15. Ned
NED
The scramble proved a roaring success, and nobody, not even Dick Delancey, could deny it. Monday morning Ned strolled through the clubhouse with a spring in his step.
The event had almost sold out, with a record increase of forty percent member participation compared to the last golf scramble. Well, wait until he reported that to the board.
The success wasn’t just in the numbers. The evening had been magical; the food decadent, the sky starry, and the guests had danced under the white tent right up until the jazz band bid good night.
Ned unlocked his office door. At that hour only he, the pros, and Adam were there. Adam had just started his new job assisting Jane.
“Hurry, Dad,” he’d urged an hour earlier, already waiting by the front door with his lunch packed before Ned had even considered breakfast. “I have to review invoices today, and I can’t concentrate when Jane gets that coffeemaker going.” Apparently Adam liked coming in early, too. Like father, like son.
According to the schedule Jane had left on his desk he had a nine o’clock wedding conference with the Delanceys. Ned groaned inwardly, his good vibes from the weekend already lifting away. Next was the matter of the Koi delivery. Unfortunately, a small hurricane off the coast of North Carolina had caused several road closures, so the fish delivery for the new pond would be delayed. Which reminded him that he needed to meet with the grounds staff; there was some cart damage from a wayward driver on the fifth hole. First, Ned decided, he would review the latest comments from the Pilgrim Box. He was curious what members had to say about the scramble dinner party.
The rustle of paper within was promising, but opening the box always gave Ned pause. Statistically, people who took the time to comment were those who had something to complain about.
He took a deep breath and unfolded the first comment. The handwriting was scrawled and difficult to read. The water bottles on the course are not cold enough.
Not a crisis, Ned thought.
He opened another. Marcy Walgram is a court hog. She always shows up early and plays beyond her allotted time. Marcy needs a talking-to. Or is everyone afraid of her?
Ned grimaced. Marcy Walgram was a court hog. He made a note.
Next comment: The menu is too foreign. What is Thai basil? If I wanted Mojo pork I’d get on a plane. This is the United States of America. When did pork chops and mashed potatoes become offensive?
Well. This was likely penned by the same member who’d called their Australian course manager a penal colonist: a bigger issue than the aforementioned menu.
There were a couple doozies.
Is it just me, or are we being infiltrated by swingers? Someone keeps wearing his pineapple tie clip upside down and dances too close. Of course, I wouldn’t know such things, but I’ve heard…
What is all this fuss about pineapples? I can’t begin to tell you what someone suggested about my pineapple tennis top. It’s Lilly Pulitzer, not sex.
Has anyone considered a Juneteenth celebration? We want everyone to feel included! What is the color theme for Juneteenth? Is that a rainbow, too??
Ned rubbed his temples. Thankfully, the next comments were less worrisome.
The new showerheads suck. If we can’t have a spa on site, can we at least have a massaging showerhead?
Can we start a Lost and Found? My husband forgets his boxers in the locker room. I don’t want to trespass in the men’s room, but I will if I have to. Signed, Lillian Jameson.
Yikes. Either Lillian did not know the Pilgrim Box was anonymous or did not care. Either way, Ned could not risk her trolling the men’s locker room. He made another note. He was about to close the box when he spied one more. It was tucked in the corner, folded so small and tight, that he’d almost missed it.
I used to think Mayhaven was a special place. But the men need to respect the women.
Ned sat back in his chair. This was different. And concerning. Ned read the comment again. It was written in blue ink and block print. There was no telling who it was from, and there were no specifics that might give him a clue as to how to begin to tackle this, but that wasn’t important. What was important was figuring out why a woman was feeling disrespected at Mayhaven. Ned tucked it in his desk drawer. This one necessitated some investigation.
Jane buzzed his office line. “Delanceys are here early. They’re waiting in the meeting room.”
“Fabulous,” Ned said.
He heard Jane chuckle before she hung up. They’d already done rock, paper, scissors over who got to run this meeting.
Coral and the bride-to-be, Phoebe Delancey, were seated with an overstuffed pink-and-white binder labeled Bride in gold calligraphy resting between them. How Ned wished Mayhaven could budget for an event planner.
“Good morning!” he said as brightly as he could. But the looks on the women’s faces were anything but.
“We need to make a little change,” Coral said, diving right in. Her bracelets jingled as she whisked the binder open. His thoughts flashed back to the Pilgrim Box rumor from last week.
Ned tried not to stare at Coral’s arm, but it was visually impossible. So much glittering gold. How much free time did Dick have?
“It’s just a little change,” Phoebe added brightly. Only there was not just one change, nor was it little. For the next forty-five minutes Ned listened in disbelief. He was beginning to suspect that the largest part of his job as president was to manage other people’s expectations.
Phoebe kept throwing up her hands in despair. “I don’t feel like the wedding captures my vibe, you know? I used to think I was Ivy style. But now I want to go for a more Boho vibe. You know?”
Ned did not know. Nor did he care about Phoebe Delancey’s vibe. All he wanted was for the Delanceys to stick to a decision. His prospective members open house was looming; he needed to get out of there.
Before he managed to, Phoebe had uprooted the ceremony setup from indoors to outdoors. Timing was pushed back four hours to align the champagne toast with the sunset. The five-course white glove dinner service was abandoned for a rustic New England clambake. Ned’s eyelid twitched as he made copious notes.
When Coral raised a finger to suggest releasing doves (not good for the doves or the white tent, Ned explained) he stood. “Apologies, ladies. I’ve got a tour to give.”
Coral sniffed. “We’ll have to circle back to the doves.”
The problem was, Ned was certain they would.
Outside, Ned found a group of prospective members mingling on the patio. Thank God for Jane, who’d overseen setup of lemonade and scones.
“Welcome!” Ned felt a little like a pastor opening his arms to his congregation, but damned if the setting didn’t call for it. The sun was high, the sky cloudless, and the distant laughter of campers rippled through the evergreens. “I’m Ned Birch, club president, and it’s my pleasure to share a slice of Mayhaven with you today.”
As he launched into the club’s history Ned sized up the group. So far, everyone appeared interested and engaged. There was a man in a business suit, likely on break from work. A few couples, of mixed ages. And one young family with toddlers. He was about to commence the tour when he spied a familiar face in the back row. Ned’s heart dropped. No, no, no… what are they doing here?
Stan Crenshaw stood at the rear with his wife, Josie, on his arm. He looked right at Ned, unsmiling. Josie waved enthusiastically.
As the group followed Ned across the lawn to the tennis courts, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Stan’s attire. Everyone else was outfitted per dress code. Not Stan; the guy had donned all black from his oversized bowling shirt to his wide black board shorts, a wash of monochromatic gloom until you got down to his footwear: neon green Air Jordans. Ned pressed on.
Introducing Mayhaven to new members was the best part of his job. As Ned steered them from the courts to the driving range to the lake, his gaze roamed across the group gauging their reactions. The young mother’s face lit up at the sight of a doubles match, and he wondered if it brought back memories of her high school team. Down at the lake, the businessman rolled up his pants and kicked off his dress shoes to sink his toes in the sand. On the upper decks, one of the children leaned out over the railing and pointed to the mountains. “Just imagine the sunsets,” the wife whispered dreamily to the husband.
Ned was used to these reactions. Prospective members came for the golf or tennis, but they left with the wonder of the great outdoors. Mayhaven had it all. There was sanctuary beneath the willows along the lake, respite in the rolling breeze, magic in the shadows. Always, it brought Ned back in time to his own introduction to the club. To the feelings, many and complicated, it unearthed.
That long ago morning his father brought him up to play before opening hours, Ned experienced awe for the first time. Walking the gilded fairways at sunrise tethered him to the splendor of nature. Often they encountered the same young buck beneath the apple tree on the third hole, the noisy geese exiting the pond on the eighth. Tromping across the dewy grass beneath the blazing sky, it was like they were the only two people on earth.
It was also the first time Ned experienced what it was like to feel inferior. His family could never have afforded to belong to Mayhaven. He understood that the bag of clubs on his shoulder were secondhand, and only because another boy his age had left them behind. Slipping through daybreak shadows, he and his father were not members or guests. They were at the mercy of an old friend’s generosity, limited to a handful of hours on stolen Saturday mornings. Until the day they were caught.
They’d just finished playing the eighth hole; Ned would always remember which one it was. His father had told him to hurry, that they did not have time to play their usual nine and needed to get off the course quickly. They’d just crested the hill on their way back to the parking lot, when they saw Len standing at the edge of the fairway. Len was not alone. Another man was talking to him, arms gesturing. Ned feared it wasn’t good. When both men’s heads snapped in their direction, he knew it in his gut.
“Go on,” his father said gruffly. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
Ned worried as they parted ways. He worried his father was in trouble. Or their friend Len might lose his job. Most of all, and he felt guilty for this, he worried this would be his last round at Mayhaven. He glanced over his shoulder more than once as his father walked toward Len and the other man without him.
Though Ned couldn’t hear what they were saying, the man who’d seemed angry at Len now seemed angry at his father. Ned knew anger; he’d felt it emanating off his father all his life. It was the first time he saw his father on the receiving end of it. For some reason, this frightened him even more.
He opened the trunk of the car and set his golf bag in the back. When he climbed into the front seat he tried to wait, like his father had told him. Eyes trained on the three men, he held his breath. He counted to fifty. And then, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, he got out of the car.
“I could have you arrested!” The words carried over the wind and the crunch of incoming tires in the parking lot to Ned’s ears. He jammed his hands in his pockets and pressed toward them. “Do you have any idea what people pay to belong here? This is criminal trespassing.”
As he drew closer, Ned saw the look on his father’s face. Many times in his life Ned had been afraid of his father, but for the first time he felt afraid for him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he was saying. “I’ll find a way to pay you back. Len is a good man, it was not his idea.”
When his father saw him, his posture sagged. All three men turned expectantly to Ned.
“This is the boy,” Len said. “Honestly, Mr. Kraft. You should see his swing.”
Mr. Kraft did not look like he wanted to see Ned on his course or any part of his swing. Ned was not sure what his golf swing had to do with any of this.
“I’m sorry,” his father said, again. “I only wanted my boy to have a chance.”
Mr. Kraft’s eyes had not left Ned’s face, and his gaze was so intense it made Ned wince. “Go on then, kid.” It sounded like a dare.
Ned looked to his father, confused. His father nodded. “Be a good boy and get your bag.”
Ned did not understand what was happening. What he did understand was how terribly na?ve he’d been. It had never occurred to him that what he and his father were doing was wrong, apparently so very wrong. Len was his dad’s friend. Len worked here. Until that morning, he’d felt like the lucky recipient of a generous favor.
Ned ran back to the car as fast as his skinny legs could carry him, and hands shaking, retrieved his golf bag from the trunk.
What followed on the driving range felt like a test. Ned was being asked to perform, and he understood in his heart that if he failed things would be worse. But he was so nervous, he could barely keep his fingers still on the grip.
Mr. Kraft stood impatiently to the side, arms crossed, as Ned’s father handed him a tee and a ball. “Go on, Ned. Show Mr. Kraft what you can do.”
To his knowledge, Ned couldn’t do anything special. It had only ever been himself and his father out there. He’d not watched others play, he’d not played with others. From what his father said, Ned did alright—but that was it—it was always ever just alright.
Ned took a deep breath and tried to relax his grip. He launched into his backswing and could feel even before he made contact that he’d shanked the ball. The silence that followed was deafening. He bit his lip, afraid to meet his father’s eyes.
“Try again.” His father handed him another ball.
The next drive went about one hundred fifty yards, his usual.
Len whistled.
Mr. Kraft said nothing.
The third drive went about the same. The next, one hundred seventy yards.
“How old are you?”
Ned turned to look Mr. Kraft in the eye. “Eleven, sir.”
Mr. Kraft looked at Len and shook his head. Then at Ned and his father. “Walk back to the office with me.”
A week later, Ned was a member of the Mayhaven Junior Golf League. He was the first and only player “sponsored,” by the clubhouse, allowing him to practice with the team and compete in tournaments as a club member. It had not been his last day on the course; it was a beginning.
When the tour wrapped up, Ned thanked the prospective members for coming, overcome as he often was by their reactions.
“We can’t wait to join,” a middle-aged man said, shaking his hand. “We’ve got three kids and this is exactly what we want for our family.”
“I have to come back with my wife. When she sees that beach, she’s never going to want to leave.”
“We’re not very good golfers, but we’re empty nesters now, and we want to try something new together.”
When the last prospective member left, Ned was so buoyed by the tour he found himself heading toward the campers. He wanted to see Darcy. It was a beautiful day. It had been months. He would ask her to stay after work and play with him. Just a couple of holes. No big deal. There was no reason for him to believe she would take him up on this, but believe it he did.
He passed a group of campers at the picnic tables by the craft shed. Their hands were covered in finger paint and Ned stopped to admire the leaf prints they were making. Just beautiful.
Over on the courts Molly was giving a lesson to some middle school campers; Ned was impressed to see the power of their backswings. On his way down to the lake, he glanced over at the putting green where Vince was instructing. One girl, in particular, stood out. Her confident setup reminded him of Darcy. His heart caught.
As he trotted down the dirt trail to the beach, the intoxicating smell of fresh pine and lake water rose to meet him. There, among the campers on the small spit of beach below, he found her.
Ned paused. Darcy stood at the edge of the shore, all alone. Out in the water, the lifeguards were busy giving swim lessons to a group of splashing youngsters. On the beach a handful of counselors was talking and laughing, Lily among them. Ned took in all the activity and fun and noise before his eyes traveled back to Darcy, who remained to the side, staring impassively out at the water. All the cheer he’d carried down the hill with him evaporated.
For the first couple of years, Ned’s father, Art Birch, accompanied his son to all of his tournaments. He’d stand silent among the spectators, but Ned could always sense his presence. Afterward, he’d drive his son home, lauding him with praise when he did well and staring wordlessly at the road ahead when he did not. Eventually, despite the growing wins, his father’s attention waned along with his attendance. After two years, his father left the family altogether. Ned never saw his father again.
He would forever wonder about that morning they were caught on the course. He wondered why his father asked him to show Mr. Kraft his swing. Despite the passage of time, Ned could never silence the burning question: Had his father done it because he saw something special in his son, or was it nothing more than a handy distraction to get him out of a jam?
In the end, the game of golf belonged to Ned, and Mayhaven remained a memory that stayed with him long after he left for college, moved to Boston, and eventually met Ingrid. For Ned it was both joy and sorrow: on some days a touchstone he carried in the palm of his hand like hope, on other days an old wound whose scab he sometimes edged the curve of his fingernail around.
“It’s a superb club and a sound career opportunity,” he’d told Ingrid, when he’d seen the job listing for head of grounds-keeping. But it was more than that. It was the pull of a memory, the long shadow of a boy and his father cresting a hill, the echo of irons in their bags as they walked. It sometimes nourished him and often haunted him, this endless chase of a splendor he’d lost.
But years later, Ned Birch eventually found it again: out there on the course with Darcy. Finally, his heart was made full.
Now, standing behind her at the lake, a fresh sense of gloom washed over him. As he gazed upon his daughter’s uncertain stance, her narrow arms like birdwings crossed against her chest, Ned found tears springing to his eyes and wondered how he’d managed to lose that, too.