The course was in Westchester, forty minutes out of the city on a Saturday morning that had decided to be grey about it — overcast, cool, light that made everything look slightly underexposed.
Ryan had taken a car up. He arrived at Ridgemont at ten to eight and immediately understood that this was not the kind of golf club you knew about from the road.
The entrance was a break in a tree line, a long private drive, and then a clubhouse that looked like someone had taken an old English manor and moved it to New York without explaining why.
Stone facade, dark trim, a parking area with cars that made no noise about what they cost.
He checked in at the front desk and was pointed toward the pro shop, where Richard had apparently arranged for equipment rental and a caddie, as promised.
The caddie was a kid named Marcus, maybe twenty-two. He assessed Ryan once — the rental clubs, the shoes that were correct but new — and said nothing about any of it, which Ryan appreciated.
