4. Ned
NED
Ned was not a man who believed in signs, but as a newly minted president on opening day at the club, he found himself looking all over for one.
When he turned in to the clubhouse driveway, Ned smiled at the pilgrim logo etched into the sign. The Mayhaven Pilgrim was an homage to the colonial history of their home state. Wooden gaze fixed, the pilgrim stared out beneath his wide-brim hat to the distant hills. Ned pointed his car in the same direction.
The sun was already swinging up over the Blue Hills and the fairways sparkled with dew. Ned decided this was a good sign. His walk to the front door was serenaded by birdsong, the air filled with the scent of fresh-cut grass. Along the upper decks American flags snapped smartly from their poles along the railings. The new kayaks were lined up along the beach and the sand raked so carefully it looked like it had been combed by hand. More good signs. The setting was pure New England in all its summer glory. He thought of the old members who’d left Mayhaven that year for the new club, Fox Run. With its sterile pool and faux siding and noisy roadside frontage, it had about as much character as a strip mall. You couldn’t place a value on old-school elegance and history. Wouldn’t they be sorry on a day like this, Ned thought to himself.
Just before nine AM the campers started rolling in with their tiny golf bags and elated-looking parents anticipating their childless day ahead. Ned watched from his post on the upper deck as the counselors lined up to greet their charges. Among the camper crowd was Darcy, sporting her new navy-and-red Mayhaven polo shirt. Ned loved that she was there off her phone, and out of her room, and out in the sunshine. It had taken some convincing, but with the salary and the promise he did not expect her to set foot on the golf course, she’d relented. He watched as she bent down to help a little girl tie her shoe. This job would be good for her.
Soon came the echo from the tennis courts, the energizing thwack, thwack, thwack . Vince ferried two carts of beginner golfers out to the driving range, and the lifeguards were stationed in their high white chairs ready to oversee camper swim tests. Everything was running like clockwork.
On his way inside, Ned retrieved a small cardboard box from the entryway table. Recently, Ned had set up an anonymous comment box he’d dubbed the Pilgrim Box. Reviving Mayhaven was his job, and he was counting on his membership to help guide him in that endeavor. The Pilgrim Box had been his idea to give membership a voice, and so far the members had had a lot to say. He was curious to see what this week’s comments would be.
Neiman Shrive ambled through the front doors, golf bag slung over his shoulder. Neiman was always first on the course.
“Morning!” Ned said brightly.
Neiman grunted back.
Ned did not take this personally. Neiman was as seasoned a golfer as he was a long-standing member. Three days a week he played with the same foursome. To members like Neiman Shrive, Mayhaven was a second home that was just fine the way it was. He liked his old-fashioned with a twist of orange and his prime rib rare. He didn’t care for out-of-state license plates in the parking lot and wasn’t shy about asking unfamiliar faces on the course if they were actual members. Neiman paid his dues early, in full, always followed dress code (though Ned was pretty sure Neiman slept in a collared shirt), and did not care one lick for the new “Pilgrim Box” and its whiny contents. What a load of new age mumbo jumbo that was. Neiman was there to golf and all those handwritten feelings were unnecessary. That damn box was the last straw that drove him to join the board of directors that summer; as far as Neiman was concerned his sole role was to make sure nothing else changed at Mayhaven.
Neiman grimaced at the sight of Ned holding the box from the hallway table and giving it a good shake. “Wow. Seems like we’ve got a lot of comments this week!” Ned reported.
Neiman winced. “Oh goody.”
Box in hand Ned hurried back to his office, tickled by the sound and weight within. Excitedly, he tipped the contents onto his desk. Rather than select one from the top of the heap, he reached inside the center like a child might for a lottery drawing. Ned unfolded it and put on his readers.
Why are people wearing jeans in the dining room? Don’t they know we have a dress code? And not for nothing, it’s always the young members.
The club’s pilgrim logo feels dated. We’re in Massachusetts, but why a pilgrim? And why a man? Where is our female representation?
Has anyone noticed the growing stack of Cartier Love bracelets on Coral Delancey’s arm? Rumor has it cheating-Dick may have taken more than his new Porsche for a spin after the Memorial Day dinner dance. Good for Coral for commanding fling-bling, but at this rate the poor girl won’t be able to lift her arms.
Well, well. Ned made it a practice to ignore club rumors, but this one wouldn’t go away. And he had noticed Dick sneaking cocktails to the leggy lead singer, after Coral left early. Not club business, he decided, slipping it into his pocket. (Not something he should keep from Ingrid that night at dinner, either.) He moved on to the next.
Why are our tennis courts being used by the local boarding school? Whose grand idea was this?
Ned sat back in his chair and rubbed his head, the same head that had come up with the grand idea. One thing he’d learned since becoming president: Mayhaven had a cash flow problem quickly careening into the red. Ned suspected the board had not exactly been transparent with him for fear he might not take the job. In the same vein, he didn’t share that problem with membership, for fear it might send them scurrying to the new club, Fox Run.
There was no quick fix for a cash flow problem, but there were ways to plug the holes. A paying partnership with the local boarding school was one. Another was their decision to open the summer camp to the public, something that had never been considered before.
“Just how public?” Dick Delancey had asked when Ned proposed this to the board. He said the word public like it was an STD.
“Residents of Rockwood, where many of us are from, I believe,” he’d reminded Dick.
Dick wrinkled his nose. “Still.”
Neiman Shrive had shrugged. “This side of the gates has always been for those who are paying members. I’m all for letting folks over, but they should pay.”
“That’s the point,” Ned explained. “We are getting paid for camp and court use. It will help our revenue.” He held up the most recent spreadsheet of operating costs. “If we want to continue all of our planned projects, this is the only way.”
The vote had been unanimous.
There was a knock on his door. “Mr. Birch?” It was Alta Bennington, a member so new Ned had just cashed her check that week. Alta was not only new, but young. Probably one of the jeans-wearing offenders in the restaurant. Her adorable daughter, Paisley, peeked around her. Another woman stood behind them.
Ned stood and smiled at all three. “Please, come in!”
Alta sent Paisley to sit on the hallway bench with the other woman, and marched in. Ned could not help but notice her tanned bare midriff as she sat down across from him; another reason he should send that dress code email. She did not look happy. “How are you settling in at Mayhaven?” he ventured.
“That’s why I’m here.” Alta cocked her head as if waiting for him to read her mind. “You don’t offer daycare.”
Ned was sure he’d said as much when he’d given the Benningtons a tour. “We have a summer camp for children age five and up. And, of course, our littlest members are welcome at the beach and the restaurant with their parents, anytime. But I’m afraid you’re right, we do not offer childcare services per se .” And he was pretty sure it would stay that way. Toddlers on the tennis court just did not make sense.
Alta didn’t blink. “Someone needs to watch my Paisley. I can’t very well play tennis with a two-year-old.”
“No, I don’t imagine you can,” Ned said, trying to sound empathetic.
“So, you need childcare.”
Ned would not tell Alta that it appeared she needed childcare. Instead, he said, “Have you asked any of the other members about babysitting recommendations? Many of them have teenagers who babysit. My own daughter, in fact…”
Alta nodded toward the woman in the hallway with Paisley. “I have a nanny. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Ah! Then you do have childcare.” This was becoming confusing.
“My nanny needs a break.”
“Oh. I see.” Actually, Ned did not see what any of this had to do with him or the club. But Alta was a member he’d personally signed, and he felt he needed to try and offer her something. “So, back to a babysitter. Would you like me to make some inquiries?”
“We can’t leave Paisley with just anyone. Which is why I think Mayhaven should offer services for its members.” She paused. “A certified professional with an education degree, of course.”
“Of course.” On it went until Paisley noisily joined them with a wet diaper, minus the nanny.
“See what I mean?” Alta cried, whisking her daughter up and away.
“Always nice to see you!” Ned called after them.
A moment later there was another knock on his door. Ned looked up, afraid to see Alta Bennington’s bare midriff again. Thankfully, it was his head chef, Mossimo. But he also did not look happy.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Birch, but there’s a problem with the cutlery,” he said, coming to stand over Ned’s desk. Mossimo never sat.
Ned looked up at him. “What’s wrong with the cutlery?”
“Silverware has gone missing. It started with a fork here and a knife there, so at first I didn’t think much of it. But when I took inventory yesterday, I noticed that we appear to be missing complete sets of our silver.”
“The good silver?” Back in the club’s founding days, there had been a gift by one of its earliest and wealthiest members, Regina Blackstone, in the form of cutlery for the newly constructed dining room. According to club history, the silver had only been used twice yearly during those early years, once for the opening season dinner party and once for the closing. As the club grew and modernized, the restaurant turned to more economical and practical flatware. Since then, the good cutlery was only brought out for special club occasions, or for the odd member wedding when it was specially requested by those in the know.
“Yes, sir,” Mossimo confirmed. “The Blackstone silver.”
Ned sat back in his chair. The Blackstone silverware was part of the club’s heritage and legacy. It had been used a few times in the last year, but to have exact sets missing was definitely odd. “Do you have any suspicions?”
Mossimo reared back slightly. “No one on my staff, I assure you.” The chef was deeply sensitive about his kitchen, employees and all. Ned appreciated that.
“We’ll have to keep our eyes open, I guess. When are we planning to use it next?”
“The first scramble of the season.”
“Alright. Let’s count it once more before the scramble dinner, and again after. Alert the staff to keep watch during service.” Ned hated to ask staff to spy on members—that was in direct opposition to the spirit he hoped to cultivate at Mayhaven. But what choice did he have?
Ned glanced at the clock. He was five minutes late for the grounds meeting. As he was gathering his folders, his phone rang. It was Ingrid. He really did not have time, but he took the call.
“He’s shooting, Ned. Shooting!”
Ned almost dropped his folders. “What? Who? Are you okay ?”
“I’m sorry, honey—we’re fine. I meant the neighbor. Stan is in the backyard shooting some kind of giant bow and arrow. I just saw him through the living room window.”
“What is he shooting?”
“You’re not going to like this. It appears to be our old scarecrow.”
They had just cleaned out their garage over the weekend, and the old scarecrow was part of a large pile of tired yard decorations Ingrid had deemed garbage. Just that morning, Ned had carried it down to the curb for trash pickup, alongside a broken Halloween sign and some dead Christmas tree lights. Ned was sentimental to a fault, and he knew he could be a packrat, but he’d felt especially bad about the scarecrow, even though it was missing an arm. He and Adam had made it a few years ago in Scouts. It still wore Ned’s old Red Sox T-shirt, a favorite that he’d spilled spaghetti sauce on and Ingrid had also made him give up.
“Stan went through our trash?” Ned asked. If Ingrid wouldn’t let him have the scarecrow, the neighbor couldn’t, either.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It was left on the curb, after all. But did you hear what I said about the crossbow? He’s shooting that thing alongside our backyard. I’m afraid to let Fritzy out. Is that even legal?”
“It’s definitely not safe.”
Ingrid sighed. “Wait until you hear the sound it makes when it hits your scarecrow.”
“He’s actually hitting the scarecrow?” This made it even worse.
“Right through the heart of your Red Sox shirt.” Ingrid brightened. “At least his aim is good!”
Ned did not like the sound of any of this: not about the bow or his scarecrow or his favorite old T-shirt. He put a hand to his own chest and glared at the clock. “Honey, I have to go.”
If opening day wasn’t stressful enough, now going home would be, too. Agitated and now (very) late, Ned took the stairs two at a time wondering if he’d be murdered beside his pool later, and who in their right mind shot at the Red Sox.