27. Ned
NED
Before any of his family had risen, Ned got up and escaped to work early. He had a final meeting with the father of the bride that he could not have cared less about, but he was eager to get through. But it was hard to think about anything other than the assault on Vince. Ned still could not make sense of it.
The Crenshaw-Creevys were truly lucky: Vince had graciously decided not to press charges. When Ned offered to call the police, Vince had even insisted he not. “No, no,” he’d said, emphatically. “The kid is clearly going through something and needs help. Let’s not make it worse for him.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? No injuries? You have every right to get checked out by a doctor.” Ned was genuinely concerned, but he also knew this could turn into a worker’s comp issue in a heartbeat.
Vince just waved him away. “He’s just a kid, I’m fine. Besides, you don’t want the cops crawling around up here, do you? The optics would not be good for Mayhaven.”
Ned was surprised. After all, no matter how great a guy Vince was, he’d been assaulted at work. The man deserved a bonus. Ned gave him the rest of the week off.
As he turned his car into the club driveway, Ned glanced up at the sign: Mayhaven . The solemn-looking pilgrim stared into the distant hills. Usually when Ned looked at the sign he felt a calmness come over him, but that morning it dissipated at the sight of a golf cart racing across the lot in his direction.
His head groundskeeper, Ben, screeched to a halt alongside his car.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Overnight someone had driven their car across the golf course and torn it to shreds. Ned bounced wordlessly along beside Ben in the cart as they traced the tire tracks through the dug up turf.
“The worst is up ahead,” Ben warned. At the crest, they stopped to look: tire tracks streaked angrily across the first fairway and across the next. “Over there.” Ben pointed to the fourth hole, adjacent. There in the center of the fourth fairway were wide sweeping circles of torn up earth and ripped up grass. It looked like a scene out of a monster truck rally. “Take me back to the clubhouse,” Ned said. “I need to call the police.”
The police came in two separate cruisers. They walked the course and surveyed the damage with Ned. Meanwhile, golfers trickled in, examining the crime scene in awe. Some cursed their lost tee time in such fine weather. Some shook their heads in solidarity. A few trekked across the damaged fairways to gawk for themselves before heading home in dismay: the course was closed indefinitely.
The investigating officer found Ned in the parking lot. “Any thoughts on who may be responsible?”
Sandwiched between the shock of the course damage and the impending nuptials he needed to make happen, Ned hadn’t allowed his brain to go there yet. It was still spinning between images of the shredded fairways and calculations of lost revenue. The question begged a clear head, and Ned’s phone was blowing up in his pocket just as golfers were blowing up upon arrival at the scene. “No, nothing like this has ever happened here,” he said. It was true. But even as he spoke the words, a sinking feeling began to overtake him. Quickly, Ned pushed it away. He wasn’t ready to face it just yet.
“We need to take photos and measurements,” the officer said, making a quick note. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”
“I’ll be in the clubhouse,” Ned told him. He couldn’t bear to watch any longer.
“In the interim, you may want to call your insurance company.”
Jane made the call and reported back right away. “The insurance company is sending someone out, but they don’t have anyone in this region. It won’t be until next week.”
It was the worst possible scenario. This was high season; the club couldn’t be closed for long without reimbursing membership. Ned needed to get the damage assessed and repairs started as soon as possible. He called an emergency board meeting for eleven o’clock. He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee that morning, he realized, when Jane buzzed in again.
“I’m afraid I have more bad news,” she said, warily. “You may wish to check your email when you have a moment.”
Ned put on his reading glasses and opened the first forwarded email.
From: Stanley Crenshaw
To: MayhavenCC/office
I am writing to cancel our membership application. We are no longer interested in belonging to Mayhaven.
From,
Stan Crenshaw
After it were three more, two from Stan’s brothers and the last from their mutual friend.
He closed the emails and dialed Jane’s extension.
“Yes, Mr. Birch?” She sounded worried.
“Jane, did the Crenshaws pay their dues yet?” If they had, Mayhaven reserved the right to hang on to seventy-five percent of the dues. The member requesting cancellation could either roll their membership into the next year or walk away less seventy-five percent. It was common practice, and it would be a boon for Ned—Stan’s membership dues without Stan. The very thought of it made him nearly giddy.
“Hang on a sec, I’ll have to check.”
When Jane came back on, her voice was even more glum. “No, Mr. Birch. I’m sorry, they never paid.”
The loss of the four new memberships would be a big hit to his job and the budget. The board had just congratulated him on securing them.
Sure enough, Dick Delancey showed up early and outraged. He’d gotten the email about the course and the emergency board meeting. “What in the hell happened out there?” he shouted as he walked in.
“Dick, I’m treading water in a sea of shit,” Ned said. “Let’s tackle your wedding walk-through and let the police do their part.” For once, Dick shut his mouth.
Together they inspected the tent setup and the dining room layout, and happily neither one could find a problem. They reviewed the orders for specialty chairs, table coverings, and napkins. Ned was relieved Phoebe was otherwise occupied at the spa with her bridesmaids. The linens were not cream, but ivory, but neither Dick nor Ned could tell the difference and they agreed it was not worth mentioning. Mossimo ran through the menu and timetable for dinner.
Dick’s only question: Can someone bring me a Manhattan before the ceremony? Neat.
The last stop was the koi pond, something Ned had been dreading, but after the course damage it hardly seemed a blip on the radar of hell. They were halfway to the pond when Ned broke the news.
“About the fish,” he began.
Dick jerked to a stop. “Don’t even tell me they’re not here yet.”
Ned said nothing. He knew it was not his place to question member requests—no matter how utterly stupid or insane. But really, what did it matter? The fish would not be attending. They would not be in the photos. For Christ’s sake, they were not ring bearers or toast makers. Look at what was there: The newly constructed bridge over the water! The sparkling pond, the bubbling fountain! Ned would bet his life no one would even notice the pond was empty. Except for one person. And that person was looking at him like he’d just canceled the whole affair.
Dick threw up his hands. “Son of a bitch! This goddamn day is supposed to be Shangri-La, whatever the fuck that means.”
Well, Ned wasn’t alone in that question, apparently.
Dick’s face contorted with fresh red outrage. “My daughter wants flowers and fish. This is her third engagement, and the first time she’s made it anywhere near the aisle. I told her I would make this happen!” Dick was screaming mad at Ned, but he looked like he might cry rather than take a swing.
Suddenly Ned got it. Dick Delancey was a father doing this for his daughter. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about koi or water features or photos. It was about making his daughter, Phoebe, happy on the day he was giving her away. And the realization made Dick an almost-human-being that Ned felt sorry for. “Dick, they are on their way. I’ll keep calling and I’ll stay late if I have to. Let’s not give up yet.”
They were heading back to the clubhouse when the investigating officer waved Ned over. Dick followed.
“We’ve finished our work on-site,” he told them. “I have one question.”
Ned really wished Dick would go inside. He would fill him in with the others at the board meeting. “I’m the club chairman,” Dick said, instead. “Speak freely.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this?” the officer asked. “Anyone who might be angry enough with you or the club that they did this for revenge?”
Dick and Ned exchanged a look. Try as he might, Ned couldn’t deny the feeling that had shadowed him all morning. “There is one person.”
At eleven o’clock just as the emergency board meeting he’d called was getting started, Ned pulled out of the club driveway. He’d left Dick in charge. Ned had to get home.
The police were on their way to Flick Creevy’s house. As awful as he felt about naming Flick, Ned had his own kids to take care of. Darcy and Adam were home alone, and the last thing he wanted was for them to be upset or involved.
He was a few minutes behind the officers, so he called the house. No one answered. Ingrid was out with a client, so he tried Darcy’s cell but it went straight to voicemail. Ned had a bad feeling that went beyond the lousy evening at home last night. Darcy had been so emotional about the fight that happened, and Flick being fired, that she’d quit her job. The more he thought about it, for some reason Adam had also been pretty upset last night. He kept banging on Darcy’s door until she yelled and Ingrid asked him to please leave his sister alone. All night he’d thought the stress he was feeling was about the incident with Vince and Flick, but he realized now that his entire house had been on edge, too. Ned wasn’t sure why, but it suddenly felt extremely urgent that he get home.
As he whipped along the rural roads between Mayhaven and Maple Drive, Ned’s thoughts spun: to Ingrid, who’d asked him to make time for a family meeting, saying she was worried about Darcy. He thought of Adam, who had paced much of the night before in the hallway. Adam had been complaining about Darcy, saying that he needed to talk to her. Ned was struck by the realization that that was exactly what Flick had said to him yesterday afternoon when he was hauled into Ned’s office after he attacked Vince.
Everyone had wanted to talk to Darcy. A dark feeling overtook him, and Ned accelerated. At the next intersection he ran the stop sign.
When he spun into his driveway, he noticed two police cruisers parked next door. An officer stood outside, leaning up against one of the cars. Ned assumed the others were inside with Flick’s family. Ned nodded at the officer and the officer nodded back.
He was about to go inside, when he noticed Flick’s car. It was parked at an odd angle, partially blocked by one of the police cars. Something was off. Ned walked to the edge of his yard for a better look and sucked in his breath. The tire treads were so thick with turf that they’d left a muddy set of tire prints all the way from the driveway up to where it was parked. Dried grass was sprayed across the driver’s door. Good God—Flick had done it.
As he stood there staring, a third police car swung up the street and into the neighbor’s driveway, lights flashing. The Crenshaws’ front door opened and the noise within filled the quiet morning outside: it sounded like a woman crying. Two officers exited the house, and behind them came Flick, escorted by a third. His hands were handcuffed behind his back. He was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts and he looked like a scared kid. Behind him Josie Crenshaw filled the doorway with her voice: “Please, you have to believe me. My son would never do this,” she was crying. Stan was holding on to her.
“Ma’am, I’ve asked you to stay in the house until we go. You can follow us to the station,” one of the officers told her. He spied Ned standing at the far edge of the yard. “Sir! I need you to stand back. Police business.”
Quickly Ned retreated. He should give the family privacy. He should go inside. But when he got to his driveway, he couldn’t tear himself away.
As Flick was put into the back seat of the police car, Josie began to howl on the front step. It was all too much. Ned was about to turn away when there came a similar sound, from his own house.
Ned spun around to see Darcy standing there in her pajamas, eyes wide. “What’s happening?” She ran down the driveway and he reached out to stop her.
“Everyone, stand back!” the officer shouted. “Sir, take your kid back inside now.”
“Honey, we have to get back in the house,” Ned urged.
“You’re having him arrested? Because of Vince? You can’t let them do this!”
Everything was spiraling out of control; Ned had to get his daughter safely back inside. “Now!” he shouted, and Darcy blanched but obeyed. He was about to follow when out of the corner of his eye he became aware of something large and fast-moving. Before Ned realized what was happening, Stan was upon him.
“You called the cops on my kid?” Stan towered over him, and Ned stumbled backward on his own front steps.
Stan halted at the bottom of the steps, but he looked ready to come up and kill Ned. “How could you do this?” he shouted. “He’s innocent, you son of a bitch!”
Two of the officers were right behind him. “I’m going,” Stan told them, holding out his arms and stepping back. “I’m sorry, I’m going.” He walked with them back to his own yard.
Ned collapsed on the front step. This was so much worse than he’d imagined.
One officer remained by the RV, standing patrol between the Crenshaws’ yard and the Birches’, ensuring everyone stayed on their own side. Meanwhile, neighbors stood at the edges of their yards; some huddled down the street talking and pointing. All of Maple Street was watching. It was time to go inside.
Ned had pulled himself to his feet when he heard the sound of metal on metal. The sound was grisly, like something being struck repeatedly. It was coming from down his own driveway. Ned hurried back down the steps. There, in front of the garage, was Darcy. She stood over a pile of glittering metal with his sledgehammer in her grip. Ned took a step toward her as she swung it skyward. It wasn’t easy—the hammer was heavy and Darcy was slight—but her strength was as impressive as it was gruesome. Frozen, Ned stared as his daughter hauled the hammer up and brought it down. The object that was its target exploded with the blow, gold and silver fragments spiraling in all directions. Ned started to run. He ran toward his daughter as she lifted the handle again. He ran through the shards of plastic and metal skittering across the pavement and crunching beneath his feet. And then he stopped. What once were Darcy’s golf trophies lay in a heap at her feet, a dazzling display of metallic fragments. And then it hit him.
The truth hit Ned Birch like a cannonball in the middle of his driveway: Darcy’s abandoned love of the game. Her distant disposition. Her ambivalence and anger that summer. The look on her face the other day when he asked her to help Vince teach the campers a golf lesson. The look on Vince’s face later that same day, when he convinced Ned not to call the police, that he’d be happy to just let it go. And lastly, the anonymous comments in the Pilgrim Box: People should feel safe here . A flame conflagrated in Ned’s brain as he stared at his daughter standing in the glittering pile of wreckage.
Darcy let go of the sledgehammer. The handle clattered to the pavement.
“Darcy,” he whispered. He had missed all of it, right there in his own house and at his own place of work and with his own child. He had failed. Ned Birch had failed them all.
Distraught, he did the only thing he could: he opened his arms.
“Stop!” It was Adam.
Adam appeared at the back gate, struggling with the latch. “Open the gate!” he cried. “I have to stop them.” Ned realized he meant the police car that had just backed out of the Crenshaws’ driveway. His gaze swung hard to the cruiser, pulling away slowly, Flick Creevy’s head bowed in the back seat.
The gate latch popped and Adam burst through, racing toward the street. In the middle of his driveway, Ned Birch felt his heart split in half; which child did he reach for first?
“Adam!” Darcy screamed after her brother. But he was too fast and he slipped past them both. Ned took off after him. By then, Adam had run into the street blocking the path of the car.
The cruiser screeched to a stop. Heart in his throat, Ned shouted to his son to stand still. The siren whooped. Adam froze. He threw his hands up in the air.
“Take me!” he shouted.
And then he did the saddest thing Ned would ever witness in his whole life.
His fifteen-year-old son kneeled down in the road in front of their house, hands on his head. “Flick didn’t do it,” he cried. “Take me.”
All summer, Adam had been watching. He’d wondered why his big sister had suddenly quit golf, the thing she loved that had consumed just about every warm, sunny day as long as Adam could remember. When he thought of Darcy he pictured her in a visor, her nose dotted with sunscreen, heading out to the course with their father. He’d watched Darcy win all those trophies, and then take them all down. He saw where she hid them, first in the back of her closet, and later down in a box in the dusty garage. It wasn’t just the trophies. There were times Darcy was agitated in the car on the drive home from the club, when Adam sat beside her in the passenger seat and her leg jigged the whole way, always after a lesson with Vince. It made him worry about his big sister. He worried so much that he started watching her closer, sometimes following her, trying to see what was really the matter.
Adam saw what happened in the shed that day: how Darcy had been hanging up golf bags on the rack when Vince came up behind her. How Vince reached around his sister. And pressed his hips against her. Adam knew that was not right. From the window he watched his sister spin around and away. He saw her mouth moving but could not make out the words: he hoped they were swears. When she raced out of the shed crying, Adam felt something inside him snap.
All that day, he tried. He tried to ask Darcy about it; he tried to talk to his parents. But no one listened. Vince and the club were hurting his sister, and nobody would listen to him. So Adam did something louder, something no one could ignore.
He knew Flick kept his keys in his car. Adam had admired that car all summer. The rest was easy—because no one was paying attention.
Friday Evening
The Delancey wedding rehearsal dinner started at five-thirty. Thirty minutes before the official start time, the big red fishery truck delivering two hundred Hikarimono koi finally pulled into the clubhouse parking lot. As pitchers of blue and white hydrangea were placed on linen-covered tables on the upper deck, the fishery driver ran a long hose from the tank of the truck across the first fairway and down to the pond. Beeswax taper candles were placed in sparkling silver candlesticks as the truck pump suctioned water across the greens and into the tanks. Guests in summer whites and gauzy dresses trickled in as a funny-looking orange chute was hooked up to the truck and unraveled across the clubhouse yard, and down the hill to the pond. The guests were intrigued: What was this funny looking tube? What was happening here? High up, above it all on the upper deck, a father posed for a picture with his beautiful bride-to-be daughter, while a slew of fish slapped their tails against their holding tanks. It was time.
Just before the chute was opened, one last car pulled into the Mayhaven parking lot. Ned Birch was not dressed for a rehearsal dinner, nor was he invited. But he joined the sea of guests traversing the lawn, adjacent to the strange orange tube and headed for the clubhouse.
When the fishery truck operator opened the chute, there was a primitive gurgle followed by a deafening rush of water. Newly sprung, the fish surged down the chute that ran alongside the heels and loafers of guests, who marveled at the noise. “We should walk down to the pond to see!” someone said.
Among them, Ned Birch kept his eyes trained ahead. Despite the fact he’d waited all summer for this, he was oblivious to the chute and the fish. Ned was looking for someone.
Suddenly, without warning, there came a strange geyser-like sound. The chute that snaked across the clubhouse lawns shuddered and burst open. As guests covered their faces and leapt away from the spray, Ned Birch made a beeline for the man he’d been looking for. Down on the lawns, the orange chute twisted and rolled like a mythological snake, spitting fish and water in equal measure across the grass. As the driver shouted for help, Ned Birch ran at the golf pro. Vince, having just raised his chin to empty his flute of champagne, lowered it just in time for Ned Birch to sock him square in the face. Someone screamed. Vince toppled backward into a champagne tower, glass and bubbles erupting everywhere. In the background, a sea of fish flipped and floundered across the flooded greens as grounds-keeping scrambled for buckets. When Vince staggered to his feet, Ned punched him again for good measure. By then, staff and a few brave guests were scooping fish into wheelbarrows. A quick thinker secured the hose. Someone else brought snow shovels.
Clutching his bloodied knuckles, Ned Birch strode across the soaked lawns of Mayhaven. Steering around the disarray of guests and groundskeepers, careful not to tread upon flailing fish, he got in his car. For the first time all summer he turned on the radio and sang the whole way home.