The driving range was private, the way Gilbert preferred it.
He'd booked the far end, away from the clubhouse and the caddies and the other members who might want to talk business when he was trying to avoid talking business. The morning was cool, the grass still damp from the overnight sprinklers, the sky a pale blue that would deepen as the sun climbed. Three prospective partners had joined them for the first hour — men in pressed polos who laughed too easily at Gilbert's jokes and handled their clubs with the careful formality of people who'd learned golf from instructors rather than their fathers.
They were gone now. Gilbert had sent them off toward the clubhouse with a handshake and a promise to review their proposals, and they'd departed with the relieved air of men who'd survived a test they hadn't known they were taking.
Arianne was still on the range.
