The Summer Club

1. Ned

NED

He was not a religious man, but the quiet ritual of his morning walk through the empty clubhouse came mighty close. The early light angled toward the mirrored trophy case that ran along the hall to Ned’s back office. He paused to wipe a smudge off the glass with his shirtsleeve and greeted the familiar faces on the other side. Bitsy Babcock held the women’s league MVP golf trophy aloft in one framed photograph. Grumpy elder Neiman Shrive scowled back at him in another, despite the coveted men’s league medallion in his grip. And always, front and center was club founder Wilson Elliot Banks, whose beatific smile and reassuring gaze graced the hallowed case. The photographs of Wilson were black and white, from what many members still hailed as the glory days of Mayhaven. Ned nodded reverently at Wilson. This summer, that job was his: to restore the days of Wilson’s golden era, to recall May-haven’s days of splendor.

Wouldn’t his father be proud? Well, proud might be too large for a man with so small of a heart. But Mayhaven held a spot in Ned’s own that went back to the summer he was six years old when his father had awakened him before dawn one morning to bring him out on a golf course for the first time. It was a club Ned’s family could never have afforded to belong to, and a sport his father had shared with no other person. But that morning he’d driven Ned up the winding hill to Mayhaven and handed him his first bag of clubs. He would never be the same after.

Ned’s office was still dark, but even in the shadows its spartan systemization was visible. Despite the mess of demands detailed within each manila file, they were arranged in deceptively tidy stacks on his desk. As president of the club, Ned did this each night before leaving; he tucked the day’s worth of complaints and issues and repair estimates and upcoming events gently into their respective files, as if tucking his own children into bed. The files contained challenges , he liked to tell himself, not problems. And Ned Birch was always up to a challenge.

That morning’s challenges were numerous, but first, he settled into his leather armchair and considered his uninterrupted view of the first fairway. This was Ned’s daily meditation. The first tee box rested high above the carefully shorn course and the fairway rolled away from it like an emerald sea. Behind it the Blue Hills glimmered through the last strands of morning fog. To the right of the clubhouse were the clay courts, freshly watered that morning, and beyond them, down a grassy slope lay the small spit of beach that ran along the section of Mayhaven Lake where members could swim, sun, and kayak. It was a summer heaven, and long before his job as club president, a haven to Ned through a strained childhood. But he would not think of that now.

Ned reached for the first file on his desk: Events . The first golf event of the season, a member-scramble, was coming up and there was much to do. The weather so far had behaved. It was New England at its finest, before the height of summer when humidity curled the edges of the restaurant menus up on the deck and the sun tinged the fairway edges yellow. But as his father used to say, New England weather was as temperamental as a scorned woman, which meant the event could be heavenly or a total washout. He sent a reminder email to members to sign up, and made a note to confirm head counts with the club restaurant. Then he said a quick prayer the weather would cooperate. As it was, the women in his house were not.

Ned wasn’t sure what was going on with Darcy, but it seemed beyond the normal teenage angst other parents railed about. Ned did not have favorites, but he and Darcy had always enjoyed an effortless bond, especially on the golf course. Since she was five years old and Ned had placed a club in her hand, golf had been their thing. At least it used to be. That year Darcy had announced that she was quitting the sport. The very same sport she’d played the whole of her childhood, the one her father had taught her and the one she’d gotten so good at he and Ingrid had splurged on private lessons with Vince at the club. Darcy had moved swiftly through the ranks, starting with the 13-Under Junior New England Tour, and aging into the 17-Under. The summer before, Darcy had won the New England PGA Junior Tour. She was that good. Scouts started showing up to watch her play. Already there were phone calls coming in from colleges seeking to recruit her. And then, with no warning or reason, she’d announced last winter that she was quitting. Ned would never forget it; she’d marched into the living room one quiet evening between Christmas and New Year’s Eve and told her parents that she was done with golf.

Ingrid had looked alarmed.

Ned thought she was joking. “What do you mean you’re done with golf?”

Golf was Darcy’s passion. Her ticket to college scholarships. The bond they’d shared. This was not just about golfing.

“You love it more than anything,” he reminded her.

But the look on Darcy’s face was as serious as the pain it gave him hearing her words. “I’m sorry, Dad. But I don’t anymore.”

He’d spent the evening staring at the dark spot on the Christmas tree where he’d missed stringing lights, wondering what else he’d missed. Darcy’s announcement had come out of nowhere. It did not make a lick of sense.

“Give her time,” Ingrid had said, later that night in bed. “It’s been years of practice and competition. Maybe she’s burned out?”

But Ned did not believe that was the case, and time had not helped. When the snow melted on the course, and the days grew longer, Darcy’s clubs remained in the hallway closet shoved behind the coats. When Ned tried to raise the subject Darcy shut him down. “I’m not changing my mind. Please, stop.”

“Honey, did something happen?” Ingrid ventured. “Something we need to know about?”

Something did happen, Ned wanted to shout. Darcy had given up on the one thing she’d pursued her whole life! Just as she stood on the threshold of it making a difference in her life: college, travel, exposure to the best of the industry. Things they could not easily provide for her on their own, with their modest living.

But Ingrid was on alert for something dark. Depression? Anxiety? Perhaps a boy who’d broken her heart?

“God, no!” Darcy insisted, her cheeks flushing with indignation. “Why can’t you two just respect my choice? Let it go.”

These golf-less days Darcy kept to her room, texting and scrolling on her godforsaken phone, her lovely face illuminated only by its screen and her expression muted. Except… when her mother called her name; then her expression flipped like a switch to profound irritation.

Ned felt sorry for his wife. Ingrid had always been an excellent parent, and Darcy’s fresh ire for her mother was undeserved. True, her attention at home, like his, was often pulled more strongly in the direction of their son, Adam. Adam was fifteen years old and was on the autism spectrum. In addition to her work as a Realtor, much of Ingrid’s day revolved around managing their son’s school schedule and various therapy appointments and activities. With the summer season in full bloom and clubhouse demands at their height, Ned felt guilty about leaving so much of it to her. As it was, the scruffy family dog, Fritzy, was pretty much the only one excited to see him at the end of each day.

In addition to worries at home, there was a fresh worry that had also followed Ned from his house on Maple Street to work that day. The new neighbors.

He hadn’t noticed the for-sale sign had come down next door. It had been up forever—something that irked Ingrid, mostly because the neighbors had listed their house with a competing agency.

According to the ever-tangled grapevine at the Rockwood Market deli counter, the Crenshaws hadn’t even bothered to walk through its front door. Reportedly, the husband had discovered it online, picked up the phone, and made a full price offer sight unseen.

Rumors swirled: Was Crenshaw a famous actor seeking solitude? A Red Sox player? A rock star? After all, when it came to celebrities seeking a rural weekend escape, Rockwood was known in that gated-wooded-enclave sense to attract them and private enough to keep them. Among their better-known if seldom-seen weekenders were Boston Pops composers, a handful of screenwriters, and even one of Billy Joel’s drummers.

But despite the ruminations, nobody knew anything for sure about the incoming residents. The Crenshaws remained a mystery whose identity and backstory had ballooned in their absence until a few days ago—when they suddenly materialized in the driveway next door.

Ingrid had called him at the club. “They’re here!”

Ned had been in the middle of reviewing the monthly restaurant spreadsheet, which was just not adding up. “Who?” he asked, distractedly.

“The new neighbors.”

“Oh.” Ned had a meeting with the board chairman, pain-in-the-butt Dick Delancey, in a few minutes. “If you see them, say hello for both of us,” he had offered, hoping to get off the phone.

“I’m waiting for you.”

That evening they’d walked next door armed with cookies and a bottle of wine, and knocked three times. Despite the cars in the driveway (a hulking tinted Cadillac SUV and a sleek low-slung orange Lamborghini), no one came to the door.

“Maybe they can’t hear us,” Ingrid had wondered aloud. “It is a big house.”

“It’s not that big.” They left the cookies and wine for the new arrivals and went home debating their whereabouts.

Around ten-thirty that night, they had their answer. The sky outside their bedroom window erupted in a deep vibrato. “What on earth?” Ingrid sat up in bed, clutching her book.

Ned had gone to the window and peered down. The neighbor’s back pool area was lit up in neon purple, something they must have just installed. The sub-bass boomed on: whump, ba bump, bump, bump. The pool lights (also purple) pulsed in a seizure-inducing show.

Adam had filled their doorway. “What’s that noise ? I’m trying to sleep .”

Even Darcy emerged from her room to see what was going on. She stood by her father at the window and shrugged. “Cool pool lights. We should get some.”

Ned looked at her. “Seriously?”

“That’s Drake,” she said, appreciatively.

“You’ve met the neighbors?”

Darcy frowned. “No. That’s the artist.”

The music thumped on for two more hours, the same amount of time it took Ingrid and Ned to find Adam’s noise-canceling headphones and settle him down. Things were not off to a good start.

The next day, there was another blow. Again, Ingrid called him at work.

“Ned.” Ingrid’s voice had been tight. “Wait until you see what they’ve parked out front.”

He had leaned back in his office chair. How bad could it be?

“You’ll see when you get home,” she said.

There was no way he could not see it. A colossal silver-and-red RV was parked in the front yard . The very same yard shared by the Birches, separated only by Ned’s carefully tended bed of rosebushes. All forty feet of the RV glinted in its chrome glory, casting Ned’s own yard in an ever-changing show of reflective glare and dark shadow. His family joined him for the viewing.

“Holy shit,” Darcy said.

“Language,” Ingrid hissed. Then, to Ned, “Holy shit.”

“It’s as big as our house. They can’t keep it there,” Ned had assured her.

“The sooner we talk to them the better,” Ingrid said to no one in particular.

Ned turned to his wife. “We? So, you’re coming with me.”

She handed him a small terra-cotta pot with a lone stem of basil. “Bring this.” She squinted up at him. “Honey, your eye.”

It had been twitching all day. It was twitching more, now.

Ned had done as his wife asked. He’d gone to the neighbors, thinking about harmony as he left his own yard and crossed into theirs. He’d knocked on the door. That time, someone did answer. What followed had been anything but harmonious.

But Ned didn’t have time to think about that today: the new neighbors were a problem for another day. Now, he was at work and he had a club to open. He heard the clubhouse doors bang shut. The sound of purposeful footsteps filled the hall. Right on time there was a knock on his door. Ned smiled as Vince poked his head in the doorway.

“Morning, boss!” Vince, the golf pro, was probably Ned’s favorite staffer, and not just because he’d coached his daughter, Darcy, to second place in last year’s Junior New England PGA tournament. Vince was full of energy and enthusiasm, and a guy who not only loved to bake but brought in tins of peanut butter cookies just because. All the members loved him.

Ned didn’t want Vince to call him that, but he always did, and Ned had to admit it was endearing. “Ready for the big week?” Ned asked.

“Born ready.” This was what Ned liked to hear.

Since Darcy had quit playing, Ned missed talking to Vince. Like him, Vince had seemed perplexed and confused by her announcement. “It’s a real shame,” he’d said when Ned had called to break the news. “But I see it sometimes. The pressure can get to these kids. Darcy is really talented, but so are the others at her level.”

But just as Vince knew golf, Ned knew his daughter. There was still something that didn’t make sense.

Ned went to the window. This was the beginning.

At any moment members would begin pulling into the parking lot, unpacking their golf bags and tennis rackets. Golf carts would purr to life and streak across the fairway as early birds headed out for the first round of the day. The newly hired camp counselors were starting their summer orientation program. Soon Mossimo’s kitchen would hum to life and the smell of fresh baked bread would waft down the stairs as the dining room opened its doors for the first luncheon of the season. There would be lobster boils and fireworks shows, and concerts beneath starry skies. Today the beloved clubhouse, crisp white against the blue summer sky, would open its doors to all of it.

But behind the backdrop of summer skies and emerald greens, Mayhaven was in trouble. Membership was faltering. The budget was waning. A spanking new club, Fox Run, had opened up across town, luring many of their own to its greener fairways and gleaming pools. Despite the historic charm of Mayhaven, it seemed members’ tastes had turned from a dip in the lake to the fish-free depths of chlorinated pools, from mountain breezes on the restaurant deck to the temperature controlled recesses of indoor dining. Outdoor showers were antiquated; pulsating showerheads were coveted. Younger members wanted convenience and comfort; they did not lament the tradeoff of doors thrown open to a glorious sunset view for the mosquito-free predictability of an air-conditioned banquet hall.

Ned was no fool: he knew his recent promotion as president of Mayhaven was contingent upon his ability to turn things around for the old clubhouse. The board wouldn’t dream of renewing his contract until he did. This summer was his chance. A chance to finalize club projects on budget, to ramp up new membership, and a chance for another season of family fun. It was the ship that founder Wilson Elliot Banks had captained, and it was now Ned’s craft to steer. God willing, he wouldn’t run it aground.