21. Ned
NED
Things were missing at Mayhaven. It wasn’t just the fish-less pond, still waiting for a delivery of two hundred koi that were delayed in North Carolina. It wasn’t just the kayaks and the paddleboard from the beach. Nor was it his son missing from the office. That morning, Mossimo came down to Ned’s office to inform him that liquor had disappeared from the bar. It was the second time in a matter of days.
“At first I thought our inventory was off. But this morning there are more bottles missing from behind the bar.”
“How much?” Ned asked, with dismay.
“Four handles of Grey Goose, and three magnums of Hendrick’s.”
Ned covered his face with his hands. “They’ve got expensive taste.” The new member dinner was the next night, and the bar needed to be stocked. “Do you have any idea who might have taken it?”
Mossimo shook his head. “Perhaps it’s a member. Perhaps some of the teens?”
It was a betrayal, either way. “Is there anything else missing? Food from the pantry? Cookware?”
“More of the Blackstone silverware. A complete setting, I’m afraid. Also, I need to talk to you about the Delancey wedding.” The chef looked even more pained.
Mossimo never complained about events; his elegance under pressure was something Ned cherished. For him to bring it up to Ned, it must be bad.
“Miss Delancey has changed the menu. Again.”
“Again?” Ned was dumbfounded. The wedding was in less than two weeks. “But I just met with her.”
Mossimo pursed his lips. “First, I designed a five-course formal dinner. Then, we switched to a New England clambake of seafood, chowders, and steaks.”
Ned nodded. This was where he’d left off with the Delanceys, and everyone seemed happy.
“Now, there is a new theme. Shangri-La.”
Ned repeated the word. “Shangri-La?”
“Phoebe Delancey has requested a traditional Himalayan menu.”
Ned felt like he had whiplash. A low throb began at his temples, and he pressed his index finger there. “And what comprises a traditional Himalayan menu?”
“I had to do some research.” Mossimo handed him a piece of paper.
Ned put on his reading glasses and read aloud: “Yak, goat, and mutton.”
Mossimo said nothing.
Ned put the list down. “I see.” He was all for themes and culture, but this was beyond. At their last coastal New England– themed meeting where American flags and lobster napkins reigned supreme, there was no mention of Shangri-la. It was unclear if Phoebe Delancey had ever traveled to Tibet, if she had ever eaten yak, and where on earth the club would source that, goat, or mutton in coastal Massachusetts. “Does Miss Delancey expect these specific meats?”
Mossimo shook his head. “I doubt God knows what Miss Delancey expects. But since I have no experience with these dishes, I propose outsourcing to a catering company.”
“That won’t be necessary!” Ned hopped to his feet. Catering was the biggest ticket item in any private event. If the catering were outsourced, the club would lose all revenue for food and drink. Ned understood this required yet another meeting with the Delancey women—an emergency meeting. “I will call Phoebe right now. Before you go, do you have head count for the new member dinner tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.
“Sixty-five,” Mossimo replied.
“I’m guessing we need to order more liquor?”
“Unless you’d like me to serve the champagne reserved for the Delancey wedding.”
Ned grimaced. “I like your humor, Chef.”
Mossimo did not smile.
Neither could Ned.
As he googled yak farms near me , Ned dialed Phoebe Delancey. It went straight to voicemail. The clock was ticking. He’d have to find a way to lure her out of Tibet and back to New England.
His internal line rang again. “Good news,” Jane said. “The board has scheduled a meeting to hear your concerns about Adam. It’s next Friday.”
Ned glanced at the calendar. Friday was not soon enough. “Thank you, Jane.” Ned jotted it on the calendar and said a silent prayer.
To take his mind off of things, he wandered down the hall to the pro shop. It always cheered him. Vince was behind the counter, signing in Neiman Shrive. “Good morning, Neiman,” Ned said.
Neiman grunted. “Well, it’s morning. Don’t know if I’d call it a good one.”
Ned wondered if word was traveling through the membership about the missing kayaks and liquor; he hoped not. “Hopefully a round of golf will cure that.”
“My knee tells me it’s going to rain, but I’m not getting it replaced, no matter what the doc says,” Neiman went on.
Apparently they were still talking about his morning. And his knee. “Let’s hope the weather and your knee cooperate so you play well today!”
Neiman scowled. “I always play well. If you got out of that fancy office, you’d see for yourself.”
The pro shop was not proving to be cheering.
As soon as Neiman left, Vince waved him over. “Hey, boss. A new member reserved a tee time for a foursome this morning.” He tipped the sign-in sheet toward Ned so he could read it. “Is this okay?”
Stan Crenshaw no she did not want mutton or goat or yak on her menu—wherever did he get that idea? She’d meant Himalayan spices. After being asked which spices she meant, there was a long pause and the menu returned swiftly to New England clambake. But there would be Tibetan flags around the new fishpond for photos—Shangri-La was still at the heart of her vision.
The koi hatchery had also called. The main highways were still shut down from the hurricane, so it would be a few more days until they could update the delivery. The Delanceys might have to let that go. Honestly, there were worse things than a fishless pond at a wedding.
Several times, Ned interrupted these calls and duties to trot down the hall to the pro shop. On none of those trips did he spy Stan Crenshaw or his guests. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it was an itch that needed scratching. On the third visit, Vince asked, “Would you like me to call you when they come off the course?”
“Just taking in the beautiful day as much as one can from the inside.” He headed back to his office feeling sheepish. What was wrong with him?
At the end of the day, he was on his way out when he heard a commotion coming from upstairs. The noise level coming from the bar and restaurant was akin to a sports bar on Super Bowl night. He needed to see what was going on.
At the top of the stairs, Ned wished he hadn’t. Every seat at the bar was taken. The TV was on, the music cranked, and jocular voices rose up over the top of it. Ned surveyed the crowd. Neiman Shrive sat at one end of the bar with his usual old-fashioned. Was that a smile on his face? Beside him was Bill Fryer, and his wife, Elizabeth, their cheeks flushed and their wine glasses empty. They dined at the club regularly, but Ned had never seen them in the bar before. Then there was Dick Delancey. His mouth was hanging open like he was catching flies, a look of wild delight in his eyes as he hung on to every word of the guy seated next to him. Ned couldn’t see the face, but one look at his hulking backside and he knew: Stan Crenshaw. Two other men seated to Stan’s left were of similar build; the twin brothers, and beside them, the friend. Only one of the four wore collared shirts, and two wore baseball hats: dress code violations, all.
As Ned approached, Stan said something apparently so hilarious that everyone, including staid Elizabeth Fryer, threw their heads back in laughter. Dick Delancey actually slapped the bar.
Dick saw Ned first. “Have you met Stan, our new member? What a hoot!”
“Stan is my new neighbor,” Ned said. He offered his hand and Stan shook it. “How’d you enjoy your round?”
“Not bad,” Stan said. Up close Ned could see just how big and red-faced Stan really was. As were his brothers, who regarded him with the same vacant looks.
“My brothers, Mikey and Joey.” Stan nodded toward the twins, identical right down to their tattooed biceps and grunted greetings. “And that’s our friend, Tony.” At least Tony stood up to shake hands. Ned stared at his feet: He’d worn flip-flops to golf in?
“Stan is taking us bowhunting.” Dick Delancey informed Ned of this like he’d been invited to foxhunt at Balmoral by King Charles. “He’s going to teach us how. Did you know Stan hunts?”
“Why yes, I did hear something about that,” Ned said softly. “Scarecrows, I believe?”
“What?” Dick looked confused but moved on. “We’ll have to rent a cabin somewhere. Make it a real men’s weekend.”
“No cabin needed,” Stan said. “I just bought an RV. Customized.”
Ned needed to get out of there.
“Whatcha drinking?” It was Stan asking.
“Oh.” Ned paused. He had not come up here for a drink. Still, Stan didn’t know that. “Another time, thanks! Just wanted to say hello and welcome.”
Stan regarded him for a beat and then clapped him on the back, roughly. “I owe ya one, Birch.” He looked around until he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “We didn’t exactly hit it off when I moved here, me and Ned. There was a matter of the wrong side of a door in someone’s face.” Stan relayed this with delight then turned back to Ned. “The wife says I owe you a drink.”
Was he really sharing this embarrassing incident with a group he’d just met? Yes, he was, because everyone looked uncomfortable until Stan laughed raucously, and they were all freed to join in. Sheep , Ned thought.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Ned said. He almost meant it.
At home, the kids were in their usual funks. Both he and Ingrid had worked late; in fact, Ingrid wasn’t even home yet. There was nothing for dinner.
“If we don’t eat soon I’m going to die,” Adam huffed, pacing around the kitchen.
“No one’s going to die. Let’s see what I can find.”
“Hurry,” Adam said, plopping into a kitchen chair dramatically.
As much as he loathed how much the kids were on their phones, he was relieved when Adam distracted himself with a game. He was still staring into the fridge when Ingrid burst through the front door.
“They’re throwing me a party!” she announced, tossing her purse on the counter and planting a kiss on Adam’s head.
“Why would someone throw you a party?” Adam asked, not looking up from his game. “It isn’t your birthday.”
“No, it’s not. It’s better!” Ingrid looked between her husband and son excitedly. “It’s a party for the Tree House. Where’s Darcy?”
Ned had to shout upstairs for her three times. Darcy came down with a look like she’d been yanked away from some very important business.
“Hi, honey,” Ingrid said, looking happy to have a larger audience.
But Darcy walked right past and pulled the fridge open. “What’s for dinner?”
“Have a seat, I have news,” Ingrid said excitedly, sitting down at the table. Ned followed. Darcy halted by her chair, sizing up her family like she’d been seated at the worst lunch table in the school cafeteria.
Only Adam seemed to be interested in his mother’s party. “What’s the Tree House again?”
“Seriously?” Ingrid stared back at them with an air of defeat, which was the emotion she expressed right before she slipped down the waxed slide of anger. “It’s the big mansion on the hill overlooking Mayhaven Lake. The one that no Realtor could sell?”
Darcy yawned. “Did it finally sell?”
“Yes!” Ingrid said, looking hopeful.
“Cool. Who sold it?”
Ingrid’s excitement turned to outrage. “Your mother!”
“That’s incredible,” Ned said, hopping up. “We have to celebrate!” As he bent to hug his wife, Ned glared over his shoulder at the kids in an attempt to rope them into some kind of adulation, but no one took the bait. “This was the unsellable house. And your mother went and sold it!”
“It’s the biggest sale in the office in five years,” Ingrid mumbled. “Full ask. Cash offer. That’s why they’re throwing me a party next week.”
“And we will be there!” Again, Ned looked pointedly at the kids. “Right?”
Darcy and Adam looked less than enthused. “Right,” Darcy said flatly.
“What is for dinner?” Adam asked.