Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Historic preservationist busybodies were the bane of Jack’s existence.
They were strict, joyless, and unyielding when it came to stopping progress on anything that might introduce a bit of fun into the world.
He’d spent months working with the local planning commission to be certain he was abiding by all the local rules before he broke ground on the golf course, and there weren’t any stumbling blocks surrounding the Roost.
He wouldn’t waste time going on bended knee to the Historic Preservation Board. He was going straight to the top, and gave Kyle Tucker a call.
Kyle was just as eager as Jack to get the golf course completed on time, and agreed to meet him at the country club at later that afternoon.
Precisely on time, Kyle’s E-class Mercedes rolled to a halt on the circular drop-off at the front of the country club. The parking lot was only a stone’s throw away, but nobody would tell Kyle Tucker he couldn’t park his snazzy car at the front door.
The forty-something heir of the Tucker family unfolded himself from the sedan, an effortlessly cultured man of the world as he adjusted his white linen sports jacket.
He was a good-looking guy, with a preppy haircut and a Robert Redford vibe, but it was hard to look past that monocle clenched over one eye.
Kyle claimed it was because his LASIK surgery failed in that eye, though it was probably an affectation.
Who else besides the Monopoly guy and Mr. Peanut wore a monocle?
“Thanks for coming,” Jack said as Kyle approached the steps. “I don’t know where that lady gets the notion she can issue edicts about the Roost. There’s no record of it ever having been granted protected status.”
“Don’t worry; it’s not a problem,” Kyle said with the confidence of a man used to getting his way.
Jack could never afford to be so nonchalant when it came to historic preservation boards. The old gentlemen and white-haired ladies might look as harmless as kittens napping in the sun, but they could scheme and swarm like angry wasps if you took your eyes off them for a split second.
“She was running her mouth about kicking me out of the Roost.”
“Don’t worry about Alice,” Kyle said. “She’s a gem.
Just be nice to her and you’ll be able to sweet-talk her into anything.
Besides, my family owns the Roost lock, stock, and barrel.
The historic preservationists can’t worm their way in and issue edicts.
My wife is a member of the commission and Daisy won’t let it get out of hand. ”
That ought to be reassuring, but he’d spent two years haggling with the locals about this golf course.
Before he even arrived in Virginia he was battling petitions, protests, and injunctions.
The biggest concern had always been protecting the environment, especially the wetlands that abutted the proposed golf course.
The only way to get the environmentalists off his back was to agree to enlarge the protected wetland area and consent to regular testing to ensure no golf course runoff would contaminate the water.
The biggest part of the wetlands was the improbably named Saint Helga’s Spring.
It was a pretty spot, surrounded by bald cypress and crepe myrtle trees.
Most importantly to the environmentalists, it was a sanctuary for endangered waterfowl and migratory birds.
Protecting and enlarging the area was a challenge, but it also brought Jack a tax break, so he considered the struggle with the locals a win-win.
“I’ve already spent a couple thousand dollars taking out trees to clear the view around the amphitheater,” he said. “If there’s going to be any trouble, I need to know now.”
“Daisy won’t let the board get out of hand,” Kyle reiterated. “Hey, show me the view from the waterfall. I’d like to see these 360-degree views you promised.”
Jack grinned. “Follow me.”
Jack set off for the 4th hole, which was destined to be the signature hole for the entire course.
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.