6. Flick
FLICK
Mayhaven was everything his mother had hoped it would be and everything he’d feared. The clubhouse was one of those nondescript clapboard buildings that might be a church, a prep school, or a country club—all of which housed pasty people in preppy clothes. So, really, what was the difference?
The moment he walked through the front doors Flick looked down and realized his first mistake—his concert T-shirt and sneakers. When he looked up he realized his second: a place with a chandelier that sparkly probably demanded an equally glittering résumé, which he did not have. Honestly, Flick didn’t want this job to begin with, and he’d known it before he even stepped foot inside Mayhaven. The idea of a summer job wasn’t the problem; Flick was bored stiff in their dead-dull town and having something to do and money of his own seemed like a good idea. Despite what Stan had said to him when they moved in, Flick didn’t feel comfortable asking him for pocket money. Or anything else, for that matter. The house, the pool, the sports cars—it was all as foreign to him as the empty green expanse of their new rural life and the eternal thrum outside his window each night, from what his mother informed him were peepers, whatever they were. Flick missed the sound of street noise, the bustle of city sidewalks, the throngs of people. Rockwood was too quiet, the new house so isolated. And he knew nobody. School would be the only way to meet people his age, but that wouldn’t start for another two months, so a job would be a way to kill time until then. Which is why Flick had suggested he go to the local grocery market and ask if they were hiring. He’d been a cashier before, back in Queens; it wasn’t rocket science. But Josie said no—that they didn’t need the money, so any job he got should be about more than that. They were in a new place making a fresh start. Josie wanted him to network. To rub elbows, as she put it.
“Why?” Flick wanted to know.
“You need to meet people, so they might as well be people with connections. Kids around here come from good families and go to good colleges. Who you know can help.”
Flick was mildly offended. First, just because folks had money didn’t make them good. She of all people, having cleaned up after them in her housekeeping work, should know that. Second, as for good families, hadn’t they already been a good family back in New York? Adding Stan the Dry Cleaning King and a forest of trees full of stinging bugs didn’t count for any improvement, as far as Flick was concerned. Third, he’d always done well in school, and Josie hadn’t put much emphasis on that before, beyond the fact that he went.
Now that they were living in Rockwood Josie was online every night perusing Rockwood attractions and associations, the local playhouse and the yoga classes down at the lake. Stan had his own take on it. To him moving to the country meant he had to tame it or hunt it, a novel way to assert his manhood. To his mother’s horror Stan had gone out to buy eggs the other morning and come home from the sporting goods store with a giant crossbow.
“Are you crazy? You’re going to kill someone with that,” she’d warned him.
“That’s the plan. Ever had venison?”
Josie made a face. “That’s what grocery stores are for. Besides, you are not killing some poor innocent animal, Stan.”
“Oh, come on, the deer are a dime a dozen up here. That’s why they have hunting season.”
Josie stood her ground. “You want to shoot something? Make a target in the backyard, facing away from the house. I did not move up here for you to murder Bambi.”
But Josie was just as guilty with her own fantasies. “We can learn to sail!” she’d said one night at dinner, which sounded like a joke coming from the woman who got seasick on the Staten Island Ferry. It was like she’d woken up in some kind of fairy tale and she was hungry to not only get the lay of the land but to insert herself into it. Which is how she’d found out about Mayhaven.
“Look at this!” Josie was stationed at the marble waterfall counter with her laptop (another new purchase) a few nights earlier. They were having another opulent meal of oversized steaks grilled on the oversized Weber in the outdoor kitchen, which was as big as the indoor one. “There’s a country club just up the road!” his mother shrieked. “I had no idea.”
Stan flashed his toothy grin from his station at the grill, as though he’d had something to do with that fact. “Only the best neighborhood for my girl.”
“It’s called Mayhaven,” Josie said. “Sounds like the Mayflower , doesn’t it?”
Flick leaned over her shoulder to see what his mother was so excited about.
“Oh my God,” Josie squealed. “Their logo is a pilgrim! I was right.”
The club home page showed a white clapboard building with a towering flagpole. The whole thing looked like a mini White House with a pilgrim on a sign. Josie read the heading aloud: “ Welcome to Mayhaven, where summer is eternal.”
Flick rolled his eyes. “Sounds stupid.”
Stan joined them. “Sounds pricey.” Stan did that—he commented on how expensive everything was in the same breath he insisted only the best!
But a dreamy look was already spreading across Josie’s face. “It’s just a mile from our house! Stan, this place looks nice. You always said you wanted to golf.”
Stan grunted. “When did I say that?”
“We should check it out,” Josie went on. “Who knows, maybe I’ll take up tennis.”
At that, Stan showed his teeth again. “You slip into one of those tennis skirts and I’ll join today.” He wrapped his big hands around her small waist and pressed his lips to hers.
Flick had to avert his eyes.
“Wait,” Josie said, suddenly. “Flick, you should go, too.”
“No way.” He shook his head. “I don’t play golf. Or tennis. Don’t plan to.” He made the face he reserved for no way in hell, something he rarely did. Josie had asked a lot of him this summer, marrying Stan and abandoning Queens. He’d been flexible and smiled until his face hurt through all of it. But Flick had his limits.
“Not for the club,” Josie said, scrolling down. “For a job. Look, there’s a notice for summer jobs.”
Flick was still not interested. “What would I do at a country club?”
“Anything they ask you to.” Stan chuckled. “Those people got money to burn. Keep ’em happy and they’ll tip big.”
This was another thing Stan did: spoke with authority on pretty much everything. Flick wanted to ask Stan what kind of country club experience he had. Based on Stan’s wardrobe of polyester suits and gold jewelry, Flick would bet his life on zero. But he bit his tongue.
Josie kept scrolling. “Read this. Under employment opportunities, it says kitchen help wanted.”
“That’s what they’re calling it, now? An opportunity?” Stan snorted. “Translation: dishwasher.”
Josie ignored this and instead looked at Flick. “Maybe they need restaurant help. You could do that. You love to cook.”
Flick did like to cook; before Stan and the country house, any homemade dinner that made its way onto their kitchen table in Queens was by him. But he seriously doubted a club wanted a teenage cook self-taught by watching Food Network reruns.
“Nah,” Stan said. “A place like that’s got professional chefs. They’ll have him peeling potatoes, washing dishes, cleaning up. Grunt work.”
Josie swiveled on her barstool and leveled a look at Stan. “So?” For a guy who knew everything, Stan often forgot that her line of work used to be grunt work.
Stan swallowed hard.
Flick liked that as mushy as his mother could be about her new husband, she still spoke her mind. He liked it even more that Stan had the sense to back down when she did.
“Nothing wrong with honest work,” Josie added, eyes locked on her husband’s.
“No,” Stan agreed, excusing himself to check on the steaks. “Nothing at all.”
Flick indulged his mother and called the club about the kitchen-help “opportunity.” When he did, a man on the phone suggested he come that afternoon. They must’ve been desperate. Josie was thrilled. “See? You’ve got to hustle, Flick. You can check the place out for us while you’re there.”
Flick didn’t get it. They weren’t country club people. He would’ve been just as happy working at the grocery store or the ice cream shop in town, which, according to his mother, employed some cute girls she thought he should introduce himself to. He couldn’t understand why Josie was so obsessed with adopting a new lifestyle just because of a new address. He and his mother were both born and raised in Queens. If, as she insisted, there was nothing wrong with their old lives, their old apartment, and her old job, why was she champing at the bit to dive into a world so different?
It didn’t matter, he decided, as he stood beneath the giant chandelier in the country club foyer that afternoon. He was there. In the wrong clothes and without a résumé. He may as well get the interview over with.
The man on the phone, a Mr. Birch, had told him to report directly to the office, but all Flick could see was a trophy case that stretched the length of the hall. The glass case was full of framed photos and engraved awards, every face white, every trophy gold. There were plenty of old men, a couple of old ladies, and a whole lot of collared shirts. Flick groaned. That’s when he looked up and saw the girl.
She wore a polo shirt and khaki shorts that reminded him of a school uniform, and was standing beneath an engraved sign labeled, Locker Rooms . These people sure liked to engrave things.
As he walked toward her Flick recognized the Mayhaven pilgrim logo on her shirt. Man, she was in full regalia. But despite that, something about her expression told him she didn’t buy into it. Flick was instantly intrigued.
In addition to her unamused expression, she was very pretty. Flick couldn’t stop staring at the freckles on her nose.
And then she asked him if he was a delivery boy. And it all went sideways.
At first Flick thought she was kidding. When he realized she was not, he could feel his hackles go up. Had she said that because of his skin color? Regardless, did she not realize how insensitive she sounded? He forgot all about the freckles. “Seriously?” he challenged.
He realized then that maybe he’d been the one to read it wrong. She was instantly embarrassed. Genuinely so, by the deep flush of her cheeks and the vaporization of all the confidence he’d admired walking up to her. As she sputtered and blushed in front of him, it was his turn to feel bad.
Finally, he held up his hands. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. It’s cool.” And it was—sort of. She shouldn’t have made those assumptions, but the thing was, she seemed like she realized it. And that was enough.
What Flick really liked was that Darcy had the guts to introduce herself, afterward. As he headed down the hall to find Mr. Birch, Flick fought the urge to look over his shoulder.
He was in for another surprise as he walked into the office.
No doubt the rich mahogany-paneled walls and gold-framed artwork would’ve been enough to put him on edge, like a fish out of water. Just as the pretty girl in the hallway had. But, worse, was the familiar face seated in front of him.
The man hopped up from his desk chair, mouth ajar. “I’ll be darned. I believe we’ve met.”
Perspiration was already beading on Flick’s upper lip. Oh yes, they’d met. Just before Stan had slammed the door in their new neighbor’s face. “Yes, sir,” Flick stammered. Why was he saying sir ?
He was fully prepared to be thrown out. Or—since they were in a country club—be escorted out after the way Stan had treated Ned the other night.
But instead, his neighbor extended his hand. “Nice to see you, again, Flick.”
Flick felt his cheeks flood with color as he shook Ned’s hand. “Nice to see you, too, sir.” Again with the sir. Flick didn’t even want the job, but he could already feel it being pulled off the table.
But Mr. Birch (Ned? No, not here at the club, and certainly not after what Stan had done) smiled broadly. It looked like a real smile, too, not the kind grown-ups flash you when behind their eyes they’re secretly sizing you up. “I guess I didn’t put it together when we talked on the phone, but this is a nice surprise. Real nice! Please, have a seat.” He indicated one of two identical upholstered leather chairs opposite his desk. “Take that one. It’s more comfy.”
Flick sat. Was this guy for real?
Mr. Birch folded his hands. “How do you like Rockwood?”
“Oh. It’s fine, I guess. I don’t really know it yet.”
“Yes, it’s tough being new. But I bet by summer’s end you’ll feel more at home.”
Flick nodded, unsure what to say.
“You like rap music?”
It took him a second, and then Flick understood. Stan’s loud music from the other night, of course. And he was probably going to be blamed for it, because who would believe a fifty-year-old retiree listens to Drake? “That’s my stepfather.” He paused. “Sorry, my mom always tells him to turn it down. She was out that night.”
Mr. Birch shook his head. “No need to apologize.” But Flick could tell there was a need. For the loud music and also the door being slammed. And probably a host of other things Flick didn’t even know about. This interview was a mistake; he could not work for a guy he lived next door to.
Before Flick could think of a way to apologize for the things Stan had done, Mr. Birch was off and running in a new direction. “So, I’m guessing you saw our job listings on the website. Which position are you interested in?”
Just like that Flick had to shift gears. Only it wasn’t so much an interview as a conversation. Mr. Birch wanted to know what kitchen experience he had and didn’t seem one bit concerned about the fact it wasn’t formal. Could Flick be flexible and come in early some days or stay late on others? Was Flick open to prepping food before dinner service as well as bussing tables when the restaurant got busy? Flick found himself saying yes, that he was.
Before Flick knew it, he was following the guy out of the office and down the hall (Darcy was long gone). Up the carpeted steps they went, Mr. Birch talking the whole time about the club history and its founder, some guy named Wilson. Flick wondered what any of this had to do with the kitchen job, but he nodded politely. At the top of the stairs, they stopped. The second floor was one giant open space, which could either be called a large formal dining room or a small ballroom, with a bar at one end. A bank of windows ran along the wall overlooking the golf course. Outside was a wraparound deck with what Flick imagined was an even better view. Flick blinked in the sunlight.
“This is the restaurant,” Mr. Birch told him. “The kitchen is in the rear, through those swinging doors. You’d be spending most of your time working there. Shall we take a look?”
Flick nodded and followed.
His Converse sneakers squeaked on the polished hardwoods and Ned looked over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Flick said, reflexively. “I didn’t unpack my dress shoes yet.”
“No, no,” Ned insisted cheerfully. “You came dressed for the kitchen. I like it.” He pushed through the swinging doors and waved hello at the cooks.
The kitchen gleamed despite the people and prep work underway. Flick eyed a stainless steel counter loaded with potatoes. Maybe Stan had been right, for once.
Alongside the mountain of peeled potatoes were boards of chopped celery and onions. “Ooh! Did I see clam chowder on the menu?” Ned called out.
A burly man in checkered chef’s pants nodded toward a deep sink. In the basin, Flick could see a pile of shellfish.
“My favorite,” Ned declared. “Call me if you need a taste tester!” The chef did not smile, but he nodded, his eyes on Flick.
“Mossimo, this is Flick Creevy. He’s interviewing for the kitchen prep job.”
Mossimo crossed his tattooed arms and scowled. “You know how to shuck clams?”
Flick was not prepared for this. He didn’t even eat clams. “I can learn.”
“Good answer!” Ned said. He turned to Mossimo. “Flick tells me he has basic chopping and dicing skills.”
“I’ll be the judge,” Mossimo said, curtly. He turned to Flick. “I can give you fifteen minutes, I am too busy to give you more.”
Flick hadn’t asked the chef to give him anything. He certainly didn’t feel like standing in dour-faced Mossimo’s kitchen. It was a sauna. Pots steamed on ranges, bread was being whisked from ovens, and two people were chopping vegetables at prep stations. The place was a zoo compared to the quiet serenity of the dining room just outside.
“Got fifteen minutes?” Ned asked.
“Sure,” Flick said, not feeling sure at all.
Mossimo nodded. “Very well. Leave him to me, Mr. Ned. I’ll send him back down when I’m done.”
“Sounds good,” Ned said, eyeing the pot on the stove. Maybe send along a little of that chowder if it’s ready?” The kitchen doors swung shut behind him with a swoosh.
“Mr. Flick. You come here.” Nervous, he followed the chef, past another prep worker, about his age, and a young woman who was rolling out some kind of dough, to a small counter at the rear. Mossimo looked like he had plans for him, and Flick didn’t like not knowing what they were.
Sixteen minutes later, Flick knocked on Mr. Birch’s office door and poked his head in.
“How’d it go?” Ned asked, eagerly.
Under the scrutinizing stare of Mossimo, Flick had peeled and chopped one carrot, diced an onion that made his eyes run, and minced and sautéed garlic in a tiny buttered pan that he quickly realized got too hot too fast. “Sorry,” he had said, holding up the smoking pan. “I’ve never cooked on gas before.”
Mossimo chuffed like a horse and turned away.
For his final test Flick tried and failed to shuck a clam, and, before he cut off his thumb, had been swiftly relieved of the shucking knife. He’d been corrected and redirected and laughed at. He had no idea how it went, other than not great. Not great at all.
Before he could say as much to Mr. Birch, the phone rang on his desk. “Excuse me, just a moment.” Ned answered and listened without a word. Then, finally, “Thank you.” He hung up the phone.
Flick waited as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his armchair. “Mossimo said you did well,” he said.
Flick felt his insides relax. The chef had given zero indication of that.
“How did he do?” Mr. Birch asked.
“Excuse me?” Flick was confused.
“Mossimo. Do you feel like the two of you could work well together?” As Flick struggled to reply, Mr. Birch plowed cheer fully on. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a talented chef and we’re very lucky to have him. Oh, you should try his Tuscan baked artichoke!” He smiled to himself before growing serious. “But Mossimo is not easy, and the work won’t be, either.”
Flick didn’t know what to say. It had never occurred to him that anyone in Mr. Birch’s position would even consider asking someone in his position how he felt . He was a kid. Applying for a kitchen job. In a fancy club. Mr. Birch had all the power, not him.
“One thing you should know,” Ned continued, “is that we pride ourselves here at Mayhaven on our service. Our members are good people, and this is our special place. We want our staff to understand that.”
“Yes, of course,” Flick found himself saying. Here it was—the division of power he’d been expecting. They were at the top, he was at the bottom. Like Stan said, do what they ask.
“It’s no secret that when people feel happy in a place, they will return to it.”
“Sure,” Flick said, sitting back in his seat. In other words, what Stan had said .
“So, I think the real secret is to hire good staff, and take good care of them,” Mr. Birch concluded.
“The staff?” This was not at all what Flick thought was coming next.
“The staff. Because if our staff are happy, they’ll provide good service. And then our members will be happy. See how that works?” He raised his index finger and twirled it gently in a circle. “What goes around…”
Flick was dumbfounded by how much we and our Mr. Birch used, as if they were some kind of team. Albeit a pastel-clad team, but still. In a place like this, Flick was expecting more us and them .
And then, just as quickly as the interview had begun almost an hour earlier, it ended. Mr. Birch folded his hands neatly on his desk and returned to the question at hand. “Mossimo likes to say he runs a tight ship. I like to think of it as a tight family. In that vein, do you think you’d be happy here?”
No way. Mr. Birch was asking Flick about his happiness. Despite his nerves, and despite the fact he’d never wanted this job in the first place, he considered the question. He didn’t know Mossimo one lick, but the chef had been fair if firm. “I think so,” he stammered.
“Good. I’m going to give us both the night to think it over and I’ll call tomorrow.”
On his way out, Flick glanced around—at the gleaming trophy case, at the empty hallway where Darcy had stood, and finally, up at the chandelier. He shook his head.
As he left the air-conditioned comfort of the clubhouse and stepped out into the heat, Flick heard the peal of kids’ laughter floating up from a grove of evergreen trees, behind which he could make out the glimmer of a lake. On the tennis courts behind him, balls thwacked rhythmically back and forth, and from the upper decks of the restaurant a row of crisp American flags snapped from the railings. An old man in a golf cart putted slowly by. He lifted a gloved hand in greeting. Mayhaven was something else, that was for sure. So was Mr. Birch.
Flick had come here only to get Josie off his back. Working in a steaming-hot kitchen all summer was the last thing he wanted to do. And these people were not his people.
Thankfully, the interview was over. His nerves had settled and so had his stomach. Flick could tell his mother he’d done it and get on with his summer. Mr. Birch had told him he’d think about it. And that Flick should, too. But who was he kidding?
After how Stan had treated him? And how Flick had shown up in Converse sneakers and a T-shirt to work in a place like this? No. Ned Birch didn’t have to think, he was just being polite.
Still, as Flick headed for the safety of his car, he glanced over his shoulder once more at the white clapboard building, regal against the rich blue sky. What was it about this place? His stomach flip-flopped one last time.
Flick was halfway down the walkway to the parking lot before he realized the truth about the flutter in his stomach. It wasn’t nerves. Damn. It was hope.