the truck."\par
\par
"In the truck," he agreed, and something in his tone told her he'd been planning to leave at six-thirty all along and had simply declined to tell her, because he found her impatience amusing and saw no reason to relieve it prematurely. This was, she knew, a form of love. It did not feel like one.\par
\par
She picked up her bag and went through the house to the garage without waiting for him.\par
\par
---\par
\par
They drove north on Federal Highway with the windows down, her father's coffee cup sitting in the holder between them, still half full. The morning was already warm the way South Florida mornings were in late May, the air thick and sweetly humid, and the palm trees along the road were motionless in the stillness before the sea breeze came up. Ella sat with her left knee bouncing and her arm out the window.\par
\par
"You need to stop rushing the range," her father said.\par
\par
"I don't rush the range."\par
\par
"You rush the range. You go too fast and you don't let the feelings settle. You hit twelve balls when you should hit eight."\par
\par
"Bobby hits fifty balls."\par
\par
"Bobby's habits are Bobby's business."\par
\par
She looked out the window. A sprinkler system was running in the parking lot of a strip mall, arching water across the empty asphalt for no apparent reason. "I just want to be ready," she said.\par
\par
"You're already ready. You've been ready since you woke up." He glanced at her. "Probably since last night."\par
\par
She didn't say anything.\par
\par
"How long have we been doing this?" he said.\par
\par
"Since I was six."\par
\par
"And have I ever not gotten you to the course in time for a proper warm-up?"\par
\par
She thought about it longer than he deserved to wait. "No."\par
\par
"Okay then."\par
\par
She let her knee stop bouncing. He reached over without looking and turned on the radio, and they drove the rest of the way with the windows down and the warm air coming in and a country station playing low enough that it was almost just texture rather than sound.\par
\par
---\par
\par
The parking lot at Pompano Beach Golf Course was mostly empty when they pulled in, only a handful of cars clustered near the clubhouse entrance. Ella had her door open before the truck stopped rolling, which earned her a single patient look from her father that she ignored. She shouldered her bag and walked fast toward the entrance, her spikes clicking on the asphalt.\par
\par
Through the glass door she could see Bobby Carpenter already inside, sitting on the bench beside the pro shop counter with his arms folded, his own bag leaning against the wall beside him. He was wearing a Pompano Beach Golf hat and a green shirt, and when he saw her come through the door he made a show of checking his watch.\par
\par
"Six-forty-five," he said. "I've been here since six-forty."\par
\par
"Then you've had five minutes to contemplate your many swing flaws," Ella said, going directly to the counter.\par
\par
"My swing flaws." Bobby unfolded his arms and stood up. "You're the one who started blocking it right under pressure last month. What was that on sixteen at the district qualifier?"\par
\par
"That was the wind." She slid her father's credit card across the counter to the young man working the register. "Two, on the Pines. Hayes."\par
\par
"That was not the wind," Bobby said. "There was no wind."\par
\par
"There was some wind."\par
\par
"There was no wind, Ella."\par
\par
"Good morning to you too, Bobby," her father said, coming through the door behind her, carrying nothing, having left both his golf bag and his apparently now-finished coffee in the truck.\par
\par
Bobby grinned and shook Andy's hand. "Morning, Mr. Hayes. I've been telling Ella I've been here since six-forty."\par
\par
"I know," her father said. "She mentioned it."\par
\par
"I didn't mention it," Ella said, signing the receipt and taking the card back. "I acknowledged it. There's a difference." She picked up her scorecard from the counter and turned toward the door that led to the range. "We have nineteen minutes. I'm going to go use them."\par
\par
Her father looked at Bobby and Bobby looked at her father and some small communication passed between them that she caught only from the corner of her eye and chose to ignore entirely.\par
\par
She pushed through the door into the morning light, already thinking about her elbow.
}

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Bobby Carpenter’s father. A very fine golfer who has been Bobby’s principal instructor. He is an auto mechanic at a Pompano Beach shop. He met Andy when Ella and Bobby were 13.

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{\rtf1\ansi\deff0{\fonttbl{\f0\fnil Helvetica;}}
\f0\fs24 The kitchen clock read 5:47 when Ella came downstairs, her golf shoes already on her feet, bag propped against the wall by the garage door. She'd been awake since five, lying in bed listening to the mockingbirds outside her window, running through her swing in her mind the way her father had taught her to do. First weekend of summer. Thirty-six holes ahead of her. She could hardly stand it.\par
\par
Her mother was at the stove, sliding eggs onto a plate without being asked, because Elikapeka Hayes always knew what her daughters needed before they knew themselves.\par
\par
"Sit," her mother said.\par
\par
Ella sat, but only on the edge of the chair.\par
\par
She ate quickly, cleaned her plate, drank her orange juice in three swallows, and carried everything to the sink. It was 6:02. Their tee time was 7:24. Pompano Beach was twelve minutes away, maybe fifteen with the light on Sample Road. She wanted forty-five minutes on the range, minimum. That left them needing to leave the house no later than six-thirty, and even that was cutting it closer than she liked.\par
\par
She stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened. Upstairs, her sisters were still asleep. She could hear the particular silence of rooms full of sleeping people. And from the direction of the master bedroom she heard the low murmur of the television her father turned on every morning while he dressed, and she knew from long experience that the television was a bad sign. The television meant he was not rushing.\par
\par
She went back to the kitchen and sat down again, this time not even pretending to be relaxed.\par
\par
Her father came downstairs at 6:09 in his golf shirt and khaki shorts, his hair still damp, and went directly to the coffee maker. He poured a cup and leaned against the counter and looked out the window at the canal, where the first light was going silver and pink across the water. The sailboat in their dock shifted almost imperceptibly against its lines.\par
\par
"Morning," he said.\par
\par
"We need to leave at six-thirty," Ella said.\par
\par
"Morning, Ella."\par
\par
She exhaled through her nose. "Good morning. We need to leave at six-thirty."\par
\par
Her father smiled at his coffee cup, and that smile\u8212?patient, unhurried, the smile of a man who had been doing this for thirty years and believed there was very little in life that required actual rushing\u8212?made her want to tip the cup out of his hand.\par
\par
"Bobby's probably already there," she said.\par
\par
"Bobby can wait."\par
\par
"Bobby doesn't like to wait. Neither do I."\par
\par
"Then Bobby and you are well matched." He sipped his coffee. "Your mother made eggs?"\par
\par
"There's some in the pan. Dad. We need a good warm-up. I need a good warm-up. You can hit six balls and walk to the first tee, but I need time on the range."\par
\par
"You'll have time on the range."\par
\par
"Not if we leave at seven."\par
\par
"I didn't say we were leaving at seven."\par
\par
"You're on your first cup."\par
\par
He looked at her over the rim of the mug. "This is my second cup."\par
\par
She stood up from the table and walked to her golf bag and crouched down and unzipped the front pocket and took out her glove and put it on and took it back off again. She had no reason to do this. She did it anyway.\par
\par
Behind her she heard the scrape of a skillet, her mother serving her father his eggs, and then the soft sound of them exchanging some words she couldn't quite make out, and her mother's quiet laugh, and the terrible, leisurely normalcy of it all. It was 6:14.\par
\par
She went out the back door and stood beside the pool. The water was still and dark blue in the early light, and the neighbor's bougainvillea spilled over the fence in a great cascade of orange-pink that was almost violent in its color. She breathed in the morning air, which smelled like canal water and cut grass and the faint diesel memory of some boat that had gone out before dawn. She tried to think about her swing. She'd been working on keeping her right elbow closer to her body on the downswing, something her father had shown her three weeks ago at the range, and she'd had it and then she'd lost it and she wanted to find it again before she was standing over a shot on the first hole.\par
\par
The door opened behind her.\par
\par
"Five minutes," her father said.\par
\par
She turned. He was carrying his coffee cup. Still.\par
\par
"You're bringing that?"\par
\par
"I'm finishing it."\par
\par
"In the truck."\par
\par
"In the truck," he agreed, and something in his tone told her he'd been planning to leave at six-thirty all along and had simply declined to tell her, because he found her impatience amusing and saw no reason to relieve it prematurely. This was, she knew, a form of love. It did not feel like one.\par
\par
She picked up her bag and went through the house to the garage without waiting for him.\par
\par
---\par
\par
They drove north on Federal Highway with the windows down, her father's coffee cup sitting in the holder between them, still half full. The morning was already warm the way South Florida mornings were in late May, the air thick and sweetly humid, and the palm trees along the road were motionless in the stillness before the sea breeze came up. Ella sat with her left knee bouncing and her arm out the window.\par
\par
"You need to stop rushing the range," her father said.\par
\par
"I don't rush the range."\par
\par
"You rush the range. You go too fast and you don't let the feelings settle. You hit twelve balls when you should hit eight."\par
\par
"Bobby hits fifty balls."\par
\par
"Bobby's habits are Bobby's business."\par
\par
She looked out the window. A sprinkler system was running in the parking lot of a strip mall, arching water across the empty asphalt for no apparent reason. "I just want to be ready," she said.\par
\par
"You're already ready. You've been ready since you woke up." He glanced at her. "Probably since last night."\par
\par
She didn't say anything.\par
\par
"How long have we been doing this?" he said.\par
\par
"Since I was four."\par
\par
"And have I ever not gotten you to the course in time for a proper warm-up?"\par
\par
She thought about it longer than he deserved to wait. "No."\par
\par
"Okay then."\par
\par
She let her knee stop bouncing. He reached over without looking and turned on the radio, and they drove the rest of the way with the windows down and the warm air coming in and a country station playing low enough that it was almost just texture rather than sound.\par
\par
---\par
\par
The parking lot at Pompano Beach Golf Course was mostly empty when they pulled in, only a handful of cars clustered near the clubhouse entrance. Ella had her door open before the truck stopped rolling, which earned her a single patient look from her father that she ignored. She shouldered her bag and walked fast toward the entrance, her spikes clicking on the asphalt.\par
\par
Through the glass door she could see Bobby Carpenter already inside, sitting on the bench beside the pro shop counter with his arms folded, his own bag leaning against the wall beside him. He was wearing a Pompano Beach Golf hat and a green shirt, and when he saw her come through the door he made a show of checking his watch.\par
\par
"Seven-oh-four," he said. "I've been here since six-forty."\par
\par
"Then you've had twenty-four minutes to contemplate your many swing flaws," Ella said, going directly to the counter.\par
\par
"My swing flaws." Bobby unfolded his arms and stood up. "You're the one who started blocking it right under pressure last month. What was that on sixteen at the district qualifier?"\par
\par
"That was the wind." She slid her father's credit card across the counter to the young man working the register. "Two, on the Pines. Hayes."\par
\par
"That was not the wind," Bobby said. "There was no wind."\par
\par
"There was some wind."\par
\par
"There was no wind, Ella."\par
\par
"Good morning to you too, Bobby," her father said, coming through the door behind her, carrying nothing, having left both his golf bag and his apparently now-finished coffee in the truck.\par
\par
Bobby grinned and shook Andy's hand. "Morning, Mr. Hayes. I've been telling Ella I've been here since six-forty."\par
\par
"I know," her father said. "She mentioned it."\par
\par
"I didn't mention it," Ella said, signing the receipt and taking the card back. "I acknowledged it. There's a difference." She picked up her scorecard from the counter and turned toward the door that led to the range. "We have nineteen minutes. I'm going to go use them."\par
\par
Her father looked at Bobby and Bobby looked at her father and some small communication passed between them that she caught only from the corner of her eye and chose to ignore entirely.\par
\par
She pushed through the door into the morning light, already thinking about her elbow.
}

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{\rtf1\ansi\deff0{\fonttbl{\f0\fnil Helvetica;}}
\f0\fs24 Scene: Scene 1\par
Model: anthropic/claude-sonnet-4.6\par
Accepted for editing: 2026-08-23T15:38:56-05:00\par
\par
### STYLE\par
The style of the novel is in the style but not substance of Ken Follett. Each scene is in third person from the perspective of one of the characters.\par
\par
### LEXICON\par
(none)\par
\par
### STORY\par
(none - new storyline)\par
\par
### CHARACTERS\par
Andy Hayes\par
Father and husband. Manages the team at American Airlines out of the Fort Lauderdale Airport that services its jets. Is a union member with nearly 30 years of experience. Scratch golfer. Large extended family, two brothers and a sister live nearby. Tall and handsome and very attractive to women in general. A leader of men.\par
\par
Elikapeka Hayes\par
Wife of Andy Hayes, of Hawaiian origin. Stay at home mom. (eh-lee-la-PEH-ka)\par
\par
Ella Hayes\par
Oldest daughter. To be a high school senior. Highly skilled golfer looking for a college golf scholarship. Tall, haughty, proud, smart. Prefers male friends to female friends. Has never dated and rarely attends parties or after school activities other than golf. Taught golf primarily by her father, a scratch golfer. Daddy\u8217?s girl. Usually impatient with others and likes to play fast.\par
\par
Alex Carpenter\par
\par
### RECALL\par
(none)\par
\par
### PREVIOUS\par
(none)\par
\par
### NOTES\par
Hayes house \u8212? The Hayes family lives in a two story house built in the 1960s on a deep water canal (meaning, the canal can be used for boats going out to the Atlantic ocean). The house has a boat dock, rented out to a friend who has a fifty foot sailboat. The house has a small pool in the backyard which is often used by the family for gatherings.\par
Pompano Beach Golf Course \u8212? A frequently played course with Andy and Ella. Two eighteen hole courses, the shorter and easier Palms course and the longer and harder Pines course.\par
It is late May, 2000. No one has cell phones yet.\par
\par
### BRIEF\par
The first scene of the book is told in third person from the viewpoint of Ella Hayes. It is the first weekend after the end of Ella\u8217?s junior year in high school. She\u8217?s a skilled golfer and has been taught to play from a very young age by her father. It\u8217?s Saturday, and like most Saturdays, she\u8217?s planning to play 36 holes of golf with her father. On this Saturday, they will be joined by a father who teaches his son in the same way that Andy teaches Ella. Ella and the boy, Bobby, are on their high school golf team, both are the best golfers on the team. There is no romantic interest between Ella and the boy; they are friends but their relationship is mostly just a shared interest in golf.\par
It\u8217?s early on Saturday morning, more than an hour before their tee time, and Ella is anxious to get to the course. They have the first tee time at 7:24AM, as both Ella and her friend Bobby like to play fast, and the best way to play fast is to be first on the course, dew sweepers, they are often called. Her father is dawdling over a second cup of coffee. Ella likes a long warmup, whereas her father usually hits a few wedges and a few drives and is good to go. There is always tension between her and her father to get him going.\par
The other daughters aren\u8217?t even up yet and Ella has finished her breakfast that her mother prepared and is ready to go. She dearly loves her father but wants him to get off his butt and go to the course RIGHT NOW!\par
At last they leave the house, their clubs in the back of Andy\u8217?s old pickup truck. They arrive at Pompano Beach Golf club and she finds her friend Bobby already having paid and waiting for her inside. She pays for herself and her father with his credit card. They exchange some snarky comments and then proceed to the range to warm up.\par
\par
### DIRECTIVE\par
Expand this scene to a maximum of 1500 words and don't exceed the BRIEF. Keep the dialog tense until they arrive at the golf course.\par
\par
### SCENE\par
}

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<IncludeInCompile>Yes</IncludeInCompile>
<FileExtension>png</FileExtension>
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<ImageScaleFactor>1.0</ImageScaleFactor>
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<ImageScalesProportionally>Yes</ImageScalesProportionally>
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<Title>Dedication</Title>
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<Title>Notes</Title>
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<IncludeInCompile>Yes</IncludeInCompile>
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<TextSelection>0,0</TextSelection>
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<BinderItem UUID="669D7B65-8096-4EFD-A0E2-6BDE8C1E3585" Type="ResearchFolder" Created="2026-08-23 11:15:20 -0500" Modified="2026-08-23 11:15:20 -0500">
<Title>Research</Title>
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<Title>Sample Output</Title>
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<BinderItem UUID="A01D76FD-6D6D-4A05-B3D7-72013BF9A630" Type="PDF" Created="2026-08-23 11:15:20 -0500" Modified="2026-08-23 11:15:20 -0500">
<Title>Standard Manuscript</Title>
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<Title>Paperback Novel</Title>
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<Title>Setting Sketch</Title>
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<Collection Type="Binder" ID="48DE1CBF-217F-4B94-944D-6D8C97396DCF" Color="0.974804 0.974804 0.974804">
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<Collection Type="RecentSearch" ID="2655DDF6-4AB8-42CB-A433-1CD76FC351D2" Color="0.922173 0.818612 0.999627">
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<Title>Status</Title>
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<PrintSettings PaperSize="612.0,792.0" LeftMargin="72.0" RightMargin="72.0" TopMargin="90.0" BottomMargin="90.0" PaperType="na-letter" Orientation="Portrait" HorizontalPagination="Clip" VerticalPagination="Auto" ScaleFactor="1.0" HorizontallyCentered="Yes" VerticallyCentered="Yes" Collates="Yes" PagesAcross="1" PagesDown="1"/>
</ScrivenerProject>

2
hapagirlsauthoringsystemv1.scriv/Files/writing.history
View File

@@ -1,4 +1,4 @@
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<WritingHistory>
<Day dwc="0" dcc="0" owc="65" occ="288">2026-08-23</Day>
<Day dwc="0" dcc="0" owc="115" occ="561">2026-08-23</Day>
</WritingHistory>