The Summer Club

22. Flick

FLICK

How many times did he have to explain to his mother that guys did not wear suits to the club? “Mom, it’s not a funeral home. It’s a golf and tennis club. People don’t dress like that.”

She was standing in his room holding up a fancy garment bag between them. “It’s a new suit. And you’ll look sharp.”

She didn’t get it. “How I’ll look is like I don’t belong.”

As soon as he saw her expression falter, Flick felt like an ass. Who was he kidding? He hadn’t had any clue how people dressed at Mayhaven, either, until after he worked there. Just look how he’d dressed for his interview that first day.

“I only want us to look nice,” Josie said, shoving the garment bag in his closet with a huff. “Maybe you’ll find a funeral to wear this to. Maybe it’ll be mine!”

“I’m sorry,” he called after her, but she was already stalking down the hall. To be fair, he was already worried enough about what she was wearing, but he knew better than to ask.

Flick really did not want to go. It had already been a long day in the kitchen, and he’d spent it preparing food for the very thing he was attending tonight: the new member dinner. Outside of the menu (prime rib, lemon-basil buttermilk chicken, heirloom tomato burrata salad), he had no idea what to expect.

Mossimo had teased him, telling Ricky and Wendy and the others, “Make it your best, people. Mr. Flick is going to be dining with us this evening!”

In front of them Flick laughed it off, but it was not lost on him how awkward it already was. He’d finally felt like one of them in the kitchen: he knew where the spices were, which knife to use for chopping vegetables and which for slicing meat. He knew when to give Wendy a wide berth and just how much ribbing Ricky would take, depending on how the dining room was running. Just by looking at Mossimo he knew when he could make a joke and when to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

Being on the other side of the kitchen door with the members was terrifying. He hoped Spencer and Blaine and those guys wouldn’t be there. He wasn’t sure what to hope for when it came to Darcy. The last he’d seen her was yesterday afternoon when she ran out of the pro shop like she’d seen a ghost. Right before she snapped his head off. Honestly, he could not figure that girl out.

Now, as he dressed for the club dinner, he studied himself in the mirror. Did he look different since leaving Queens? The same brown eyes with long eyelashes looked back at him now. Flick understood he was a good-looking kid, not because of arrogance, but by the silent messages from those around him, especially the girls. Still, today he looked different. One glaring detail was the blue button-down shirt his mother had bought along with the suit. She hadn’t totally messed that up. He’d tucked it into a pair of khaki pants and shoved his feet into loafers he still had from a cousin’s wedding. But they were too burnished, not weathered in that leisure-boat-shoe way the guys at the club all seemed to wear, where the leather looked like it came from their little sister’s pony’s saddle. Whatever. Flick wouldn’t be caught dead in boat shoes. These would have to do.

To his relief, Stan had not entirely dressed like a mobster. Maybe he’d taken notes when he played at the club yesterday, because he’d toned it down with a charcoal jacket and slacks. To be sure, it read a little like a limo driver, but better than the purple TV-ad attire of his dry-cleaning past. Josie, however, was true to Josie. Flick had to give her props for that at least. Her dress was short and tight, her lips painted in her signature Going-Out Red. At least her dress was patterned with flowers and not a safari animal. When Flick kissed her cheek and told her she looked pretty, he meant it.

He had to admit it, Mayhaven was right out of the movies that night. His mom and Stan went ahead in the Lambo, since it seated only two, which was fine with him because he was pretty sure Josie would’ve shrieked the roof off when they pulled in. The sun was low over the hills, casting the clubhouse in dizzying pink and peach hues. Flickering topiaries lined the walkway and ropes of twinkle lights draped the upper decks. Music rippled softly through the French doors.

“It’s like a fairy tale,” Josie breathed. When they walked through the double doors together, he paused beneath the chandelier recalling the afternoon he’d first set foot in here looking for a job. How things had changed.

They followed the music upstairs. The dining room was already crowded with cocktail-swillers, as Mossimo called them, everyone decked out in their summer whites and navy. Fresh-cut bouquets adorned each table, and Flick flashed back to Wendy complaining loudly as she’d tried to make room in the walk-in fridge for the flower arrangements. Until that day, Flick hadn’t known how temperamental hydrangeas could be. The things he was learning here.

His mother and Stan headed straight for the bar. There was no sign of the Birch family.

Flick tried to smile as his mother introduced him again and again. Some of the members frowned, trying to place him. Each time Flick rescued them.

“Hi, Mrs. Standish, I work in the restaurant.”

“Hello, Mr. Goldman, we met on the course. I drive the beverage cart?”

Always the confusion gave way to relief, and Josie would glow with pride. “This is Flick. He’s my son!”

Eventually he escaped out to the deck. He was leaning over the railing when he felt someone sweep up from behind. “Imposter!”

It was Wendy, dressed in black and white, for evening service. She held a tray of champagne and laughed at his expression. “Look at you. All grown up and fancy, now.”

It was hard to tell if she was teasing or being mean; it often was with Wendy. He reached for a flute of champagne. “No way, junior. Not on my watch.”

“Sorry,” he said. How many times had Spencer and Blaine done the same to him?

“Oh, grow a pair. I was joking.” She waited while he took a flute and drank it. The champagne was sweet and dry and he liked the way the bubbles rushed down his throat. “Want another?”

“Really?”

“Hurry up.”

He held his empty glass uncertainly.

“Oh, just give it to me.”

When he swapped it for another she winked. “Be sure and tip the servers, junior.”

“Thanks, Wendy.”

It was then he saw Darcy, framed by the French doors. Flick sucked in his breath. In all the times he’d seen her that summer, it was mostly in her work uniform or denim shorts. Tonight, she wore her hair long and a short white dress, really not much more than a slip. It was lovely and sexy at the same time, and it made him think of moonlight spilling. “You’re here.”

Darcy did a shy twirl, looking absolutely adorable doing it. “I’m here. Look at you, Creevy.”

“Look at you.” He raised his champagne glass, then thought better of it.

“No way. How’d you get that?” She closed the distance between them and grabbed his arm. “You’re the liquor thief, aren’t you?”

It was a joke, but he glanced about, nervous. “Easy. Not something a new member wants to be accused of on their debut night.”

But she thought it was hilarious. “Oh, come on. Can I have a sip?”

Another risk, he thought, as she tipped back his flute. What if Mr. Birch saw? Maybe he shouldn’t have taken Wendy up on her offer.

It must have been the booze, because a crazy thought suddenly occurred to him: Josie would love Darcy. He was about to ask her if she wanted to meet his parents, but someone else had also noticed Darcy.

“Birch.”

Spencer Delancey stood on the opposite side of the deck with a handful of kids Flick didn’t recognize.

His heart sank as Darcy bubbled like the champagne they’d just thrown back. “Hey, Spencer!”

“Who’s he with?” Flick asked her glumly. Already he could feel her slipping away in their direction.

“That’s Shelly Cravitz, she’s back from college for the summer. And her sister, Teagan. I used to golf with Teagan.”

“Oh.”

Sure enough Teagan noticed her at the same moment, and waved her over.

“Do you mind?” Darcy asked.

“Go on,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it. He looked away when Spencer raised his glass in Flick’s direction.

Dinner was like molasses. Flick didn’t know anyone at their table, but at least his mother seemed to be having a grand time. She must’ve had a few glasses of something herself, because her cheeks were flushed pink and she laughed easily. But she held her own, telling everyone where they lived (“Oh, Maple! What a nice neighborhood!”) and where Flick would go to school (“A junior! What colleges are you applying to?”) and how excited she was to learn to play tennis (“Molly is good, but you will love the other pro, Dennis. He’s amazing!” ). All the while, Flick wondered what was going on in the kitchen without him. He pictured Ricky plating salads as quickly as Wendy could take them out. It was where he should be.

During the long welcome speech, he couldn’t help but sneak glances to where Darcy and her family sat. Like a kick in the balls, the Delanceys were seated with them. Another kick, Spencer had taken the seat right next to Darcy and kept turning to talk to her. Flick tried not to stare at the way their heads bowed in each other’s direction, faces close. He told himself it was to hear better over the noisy crowd, but he knew at that proximity Spencer could smell her perfume. Flick was painfully aware of how good it smelled.

Once or twice she caught him staring, but she didn’t wave or come over. At one point she laughed so loud at something Spencer had said, her voice carried all the way over to his table. By dessert, Flick had had enough. “Can we go soon?” he whispered to his mother.

“What? Aren’t you having fun?” Her eyes had the glassy look of happiness mixed with wine, and she looked especially young in the candlelight. He didn’t want to ruin this for her. “I’ve got a headache,” he lied. “I’ve got my own car, remember?”

She studied his face. “Thank you for coming tonight, baby. I know it’s not your thing.”

What Flick wanted to tell her was that he’d tried, that it turned out the pretty girl wanted the pretty boy. That, besides the girl, he had nothing to say to anyone else in this room. He had dressed up and shown up, but it was much easier on the other side of the swinging kitchen doors for a guy like him. Maybe that was how it would always be.

“Try to make it through dessert,” Josie said.

When dessert trays came out, Flick tried to make eye contact with Wendy. She was hustling, carrying a platter loaded with cakes and tiramisu and tiny crystal cups of sorbet. It must’ve weighed a ton. He was half tempted to stand up and offer to hold it for her when she arrived at his elbow. “Cake or sorbet?” she asked, straight-faced.

He shook his head. “I’m good, thanks. Everything else was delicious, by the way.”

“Good.” Wendy was a pro; she gave no indication they knew each other, let alone did this very job together. Flick felt a little bad as she moved on to Mrs. Evans, seated next to him.

“What flavor sorbet do you have?” Mrs. Evans asked.

“Raspberry,” Wendy said.

“You don’t have lemon?”

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry.”

“You usually have lemon.”

Wendy smiled tightly and shifted the heavy tray. “Not tonight, I’m afraid.”

“How unfortunate.”

Irritation rippled through Flick. He wanted to tell Mrs. Evans to pick a dessert or shut up. He wanted to relieve Wendy of the tray, but he knew she’d kill him.

“I guess I’ll have to settle for raspberry.” Mrs. Evans sighed and looked around the table like she was taking one for the team.

Wendy was about to set the disappointing dish of raspberry sorbet in front of her when another member, who looked like he’d had a few too many, staggered past their table. Flick watched in alarm as he bumped into Wendy and kept going. Both Wendy and the tray lurched forward. By some miracle neither capsized, but the dish of sorbet slipped from her other hand and right onto Mrs. Evans’s lap.

“Oh!” Mrs. Evans cried, hopping up like it was molten lava. “Oh, my pants!”

There was a rush of napkins offered and apologies uttered. “I’m so sorry,” Wendy cried, scooping up the cup with her free hand.

“They’re ruined!”

Wasting no time, Josie leaned across the table. “Wendy, do you have club soda?”

Wendy disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the soda and a fresh towel.

Mrs. Evans was not interested. “This is linen. From Italy.”

Flick had no idea what that had to do with anything other than making Wendy feel worse. Luckily his mother pressed on. “Trust me, it works,” Josie assured her. “Flush it with the soda, then blot it with the towel.”

Flick couldn’t believe the entire table was left gaping at a woman flushing and blotting her pants. His eyes stayed on Wendy, who suddenly looked very small.

“It’s working,” Mrs. Evans proclaimed.

“Can I get you anything else?” Wendy asked her, timidly.

“I think you’ve done enough,” Mrs. Evans snipped. As soon as Wendy left, she turned to the table. “The help here is just awful this summer.”

Flick was about to stand up when his mother put a firm hand on his knee.

The woman next to Mrs. Evans, whose name Flick had already forgotten, turned to Josie. “You saved the night and the pants!”

Josie beamed. “An old hotel industry trick, from my years in New York.”

“Ah!” the woman said. “So you worked in the hotel industry?”

Josie nodded. “Domestic.”

“Domestic! My father owns a chain of Hiltons, mostly international.” She looked between Stan and Josie expectantly. “Where are your properties?”

Flick sucked in his breath.

“Oh no, nothing like that!” Josie corrected her. To her credit, she even laughed. “I worked in housekeeping. That’s what I meant by domestic.”

“Housekeeping?”

“Yes, at the Wyndham Garden. By LaGuardia.”

“How interesting.” The woman looked ready to dive into her sorbet.

That’s when Stan spoke up, “Nothing like working hard and raising a kid all on your own. She’s an independent woman, this one.” He put a meaty arm around Josie and for the first time Flick wanted to hug the man.

He looked about for Wendy, hoping she wasn’t too upset. That’s when he noticed Darcy and Spencer’s seats were both empty.

“You can go,” his mother said, leaning in. “Thanks for making it through dessert.”

Flick glanced around the dining room one more time.

“Yeah, I think I will.” He pecked Josie’s cheek.

On his way out, Stan caught his arm. “Hey, kid. You did good tonight. Made your mom happy.” Flick had enjoyed absolutely nothing about the night, but Stan was alright.

Outside, the night was a cool balm to how hot and uncomfortable he felt. His shoes hurt and the neck of his collared shirt was choking him. He was unbuttoning it when he heard someone crying. Flick followed the sound to the side of the clubhouse.

Underneath the upper decks, he saw a woman standing in the shadows. Wendy.

“Hey,” he said, stepping toward her. “You okay?”

“Oh, not you, too.” She sniffed and straightened. “I’m fine, Flick.”

“That wasn’t your fault up there.” He noticed a bottle of wine in her hand.

“Yeah, tell that to Mrs. These-pants-are-from-Italy . She didn’t have to be so nasty to me.” Wendy took a swig of the wine and looked at him. “How can you stand these people?”

He felt bad for Wendy, but that wasn’t fair. “They’re not my people.”

But his or not, people were coming. Flick heard the voices before Wendy.

“Hide that,” he said, nodding toward the bottle of wine.

She stashed the bottle on the ground behind a rock just as Darcy, her friend Teagan, Blaine, and Spencer rounded the corner of the clubhouse, laughing. At first, they didn’t even notice Wendy and Flick under the deck.

But as they passed, Darcy turned. “Flick?” She started to come over but hesitated as soon as she saw Wendy. “Oh, sorry.”

Flick’s heart sank with the realization: she thought she was interrupting them.

“All good,” Wendy said, flatly. She’d never liked the teenage members.

Darcy paused, hanging back from the others. “I was looking for you,” she told Flick.

“Oh yeah?” No matter how much he wanted to, Flick couldn’t let himself believe her. The way she’d acted around Spencer all night spoke louder.

“We’re going down to the lake. Want to come?”

Flick stared back at her and for a heartbeat he thought he would say yes. But she’d blown him off all evening. “No thanks,” he willed himself to say.

“Okay.” She looked almost disappointed. Flick watched her gaze dart between him and Wendy before she veered back to her friends. “Guess I’ll see ya.”

“Yeah. See ya.” Flick stared after her until she disappeared into the darkness of the pines, bound for the lake. He wondered if he should go after her; he wondered if he just should go home. But there was no time to do either. Someone else walked around the corner of the clubhouse. Wendy stepped back and Flick heard the bottle of wine clatter.

“Who’s there?”

Flick recognized Mr. Welter, one of the board members. He realized this looked bad.

“Hi,” he said stepping out into the light from under the deck. But Mr. Welter’s eyes were on the ground, on the tipped-over wine bottle.

“Is that yours?” he asked Wendy.

Flick could almost feel Wendy’s sharp intake of breath. They were screwed. “Oh, that? I came out for some fresh air and saw it—”

“Don’t you work here?” he asked, walking closer. “What’s your name again?”

She cleared her throat nervously. “Wendy. I work in the kitchen.”

“I thought so.” He looked at Flick, then back at Wendy. “You’re not supposed to drink on the job,” he said. Then, “We’ve had a lot of alcohol go missing from the bar lately. I think perhaps we should go inside.”

Wendy began to sputter, and Flick could sense her panic. This was her only job, and all she talked about was her new apartment and her bills and before he could think of his mother and their new membership or his own job, he sputtered: “It’s mine.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Welter said, looking at him for the first time.

Wendy spun around to face him. “Flick. Don’t.”

But he stepped forward into the light where Mr. Welter could better see him. “I’m Flick Creevy. I work here, too. I took the wine.”