7. Ned
NED
The sound of Adam’s alarm clock from across the hall rattled him wide awake at six AM . Ned groaned and covered his head with the pillow, until Adam finally turned it off.
“Why is he setting his clock for six? It’s summer.”
Adam’s alarm tone was the sound of a fire truck siren that could wake the dead. He’d had it since he was five and fully submerged in a fire truck obsession, something he’d replaced several times since, but he could not part with the clock. At one point when the clock mysteriously broke (Ned long suspected Ingrid may have had a hand in that, on a particularly bad day), Adam’s reaction was vocal and not short-lived. It had sent the family spiraling to various devices to search online for a replacement. Finally, Darcy had found a used one on eBay. Notably, it had not broken since.
Ned rolled over to look at his wife, snoring softly beside him. She’d learned to tune out the alarm just as she had Stan Crenshaw’s loud music, which had gone on, again, until midnight. Ned was half impressed and half annoyed with his wife’s ability. He didn’t like lying awake, alone in his outrage at their neighbors. It was the kind that needed to be shared. It was theirs, in solidarity, to keep them awake together.
As his eyelids fluttered with fatigue, his mind wandered to yesterday’s interview. He still could not believe it was Flick who’d walked through his office door. The last time he’d seen Flick Creevy’s face was just before the front door had slammed shut in his own. Flick had been standing behind Stan, a mix of surprise and embarrassment clouding his expression. Well. Now, it was Ned’s turn. Mayhaven had a job that desperately needed filling. And Flick seemed right for the job. Ned could open that door for him. Or not.
“What time is it?” Ingrid stretched lazily beside him and reached her arm across the growing softness of his middle. Ned had no idea when he’d last been on the course, or in the lake. The leathery depth of his office chair was the only thing he submerged himself in these days.
“It’s six-ten,” he said, planting a kiss on Ingrid’s cheek.
“Board meeting today?”
Ned tried not to cringe. “Yep.”
“You’ll be okay,” she said.
As a Realtor in a small town with a tough market, Ingrid understood. “We need to help Adam find a job,” she reminded him. Adam had quit his last one at the local market.
It was a shame. At first, Adam liked the predictability and precision of bagging groceries, and his parents liked that it forced him to be more social. But a few weeks in there was an altercation. A customer asked Adam to put the vegetables in a separate bag. When all the groceries were bagged, he noticed that his tomatoes remained on the checkout counter. “You forgot the tomatoes,” he told Adam.
Adam had replied, “You said to keep the vegetables separate.”
“Yeah. So put the tomatoes in.” The customer was growing impatient.
“Tomatoes are a fruit,” Adam informed him.
“Just put them in.”
“But they’re not a vegetable.”
It had ended with the customer raising his voice and Adam covering his ears and running off to the bathroom, and a phone call to Ingrid who was in the middle of an open house two towns away.
“He’s not going back to the market,” Ingrid later said, over a glass of wine.
“I guess the tomatoes weren’t the only thing that got sacked,” Ned replied, at which they’d fallen into hysterics.
But the problem remained. Adam was bright and capable, and his parents wanted him to get some work experience.
“Is there nothing at the club?” Ingrid asked. She pressed against Ned.
“Jane needs help in the front office,” he said. “Data entry, invoices, that kind of stuff. It wouldn’t be much fun.”
Ingrid brightened. “But it’s computer stuff. I bet he’d love that.”
It was true. Adam loved all things tech-related. It was the people-related stuff he needed practice with. “Let me see what I can do. What about you? Any showings today?” Ned gazed at his wife. Ingrid’s eyes were so green, so lovely. He wrapped his arms around her, letting his hands trail down across her equally lovely bottom. He was a lucky man. And at that moment as he held her that way, he hoped he might get even luckier.
But Ingrid wanted to talk. She propped herself up, and his hands slipped off her bottom. “Actually, I have news.”
“Oh?” He reached for her, again.
“Guess what? I landed the Tree House!”
Tree House? This sounded exciting, but Ned was growing excited about something that did not involve talking. How long had it been? No matter. He needed to listen, really listen. Then, maybe, they could be excited together . “Is that the big cedar house overlooking the lake?” He pulled her closer.
“That’s the one. Five thousand unsellable square feet, listed at an un-gettable two point five million. They signed the listing agreement yesterday.”
“Wow. Why didn’t you tell me last night?” He searched her eyes. This was big news.
“You’ve been so busy at work, and then the new neighbors…” Her voice trailed off.
“Honey, that’s wonderful. Do you think you can sell it?”
Ingrid rolled over and away from him and stared at the ceiling.
“I have one new client from Boston. They’re wealthy and quirky and they’re looking for a weekend house.”
“Maybe they’ll be your buyer!”
Ingrid smiled. “Maybe.”
“You know, I could use some new members,” Ned said, rolling playfully on top of her. “Ask your buyer if they golf.”
“Very funny.”
“We should celebrate,” Ned said.
“We should.”
He pressed his hips against hers, hoping she’d feel how celebratory he was feeling. To his delight, Ingrid pressed back.
Ned groaned with pleasure just as there was a pounding on their bedroom door.
“We’re out of eggs!” It was Adam. Adam had eggs for breakfast every morning.
“There’s cereal!” Ned shouted in vain, but Ingrid was already scooting out from under him.
“Sorry, honey,” she said. “But we both know cereal won’t satisfy him.”
Ned stared at a small crack in the ceiling over their bed. The only thing he knew for sure was that no one would be satisfied that morning.
“First item on the agenda: new membership.” They were the two words Ned dreaded most that summer.
Dick Delancey was looking right at him, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and for the life of him Ned could not imagine why. Dick was the board chairman. He had the same dismal numbers on the printout in front of him; the very numbers Ned had been staring at for all of June. As president, Dick should be committed to finding solutions and cheering on efforts. But all Ned got from Dick Delancey was pushback and complaints. “Fix it, Birch,” he’d said, saddled up at the bar with a cold beer in front of him. “We hired you as next president to fix it.”
Now, Ned rose from his chair, at the opposite head of the table. Among the eight board members were Neiman Shrive, and Bitsy Babcock, the sole female on the board, which Ned had helped facilitate. Neiman and Bitsy were elder members with a history and love of Mayhaven that rivaled Ned’s. But the rest of the board were what the tennis pro had referred to in whispered tones as good ol’ boys . “Delancey isn’t a team player,” she had warned Ned. “You’re going to be on your own as president. And on the hook for whatever comes your way.”
He’d start with the good news. “Last month we welcomed three new families to Mayhaven!”
“Did you say three?” Dick asked.
Ned nodded as Dick scribbled something in an oversized notepad. “Full membership for two of those families, and social membership for the third.”
“So, if we’re talking the full benefits of full membership fees, it’s really more like two.” Dick scribbled some more.
“I’ve met one of those new families: the Fullertons,” Bitsy interjected. “Nice people. And the mother is an avid golfer, which will be good for us.” Bitsy was right. Growing Mayhaven’s female golf league was a top priority; not only were the women among some of the better golfers he’d seen, but when more than one member of a family played, it secured the chance they’d stay on. It was another reason Ned was also trying to firm up the children’s program: parents invested in their kids. And Mayhaven needed to invest in the next generation of tennis players and golfers.
“How does that offset the building assessment?” Scooter Thornton asked. Scooter was a scratch golfer but just an okay kind of guy. He drank too much in the restaurant and was fond of telling jokes that became crasser with each beer. Of course, Dick loved him.
“Well, it doesn’t offset it by much,” Ned allowed. “We lost the Hendersons to Fox Run.” He tried not to let his posture sag along with the news.
“So no offset.” More scribbling from Dick.
Ned was sorely tempted to ask Dick how he offset Coral’s fling-bling. Instead he said, “Our summer camp program has its highest enrollment in club history: seventy-five kids.”
Everyone around the table nodded, and Ned took heart. “My hope is that when camp is over, these kids continue with our fall and spring lesson programs. If that happens, we could be in a position to host a youth golf tournament.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” Bitsy said. “Maybe your girl will play again?”
Again, Ned tried not to let his posture sag.
Neiman Shrive snorted. “Sounds to me like the courts and course will get noisy.”
Ned smiled. “We’ve got a new generation here we’re trying to cultivate.”
“Cultivate?” Dick screwed up his face like he’d been hit with a used diaper. “What are we, some kind of new age artsy learning center for kids?” He looked around him at the other board members. “I thought we were a country club.”
Ned bit his lip. “We’re an association of folks who, hopefully, become lifelong golfers and tennis players, Dick. That takes cultivation.”
Dick said nothing. He leaned back in his seat, stretching lazily as if he were lounging in his own home theater. Dick was taking pleasure in watching Ned squirm.
“So, aside from kiddie camp, we’ve got the equivalent of one and a half new memberships.”
Ned had had enough from Dick. “Which leads me to mem bership concerns.” He lifted up the Pilgrim Box and shook it. “Since we put this out for comments, it’s been filling up.”
He ignored Neiman Shrive’s eyeroll. “There are a few that stood out which I’d like to share with the board.”
As soon as Ned read the member comment questioning the pilgrim logo, heads swiveled. “What’s wrong with our pilgrim?” Art O’Connor barked. “He represents courage and strength.”
Bitsy Babcock wagged a finger. “Notice you just said he ? We also have a vibrant female membership, here. I think that’s what this member is getting at.”
From there the conversation careened out of Ned’s control.
“So slap a woman pilgrim on the sign. Did they wear those wide-brimmed hats, too?”
“So now we’re villainizing pilgrims?”
“I don’t see how anyone could be offended. Do we even have any Native American members?”
“We do have membership with Mayflower lineage.”
“Is that where the name Mayhaven came from?”
“Just cancel the pilgrim. That’s what the young members want, isn’t it? To cancel everything!”
Ned had to clap his hands over the uproar. “Clearly this member’s comment raises a lot of questions. As such, I suggest we table this conversation for further review.”
Dick Delancey shook his head. “Great. We’re going to take down the pilgrim, a logo we’ve had since the club’s inception, just because some woke mom got her tennis skirt in a twist. Shall we also give trophies to everyone at the next golf scramble, while we’re at it?”
And just like that, everyone was shouting again.
Ned wished he had a gavel. His hands were raw from clapping by the time the table quieted down. “Alright, alright, clearly this is a matter that requires further consideration.” There was a disgruntled vote to table discussion for a special ses-sion.
There was one more issue before they could adjourn.
“Where are things on the pond regeneration?” Teddy Winter asked. “Is it ready for fish?”
Ned felt the familiar tug of an oncoming eye twitch. For a water feature intended to be serene and healing, thus far the pond had imparted nothing but angst.
The pond was located on the ninth hole, once the most picturesque hole on the course. But over time the retaining wall had begun to leak, the filtration system had clogged, and due to aquatic imbalances the fishpond had eventually turned muddy and fish-less. Unlike other recent projects that raised assessment fees without providing any immediate aesthetic pleasure, the pond rejuvenation was highly visible. Members liked seeing what they were paying for, and it was by far the most visually appealing improvement of the year. But due to setbacks unforeseen and plentiful, the project had been delayed and run over budget. If there was anything Ned wanted to wrap up, it was the damn pond.
Dick Delancey brightened, for the first time, at the mention of the pond. “As you all know my darling daughter, Phoebe, is getting married here this summer. We plan to take family wedding photos at the pond. My wife, Coral, has an affinity for water features.”
Unsurprisingly, Phoebe was as much a character as her parents. Since she’d been a teen, darling Phoebe had pilfered drinks from the bar and screamed at the tennis pro in front of everyone any time she missed a shot. As for Coral: last he’d heard, the front end of her Bentley was still dinged by some errant caddy who must’ve hit it with a golf cart after the Memorial Day dinner dance. There was never a mention of the one-hundred-year-old oak tree at the clubhouse entrance with a side mirror sticking out of its trunk; nor the Delancey bar tab that evening to the tune of seven whisky sours. In addition to the aforementioned water features, Coral also had an affinity for Jack Daniel’s.
“Good news,” Ned said. “The project is nearly done! Our aquatic specialist informs me that the plant life has taken hold and the pond is finally ready to support fish.”
The announcement caused a happy ripple across the table.
“When do the fish come?”
Ned smiled. This was the best part. “We have ordered a very special variety of rare koi. The hatchery has scheduled a delivery for two weeks from tomorrow.”
Bitsy clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! What kind of koi are they?”
“Hikarimono,” Ned said, hoping he’d pronounced it correctly.
“Hikarimono!” the board echoed around the table. More resounding cheers!
Ned doubted that a single one of them had any clue what Hikarimono were. Until last week’s conference call with the hatchery, he sure as hell had not.
He looked to Dick now. “Your daughter and wife will be relieved to know that the koi are beautiful and on their way. We’re expecting two hundred of them.”
“Two hundred!” someone said.
Dick Delancey tapped his pen loudly against the table. “If only your membership numbers were so high.”