Chapter 12: The Cut

Friday's wind came off the marsh at twenty miles an hour and knocked the leaders back by three shots.

The cut line settled at one under par.

Holt started the afternoon round at three under and spent nine holes giving it away.

He made bogey on the second.

He made another on the sixth when a gust pushed his ball into the water.

Standing on the ninth fairway he was one under, exactly on the line.

He looked down the rope for Bryn.

She wasn't on the creek bank.

She wasn't driving the cart on the cart path or raking the bunker by the green.

He noticed instead that the grounds crew was lined up along the ninth fairway, all eleven of them, as they had been on Tuesday.

This time their mowers sat parked in a neat row behind them.

The engines were off.

None of them was working.

The stooped old man who had taught Holt the mowers took one step toward the rope.

He did not wear his hat.

"Mr. Holt," he said.

"What happened?"

"The GM called her in at seven," the old man said. "She's fired, effective now."

"The lease on the house is revoked, too."

"The man said she's got till tonight."

Holt stood still.

The wind pulled at his shirt.

"Why?" he asked, though he knew.

"He said she misused club property for a Tour player."

"The cottage, and the locks, and the guest list."

"He had a paper ready."

The old man's voice cracked at the edge.

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