Signature holes were important. Done well, they could catapult a golf course onto the cover of sporting magazines and be featured on every golfer’s social media page. The course Jack built in Santa Barbara had a 16th hole overlooking a breathtaking cliffside view. In Puerto Rico, he designed the 8th,9th, and 10th holes to run alongside an old wall built during the days of the Spanish Conquistadors.
In Williamsburg, the 4th hole would feature a sixty-foot waterfall built from boulders imported from a nearby quarry. Half his budget for this course had been spent on excavating and building up the waterfall. Creating the pond, installing pumps, and renting a crane to handle the rock placement had cost a fortune. It took a week to mound the honey-colored boulders into a realistic waterfall, and even without the finishing landscaping touches it already looked spectacular.
Jack pointed to the newly cleared patch of land where he’d cut down eight scraggly apple trees that were nothing but an eyesore. “You can see Saint Helga’s Spring through that break in the trees,” he said. “The amphitheater will have a terrific view of the spring, the woods, and the waterfall.”
“It’s going to be fantastic,” Kyle breathed, rapture on his face as he took in the view. Some men got excited over a beautiful woman or a pile of riches, but Jack and Kyle were kindred spirits about the sublime perfection of a well-designed golf course.
Jack lifted his hands to frame the view as a television camera would see it. The natural beauty of the course would be irresistible to the PGA. Between broadcast rights, sponsorships, and ticket sales, PGA tournaments could double the revenue of an ordinary golf course.
But only if he could pull off these spectacular views. He’d need to yank down more trees to clear the line of sight all the way to Saint Helga’s Spring.
“The students are going to grumble if I keep cutting down those scraggly fruit trees,” he said. Many college students hated the idea of any tree being cut down. It didn’t matter if the trees were dying or impeded job creation; students had the luxury of not caring about practicality and instinctively sided with Mother Nature.
“Let them complain,” Kyle said with a shrug. “In the competition between town and gown, the town will always win. Students cycle through Williamsburg every four years. The faculty last a little longer, but half of them won’t get tenure, so they get quietly shuffled out of town, never to be heard from again. The tenured faculty will stick around twenty or thirty years … but the Tuckers? We’ve been here for three centuries. It’s the First Families of Virginia who make the rules here. The Washingtons, the Lees, the Jeffersons, and the Tuckers. Don’t worry, you’re on the winning side of this battle.”
They walked down the gently rolling swell of land for a better view of the spring. Jack spent weeks grading this soil to the perfect slope to make it both a challenge to the golfers and a thing of beauty to the viewers. A sense of well-being filled him as he strolled down the hill . . . where the soil felt unusually soft. Almost squishy.
That was odd. It hadn’t rained in several days and the irrigation system wasn’t in operation yet. He cast a worried eye toward the waterfall.
“I need to check something out,” he told Kyle, redirecting their path to head up to the waterfall. The pumps and drains strategically hidden throughout the structure directed water up and over the rocks, circulated it within the basin, then propelled it through an artistically designed brook that meandered across a third of the golf course.
The closer he got, the worse the ground felt. It was so spongy it made a sucking sound.
“Something doesn’t seem right,” Kyle said, and Jack tried to act like it was no big deal.
“One of the drainage pumps probably needs to be recalibrated,” he said, trying to hide his annoyance because getting a plumber out on a Friday evening was going to be expensive.
Water dribbled over the rim of the pond and seeped down the slope. It was heading straight toward Saint Helga’s Spring. The work crews were already gone for the day, but with luck, this was something Jack could handle himself. He unfastened his watch and handed it to Kyle.
“Hold this, will you? I’ll try to get that drainage pump started again.”
It was only a thirty-dollar watch. When the Tuckers offered Jack partial ownership in the golf course, he sold his Rolex and invested his entire life savings into this project. It had the potential to be among the most lucrative golf courses in the country, but he had to get it across the finish line first. The Tuckers were out of money and funding everything from his own savings meant Jack’s showy Rolex had to go.
It also meant he didn’t want to shell out for a plumber on a Friday night. He knelt beside a group of smaller rocks that hid the pumps. He rolled up his sleeve and winced as icy water covered his arm all the way to his shoulder as he reached down to the pump. Flecks of water splashed his face, damp penetrated his shirt, but worst of all was the feel of the pump. There was no sign of life as he splayed his fingers across the suction pipe.
He cursed under his breath and pushed to his feet. He braced his hands on his hips, staring at the water rushing downward toward the wetlands that bordered the golf course. No fertilizer had been laid yet, so the water was clean, but the environmentalists were sure to kick up a fuss anyway. If they got wind of this broken pump, they’d swoop down like harpies to stop development. If a pump could fail before a golf course even opened, they’d start panicking about how it could break in the years to come when there would be pesticides and fertilizers heading for their precious wetlands.
Kyle understood as soon as Jack explained, but didn’t seem overly worried. “It’s the weekend,” he said with a shrug. “Countyinspectors don’t work on the weekends, and the students are gone for the summer. Nobody will know if you let this slide until Monday.”
Maybe, but Jack couldn’t risk word getting out and needed this solved tonight. Raymond Gannet owned a local hardware store, and Jack had made a point of buying the guy a few beers when he took a group of local contractors and businessmen to a William & Mary football game last fall. Sooner or later being friendly with the locals always paid off.
He scrolled through his phone until he found Raymond’s number, then placed the call.
“Hey, Raymond,” he said in a jovial tone, as though they’d been friends for years instead of barely knowing each other. “I’ve got an issue out at the Tucker’s Grove course. Is there any way I can get my hands on a utility pump?”
“Does it have to be tonight?” Raymond asked. The sound of laughter and a party could be heard over the phone, and the last thing Raymond probably wanted was to send someone to reopen the hardware store.
“Sorry, but yes. I need it tonight.”
Raymond grumbled but agreed. Relief nearly drove Jack to his knees, but he projected easy gratitude over the phone. “Hey, thanks! The next round of beers at the season opener in September are on me. Doc will be over in half an hour to get that pump.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Does Doc have a driver’s license?”
It wasn’t an unreasonable question, but Doc had been dry ever since Jack met him loitering outside the government permitting office, holding a sign promising to work for food.
It happened shortly after Jack arrived in town four months earlier. Panhandlers always claimed they’d be willing to work for food. Jack ought to have ignored him, but nobody with personalexperience of being hungry found it easy to overlook someone in need of a meal. Although Jack had plenty of work to offer, most of his jobs required construction certifications or handling heavy machinery. Doc had been so thin it was a wonder he could hold his head up on that skinny neck, but he straightened as Jack approached, a hint of anticipation in his gaze.
“Have you got a driver’s license?” Jack asked.
