Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

(This is the second column in a two-part series).

David Ford, a Wall Street billionaire, and I, a simple Southern girl who can’t always pronounce words correctly, formed an unlikely friendship.

It began when my husband, Tink, and his wife, Pamela, were working on a television project.

Pamela, exotically beautiful, had shooed David and me out of their 30,000 square-foot historic mansion (built by a Titanic survivor) in Newport, Rhode Island.

“We have work to do,” she said.

“Go.”

David guided me to a narrow trail between a rocky cliff and the Atlantic Ocean, after instructing me to put on walking shoes. My heart sputtered. To David, who once climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, it was a simple stroll. To me, it WAS Kilimanjaro.

We came to a mud hole about eight feet wide. He turned to me.

“Can you walk through that?”

I had to walk through it or fall to my death into the Atlantic. But I had on a new pair of red, suede sneakers. I didn’t want to ruin them. I hesitated.

“I’ll take off my shoes and walk through it.”

He shook his head. “Climb on my back and I’ll carry you.”

His gallantry won my affection.

By the time we finished our treacherous walk and returned to the mansion, we were great friends. ur spouses teased us good-naturedly. His wife began to call her husband, “Ronda’s David” which is how he became “My David.”

That night, after a clambake on the beach, we were all in the mansion’s game room where My David had a massive bar. He picked up a sword and asked, “Ronda, do you know what this is?” He grinned mischievously.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s a sword to cut the cork off a champagne bottle.”

His eyes popped wide, his mouth dropped, then he laughed, delightedly. “That’s exactly right!”

Our friendship deepened.

When My David and a guest decided to play a game of pool on the most elaborately carved, massive pool table I’d ever seen, I settled into a chair to watch.

My new best friend said, “Ronda, come here and you and I will play against him.”

Until that day, I had never hiked and I had never played pool. He insisted and, timidly, I dragged myself over to the table where I glanced down and saw a brass plate: Custom made for Mr. John Jacob Astor IV.

“David!” I exclaimed. “Did this pool table belong to THE Mr.

Astor? The one who went down on the Titanic?”

He nodded. “I bought it at auction.”

It was surreal. There I was, a backwoods Southern girl, spending the weekend in a historic Newport mansion built by a Titanic survivor and playing pool on a table owned by a Titanic victim — with an ugly cut across my nose from a barn accident, no less.

“Come over here. I’m going to teach you how to play.”

I’d rather have climbed that rocky cliff again. I sighed and gave in. He explained each shot and the strategy behind it. Nearing the end of the game, he said, “Here, I want you to take this shot.”

I shook my head. “I’m not good at this.”

Softly, he whispered, “Let me tell you how to do it. Most people would take the easy way and go for that ball next to the pocket. But, do you see the ball across the table?

Aim for the center of that ball. It will roll across the table, hit that other ball, and both balls will go in the pocket.” He winked. “And, we will win.”

Reluctantly, I took the pool stick, chalked it, then, incredibly, made the shot. He was so proud of me.

That night, I realized why David Ford had become a billionaire on Wall Street. He strategized everything. And won, over and over.

An aggressive cancer took David a couple of years ago. Pamela was devastated and I was heartsick. But I will always be grateful for that weekend in Newport and what My David taught me.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Visit www. rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.