Several hours later, the late afternoon had softened into evening.
The course below rolled outward in long green stretches broken by sand traps and water features that mirrored the fading sky.
The sun hovered low, casting warm light across the fairways, shadows stretching thin across the terrain.
Don now wore a pair of white and gray golfing shoes—scuffed lightly at the toes, grass stains brushing along the sides, small grains of sand still clinging near the soles from an unfortunate bunker encounter.
They sat at an upper-floor lounge area overlooking the course through tall window walls. The table between them was small but polished—dark wood with a brass edge.
Crystal glasses rested on coasters. A chilled bottle sat in a silver bucket. Small plates held arranged fruit, thin crackers, and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres placed with exact spacing.
Soft ambient lighting overhead balanced the dying sun beyond the glass.
