“Well, he does like me,” Roz said coyly.
“Not as much as he used to.”
She guffawed. “You’re funny. But probably right.”
“He knows the score.” Alden had made no secret that Roz was his, and Duke damn well knew it. “But I suppose he likes you enough if he told you about the bomb before they released the news.”
“I told you, we’re old friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
Roz giggled. And that made him laugh. She made his heart lighter. And that was a precious thing in this crazy world.
As she drove, he sent an email to his source at Netflix, who got back to him five minutes later. “No Enolia Honeywood properties in the works,” his response said. “But they’d make great movies. Interesting thought. Thanks, Knox.”
He told Roz about it as she turned in to the scenic driveway of Vesper Lakes.
The recently expanded golf club sat on the southeast side of Comet Cove, well beyond the inlet but not quite as far south as the airport. It had no view of the ocean, but it shouldered into the wildlife preserve that the Esquivel family had donated to the town, the same one the city was working to make accessible to the public.
Vesper Lakes Golf Club was anything but wild. It was pretty, Alden had to admit, with its rolling emerald fairways, water hazards (the aspirational “lakes”), clumps of oaks and palm trees, and sprawling, stone-accented clubhouse. A driving range and other practice areas had been added to the club’s original footprint. The grounds were huge, with lots of space for audiences and media when they came, and the founders of Vesper Lakes very much wanted them to come. They’d already had one regional tournament that drew several Florida pros, and the celebrity event this weekend should garner a lot of publicity as they cultivated their connections to the pro circuit.
The last time Alden had seen it up close, he and Roz were clawing their way back to civilization after an unwanted adventure, and the place was in shambles. Now construction was over, and it was a pristine testament to the power of money and excessive irrigation.
As Roz pulled into the parking lot, he texted the golf pro who sometimes fed him gems. When Roz turned off the car, Alden had his answer. “Blake’s at the outdoor bar.”
“How do you do that?” she asked, but she was smiling.
“I buy a lot of guys a lot of beers.”
They got out and headed toward the grand entrance.
The porte cochere could offer shade and rain protection to any number of fancy cars or golf carts idling on the pavered driveway, though the valets were wrangling only a couple of European imports. An actor Alden recognized got into one of them. And they saw a couple of other minor celebrities in the airy lobby, where they ran into a familiar face among the wide soft chairs and forest of potted palms.
“Hi, Hai,” Roz said to their photographer, who had his bag on his shoulder and a camera around his neck.
“Hi, hi, hi,” Hai said back. “Are you writing about the celebrity golf tournament too?”
“Uh, no. Is Tim here?” she asked.
“He just left.”
“How were the nudists?” Alden asked.
“Lightly broiled,” Hai said. “Thank God they had big signs. Got some good stuff though. I was about to go back to the office and file.”
“Hey,” Alden said, “would you mind getting a photo of Blake Burbage first? I hear he’s at the bar.”
“Already got a couple of him,” the photographer said. “I took photos of all the teams for the tournament, at least of the people who are in town.”
“Great. Don’t let us keep you.” Roz waved him away, then gave Alden a knowing look as Hai left. She was right about Blake being in the celebrity golf tournament.
“Smarty pants,” Alden acknowledged. “Sign says it’s this way.”
They passed more signs indicating locker rooms and the pro shop, then passed the restaurant and entered the bar. It was dark inside and full of golf memorabilia, but outside, the covered patio was bright and comfortable, with its own bar and several tables. Blake was at the bar with another guy. A comedian Alden had seen on TV.
Comet Cove was so weird.
The comedian shook hands with Blake and walked around them as they approached the bar.
