I drove down Highway 280 in a bit of a haze, lost in thoughts of Darby, Charlotte, and the secrets in people’s lives that take place behind closed doors. I thought that Darby was living the dream and the picture of success and happiness.
And I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I remembered something that Bobby Jones had said in our round yesterday. Things are rarely as bad . . . or as good . . . as they seem. I knew that was true, but, on the flip side, I thought things had to at least resemble how they seemed.
Maybe not. I answered my thought as I turned on to Hugh Daniel Drive. Sucking in a deep breath, I slowed my vehicle as I began to navigate the curvy road. It was only dangerous if you were reckless with your speed, as Darby had been. I scanned each curve, trying to remember where his Jaguar had gone off the road, but the police had cleared the area and I found it impossible to distinguish one bend in the road from the next. When Hugh Daniel dead-ended, I took a left onto Highway 41. About a mile up on the right was the entrance to the club. I slowed when I reached the gate and rolled down my window. A uniformed guard stepped out of the security house adjacent to the gate and approached my car. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m a friend of Darby Hays, a member who died in a car accident earlier this week. His wife asked that I go through his locker for her.”
“Oh, yes. You are Mr. Clark. Mrs. Hays said you’d be dropping by. I’m so sorry about Mr. Darby. He was a really good man. Always very friendly with me and called me by name.”
I glanced at the tag on the man’s uniform, which read Irvin. “Thank you, Irvin,” I said.
He nodded. “Please tell Mrs. Hays how sorry I am.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll notify the pro shop you’re on your way.”
Before I could answer, Irvin turned and walked briskly back to the house, reaching his hand inside the door. A second later, the gate began to open. As my car wound down the path toward the clubhouse, I tried to remember the last time I was here. Last summer? Or was it two summers ago? Whenever it was, I had come up to play in a two-man scramble with Darby, and we had won the tournament. We had closed down the nineteenth hole afterward, celebrating the victory and wisely taking a taxi back to Darby’s house. Good times, I thought, but I only half believed it. Were we really having a good time? Or were we both just escaping our lives for a few hours?
Either way, it had been the last time I’d seen my friend since his ghost appeared to me a couple nights earlier.
I parked at the bag drop and hopped out of my car. Before I could make it to the sidewalk that led down to the pro shop, a young attendant was trotting up the steps to meet me. “Mr. Clark?”
“Yes, hey.”
“Follow me. I’ll take you to Mr. Hays’s locker.”
When we reached the landing, I glanced to my right at the green expanse of golf course that lay before me. The Jack Nicklaus–designed course was a thing of beauty with its tree-lined undulating fairways and bent-grass greens. Shoal Creek had been one of Jack’s first course designs, following Muirfield Village in Columbus, Ohio. Now, the Golden Bear had courses popping up everywhere, and it was obvious that golf course design would be his passion after his playing days were over. As I thought of Jack, my mind drifted to Augusta for a half a second. The second round was today, and Jack would probably need to shoot at least par to make the cut.
As we reached the mahogany door that led inside, I shook off the thoughts and tried to focus on the job at hand. I was nervous at what I might find in Darby’s locker. Please God, don’t let there be a pair of panties in there . . .
I followed the young attendant down a long hallway, which was decorated with portraits of famous courses and players, including Lee Trevino, who had won the PGA Championship here at Shoal Creek two years earlier. When we entered the locker room, we turned a corner, passing Jack Nicklaus’s locker, which Darby always made a point to show me every time I had played with him here. Finally, a few rows over, the attendant stopped and pointed. “Here it is, sir.” Darby Hays was stenciled in gold over the brown mahogany finish.
“Everyone loved Mr. Hays,” the attendant said. “It was an honor to be able to talk and play with someone who had been on the tour.” The boy paused. “I’m sure going to miss him.”
“I know, son. Me too.”
He handed me a box and a short, stubby key.
I thanked him as he trotted away. Then, sighing, I turned toward the locker.