Wood & Iron

Chapter 8

The aroma of espresso found its way up the stairs and into the master bedroom as Adam stretched the navy Wood & Iron pullover over his shoulders. Alex began showing interest in craft coffee a few years back, and Adam happily bought her a starter espresso machine and vowed never to stand in line at a chain again. The interest turned into an obsession, and a Londinium R24 quickly replaced the starter machine.

"Come by Monday morning before work and I'll make you a mocha."

It was an offhand comment made one Friday night around the fire pit. Alex had spent all week taking an online master class taught by one of Portland's top baristas, and the night's conversation revolved around the differences between a traditional macchiato and Starbucks' abomination of a drink that shares the same name.

But that offhand comment that Alex made to Quincy began a tradition, and Alex had been making six drinks every weekday morning for the past two years: oat milk lattes for Morgan and Liv, Americanos for her husband and his brother, a mocha for Quincy, and whatever drink she was trying to master for herself.

Adam knew that his wife knew everyone's exact schedule and that she found great joy in having their drinks ready a moment before they walked in without knocking. She knew that Liv would show up at five til seven on her way to that awful spin class, that Benji would be close behind his wife before heading to the course, that Adam would walk downstairs when he heard the front door open, that Morgan would run in at 7:55 on her way to the kids' school, and that Quincy would walk over around 8:05 before moseying back to his home office for a day full of Zoom calls.

The neighbors had tried to pay. They offered to buy the beans or Venmo money every month, but Adam and Alex refused. Even when the club was in its worst financial spot, they never considered taking a dollar for the drinks that would easily be five bucks a cup at the shop downtown. Adam knew how happy it made Alex to make those six coffees every morning, and Alex never knew that the course was in a bad spot.

Steam was coming from the lid of Adam's Americano as he wove the golf cart through the forest on his way to the clubhouse. He needed the coffee this morning. He'd yelled down the stairs and asked Alex to throw an extra double shot in his mug.

He barely slept at all last night. In fact, it had been months since he had gotten a proper night's sleep without the help of the whiskey and the sleeping pills, and even those didn't seem to be working these days.

It had gotten to the point where Adam would keep himself busy late into the night just to keep his mind off the thoughts that would swirl around his head the moment it hit the pillow. Last night, Alex went to bed around 10:30, when they'd been going to bed together for years.

"Coming to bed?" The question came out as a plea.

"Not yet," he didn't look up from the drink he was pouring as he answered. "I'll see you in the morning."

And it was officially morning once he silently slid into the bed, hoping not to wake his wife.

The irony, though, was that the thoughts he hoped to avoid by not lying down were the only thoughts in his mind during the four and a half hours after Alex went to bed without him.

He had poured his drink, the second since he got home from work, and made his way out onto the back patio. He stared at the forest beyond the fence, but he instantly knew that was a mistake. God, how he longed to go back to the days when he could look through these trees without the panic of what was happening beyond the pines. He hated that his biggest secret was out there, and he hated it even more that he wasn't quite sure exactly what it was that he was hiding.

That had been his choice. It was always his choice if he had one. The less I know, the better. It had been that way for as long as Adam could remember.

It all started one afternoon when he got a call from a Seattle number that he didn't have saved in his phone. Because of the club's money troubles, it had been months since he'd answered an unknown call. A number he didn't have usually meant an unpaid invoice or a debt collector. But for some reason, he picked up the call from the 206 area code.

"Hi, Mr. Wood," the voice on the other end of the line said. "You don't know me yet. But you're going to want to." Adam was intrigued by the confidence in her voice and by the fact that a "large benefactor" wanted to meet to discuss a "potential business venture."

After months of scraping just to make payroll, Adam thought of little else in the week and a half between that phone call and the scheduled lunch meeting. When the day finally came, the person sitting across the table was not quite what he had expected.

Evie Orchid was short, wearing an even shorter dress that matched her jet-black hair. She wore bright red lipstick that matched her high heels. Her olive skin made the white band of her watch pop off her wrist, which made the white gold diamonds surrounding the watch's face pop even more. Adam couldn't help but notice the fairy on the watch's face, and he couldn't tell if it looked like a child's toy or a piece that cost more than his annual salary.

There were so many questions Adam should've asked while they picked at their $35 salmon Caesar salads. What exactly did they want to use the golf course for? Why would no one ever even know they were there? What was so special about that northwest corner? Why was it supposed to be under wraps?

However, none of those questions came out of Adam's mouth during that lunch. The less I know, the better.

All he really needed to know was that they, whoever they were, would deposit well over six figures into his account every six months, disguising the payments as initiation fees and monthly dues.

He'd been desperate enough for the money to not ask why anyone would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to access the service road just north of hole 14 of Wood & Iron Golf Club. But ever since the bottom line came out of the red, it was all he thought about.

There were nights when he convinced himself that it was simply an extremely wealthy landowner who desired the convenience of not having to drive around the 150 acres of the course. It's crazy what rich people will do for the sake of ease. Deep down, he knew this wasn't the case. For one, he'd never actually seen anyone use the service road. No golfers had ever mentioned seeing anyone on it, and none of the grounds crew complained about unknown vehicles kicking up dust.

But he knew they'd been there. Shortly after the first deposit hit the account, Adam drove his golf cart out past hole 13 early in the morning, knowing exactly what he was looking for, yet hoping he wouldn't find it. Adam Wood knew this course like the back of his hand, and he was still 140 yards out when he noticed the way that the morning dew showed the memory of a lone set of tires leading up to the hill on the other side of the green. A tightness hit his chest at that instant, and he turned the golf cart around. He hadn't been out to the green at 14 since.

The less I know, the better.

There were brief moments of courage late at night when Adam would decide to check the security camera footage to see what they were actually up to on his land. It was usually on days when he'd seen the little red lights of the security system flashing in his office, indicating movement in the unoccupied spaces of the course. That courage always waned by morning, though, and the few instances when someone had to check the footage, usually to help locate a lost club or confirm a wildlife spotting, brought that same tightness to Adam's chest.

That tightness was there now, past midnight on the patio at 1835 South Sister Circle. So Adam drained his glass and grabbed the bottle for another. He fell onto the patio sofa, the drink in one hand and the small silver Wood & Iron ball marker in the other. Lost in the thoughts of hole 14, he hadn't even realized that he'd pulled it from his pocket and was rubbing the logo between his index finger and thumb.

He tried to keep it from happening, but his mind went to his father's face when he'd given him this relic. The less he knows, the better.