by Jane Heller
“She can’t possibly have joined,” I said. “Single women can’t.”
“She got in on a technicality,” said Addison, looking terribly defeated. “She’s Duncan Tewksbury’s grandniece.”
“He’s the chairman of the Board of Governors,” Hunt whispered.
“Yes, I know,” I said.
“He’s also on the Membership Committee,” Hunt added.
“Right,” I said, “but I still don’t see what that has to—”
“Duncan’s a past president of the club,” Perry jumped in. “Most important, his older brother Justin was the club’s founder and Claire Cox’s grandfather. That means she’s a legacy.”
“Exactly,” Addison sighed forlornly. “There’s a clause in the bylaws stating that a legacy, or descendant, of the founder has to be granted full membership, single woman or not.”
“How’s Duncan taking the news?” Perry asked.
“He’s mortified,” said Addison.
“Why should he be mortified?” I asked. “I would think he’d be proud that he has such an important relative. If you ask me, Claire Cox will be an asset to this club.”
“Oh, please,” Addison sighed again. “She’s going to turn this place into a women’s lib colony.”
Ducky laughed. “Don’t listen to him, Judy,” he said. “He and the others are afraid Claire will drag everybody into the twentieth century. They’re afraid she’s going to destroy their grand old traditions.”
“Would that really be so bad?” I asked.
“To them it would,” said Ducky. “The older members are absolutely terrified of change. They want to be able to count on the fact that Jimmy, the general manager, will remember the names of their children and grandchildren; that Rick, the starter, will know what time they like to tee off; that Margaret, the hostess in the Men’s Grill, will bring them their favorite drink before they even ask for it. They don’t want anything to change, especially not the rules involving women. These guys are in the Dark Ages, Judy. The club is sacred to them, and they’ll be damned if they’re going to let someone like Claire Cox tell them what to do.”
“There goes our resident liberal,” Perry pointed at Ducky. “That bleeding heart of his never stops bleeding.”
“It has nothing to do with his liberal politics,” Nedra snapped, her eyes blazing. “He had a fling with Claire Cox when they were college students at Berkeley. Tell everybody how much you two meant to each other, Ducky. Tell them.”
We all looked from Nedra to Ducky then back to Nedra, who was red-hot with jealousy. The woman was like something out of an Italian opera.
“Let’s not go into that, huh, Nedra?” Ducky said. “It happened a long time ago.”
“Yes, but how will you feel now that she’s back in your life?” asked Nedra. “Will you talk to her? Eat with her? Play golf with her? Will you?”
“Speaking of golf,” said Perry in a valiant attempt to move the conversation in another direction, “let’s just hope Ms. Cox doesn’t try to stick women on the course on Saturday and Sunday mornings. It’s crowded enough on weekends.”
“Why shouldn’t women play on weekends?” I said.
“I agree with Judy,” said Hunt.
“I’ll tell you why,” said Addison. “They talk too much, they play the course too slowly, and they clog things up. Let them play during the week.”
“That’s not fair,” Hunt argued. “There may be some women at the club who work during the week.”
“Not only that, it’s against the law to discriminate against women,” I said, getting angry now. “I, for one, am excited about Claire Cox coming here. I hope she shakes the place up.”
“Here, here,” said Ducky. “I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
“I’ll just bet,” said Nedra as she elbowed her husband in the ribs.
“What do you think, Larkin?” Hunt asked her.
Larkin pouted, then said, “She’s supposed to be a sensational tennis player. If she enters the women’s singles tournament this year, I won’t have a prayer of winning.”
Eventually, Addison went back to his table, we finished up our coffee and dessert, and the conversation reverted back to less controversial matters, like gun control, abortion, and Bosnia.
When we got home from the club, Hunt said he was so tired he wanted to take the elevator up to our bedroom. But he couldn’t have been that tired, because after climbing into bed, he turned on his reading lamp and immersed himself in Harvey Penick’s Little Red Book for the hundredth time.
Slightly intoxicated and more than slightly horny, I snuggled next to him and started nibbling on his earlobe. “Kiss me,” I whispered after several minutes.
Hunt put the book down and kissed me. Once.
“Sorry, Jude,” he said. “Early tee time tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Five
I gave The Oaks another try on Sunday, hoping to network or, at the very least, find someone I could relate to.
First I took a lesson with Rob, the touchy-feely tennis pro. Then I changed into my bathing suit and headed for the pool. I found an empty chaise lounge near the deep end, stretched out, and closed my eyes. When I opened them a few minutes later, I discovered that everybody in the place was staring at me. What have I done this time? I wondered. Does The Oaks have a dress code for the pool too? No, I told myself. It has to be something else.
It was something else: people were staring at me because—are you ready?—I was new! They were staring and squinting and trying to figure out who I was and what I was doing there because they were old members and I was a new member and because they had nothing better to do! Talking about people is sport at country clubs, just like golf or tennis. But I didn’t like being talked about. I felt so claustrophobic I could barely breathe.
I was about to get up and leave when three women sat down in the chaises next to mine and started chatting—with each other and with me.
“How many children do you have?” one of them asked me.
Not “Do you have children?” but “How many children do you have?,” as if it were inconceivable that I wouldn’t have a fifties, Leave-It-to-Beaver life just like hers.
“I have a stepdaughter,” I said, bracing myself for more shunning, then added, “And I have a career.” Well, I used to.
“What sort of career?” one woman asked.
“I edit cookbooks,” I said.
“What fun!” she said. “What super, super fun!”
“Deep down, women don’t really want to work outside the home,” another woman chimed in. “As Marilyn Quayle said, ‘Women do not wish to be liberated from their essential natures.’”
I stared at these women and felt like the proverbial fish out of water. One of them assumed that I had kids. The other assumed that having a career was one big garden party. And the third assumed that I would come to my senses someday, get in touch with my essential nature, and give up my silly old career.
I don’t remember ever feeling so alone, so isolated. There I was, trying unsuccessfully to relate to women who had never worked a day in their lives. At the same time, I was having trouble relating to my friends in publishing, who were so busy networking and deal making that they’d forgotten all about me. The fact is, I didn’t belong in either group. The realization made me so sad that I bid the ladies a much-too-abrupt farewell and beat the hell out of the place.
My spirits rose a bit on Sunday afternoon, when Hunt came home with an interesting piece of news.
“Guess who played in Perry’s foursome today,” he said.
“Who?” I said.
“Guess,” he said.
“The Reverend Jesse Jackson,” I deadpanned.
“Nope. Wrong color,” said Hunt.
“Okay. The Pope,” I said. “I hear he’s a scratch golfer.”
“Wrong again,” said Hunt.
“I give up,” I said.
“George Stanton,” Hunt said.
“Who?” I said.
“George Stanton. The number-two guy at Shilton & Company.”
I drew a blank.
“Shilton & Company,” Hunt said again. “The parent company of Davidson House.”
Davidson House was, along with Charlton House and Pennington Press, one of America’s best-known book publishers.
“Is this George Stanton a member of The Oaks?” I asked with growing interest.
“You betcha. What’s more, his wife plays tennis. Maybe you could set up a game with her, score a new business contact, do some networking.”
“I just might. What’s her name?”
“Perry told me and I wrote it down.” Hunt pulled a piece of paper from his pants pocket. “Porter,” he said. “Porter Stanton.”
Monday was Memorial Day, and the tennis courts at The Oaks were hopping. I had a lesson with Rob, but before we began, I asked him if he knew Porter Stanton.
“Sure,” he said. “She’s right over there.”
He pointed to a short, plump, fiftyish woman over by the vending machine. She didn’t look like much of an athlete, but then I didn’t exactly have the body of an Olympian.
“Have you ever given Mrs. Stanton a lesson?” I asked Rob.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s about your speed. No backhand. Weak forehand. Weak serve.”
“Perfect.” I smiled, ignoring Rob’s unflattering assessment of my tennis game. “Would you mind introducing me to her?”
“Now?”
I nodded.
“What about your lesson? You paid for an hour.”
“I know,” I said. “But introduce me anyway. Okay?”
Rob shrugged and walked me over to Porter Stanton.
“Mrs. Stanton, meet Mrs. Price, one of our new members,” he said smoothly, then added before leaving us alone, “she’s looking for a game and I thought you two might be evenly matched.”
Porter Stanton smiled and extended her hand. “Please call me Porter,” she said.
“And I’m Judy,” I said as we shook hands. So far so good.
“I’m really not much of a tennis player,” she said apologetically. “Clumsy as all get-out. My husband tells me I have the grace of a hippopotamus.”
Nice guy, our George. “Well,” I said, laughing, “I’m not exactly a pro myself. I’m not in Larkin Vail’s league, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, but Larkin works so hard at her game,” Porter said. “I just can’t bring myself to care about tennis the way she does. She practically lives on those courts.”
How refreshing! A woman for whom the club wasn’t the end-all be-all. “Yes,” I said. “And she’s very competitive. The season’s just starting and she’s already worrying about winning the women’s singles tournament in September.”
She laughed. “How about some soda, Judy. My treat.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take a Sprite.”
Porter dropped money into the machine and handed me a can of Sprite. Then she got herself a Coke.
“So you just joined The Oaks?” she asked.
“Actually, we joined a couple of years ago,” I explained. “My husband has been playing a lot of golf, but this is my first real weekend at the club.”
“Why is that?”
“Because until recently, I had a full-time job. In book publishing.”
No, I didn’t scream it out, but I made sure old Porter couldn’t possibly fail to catch my drift.
“Book publishing? What a coincidence,” she said. “My husband’s company owns Davidson House.”
“Really? That is a coincidence.”
“You said you had a full-time job—until recently?”
“Yes. I was a cookbook editor at Charlton House,” I told Porter. “But they’re downsizing. I got laid off a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” said Porter.
“Thanks. I’ve been interviewing at other houses, but nothing’s clicked yet.”
“Have you tried Davidson House?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t really know anyone there.” Hint hint.
“Well, I can certainly help you with that, Judy. I’ll speak to my husband. I’m sure he’ll see you.”
“Oh, Porter,” I said, grabbing her hand and pumping it. “I’d be very grateful if you’d tell him about me. Davidson House has such a wonderful reputation. I’d be honored to have the opportunity to work there.” Grovel, grovel. Shovel, shovel.
“Not to worry,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.”
The woman was a sweetheart. I wanted to kiss her. Instead, I suggested we play tennis.
“How about it?” I said. “It sounds like we’re both a couple of hackers, so why don’t we get out there and hack away?”
Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I did: hack away—at Porter Stanton’s nose.
We’d been warming up for ten minutes or so when I suggested we play a set. Porter agreed. We split the first four games and were on serve in the fifth when she decided to rush the net. I should have taken her at her word when she said how clumsy she was, but how was I to know she meant it? People were always saying self-deprecating things about themselves, especially when it came to sports. So how was I to know she was seriously clumsy?
There she was, rushing the net at the very moment I picked to hit the ball as hard as I had ever hit it in my life. But instead of positioning her racquet in front of her face to protect herself or, God forbid, to return my shot, she just stood there gawking at me, her arms at her sides, her legs bolted to the ground. I mean, the woman seemed incapable of getting out of the way of the ball!
I’ll spare you the gory details of what happened next. Suffice it to say, an ambulance carried Porter off to Belford Hospital, where the doctors set her broken nose, kept her overnight for observation, and sent her home. She was told she couldn’t play tennis for the rest of the summer. I tried to visit her in the weeks after the accident, but she wasn’t too keen on seeing me. I took that to mean she would not be speaking to her husband, the publishing mogul, on my behalf. I was right. Hunt saw George Stanton on the golf course and the man said he wouldn’t hire me for a job at Davidson House if I were the only cookbook editor on the planet.
The second Friday in June, Hunt was asked to join the Finance Committee. Apparently, one of the old geezers on the committee, Chester Babcock, croaked in the saddle—i.e., he was having sex with a waitress from the Men’s Grill when his heart gave out—and Ducky recommended Hunt to fill Chester’s spot. Boy, was he excited. He was so excited he actually ran into the kitchen to tell me the news.
“Do you know what this means?” he said as he hugged me.
“It means you get to spend even more time at that delightful club,” I said dryly.
“Jude, it means new guys to network with. And more clients. And before you know it, a partnership at F&F.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Now that you’re on the Finance Committee, can you get them to kill that ridiculous three-million-dollar assessment for the new kitchen?”
The club had recently sent around a letter informing members that they were each being assessed ten thousand dollars for the renovation of the kitchen. It all seemed a little weird to me, since no one at The Oaks wanted to spend a dime on anything but the golf course. What’s more, after we coughed up three million for a new kitchen, we’d still be stuck with Brendan, the chef who couldn’t cook his way out of a pastry bag.
“I hear Duncan Tewksbury thinks three million is a good price,” said Hunt. “Ducky’s grumbling, but everybody else on the Finance Committee approves. The contractor the club is going with uses only the highest-quality materials.”
“Yeah, but who needs a diamond-studded stove?”
“Jude.”
“Sorry.” I kissed Hunt. “I’m proud of you,” I said. “So proud that I’ll pick Kimberley up at the station tomorrow morning.” Normally, Hunt picked his daughter up when she came for a visit, but since Saturday morning was prime golf time, I offered to do the honors.
“It�
�s been a few weeks since we’ve seen her,” he said. “It’ll be great having her with us again.”
“Yeah, great,” I said, faking a smile.
Kimberley came in on the 10:02. She was wearing white shorts, red Keds, and a pale blue Izod shirt. Very preppy. She had her father’s looks (golden hair, thin hips, long legs) and her mother’s attitude (rotten). When she saw that I was to be her chauffeur and not Hunt, she scowled. I pretended not to notice.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said cheerfully as I loaded her belongings into the car. She permitted me to kiss her. “Train ride okay?”
“No, we crashed head-on into a stalled school bus. There were no survivors.”
Ahh, so it was going to be one of those weekends. One of those fabulous, fun-filled weekends where my stepdaughter treated me as if I had Malomars for brains.
Actually, I acted as if I had Malomars for brains when she was around. There was something about her disapproving glares and snotty remarks that made me feel so constrained, so uptight that I was often reduced to the role of idiot stepmother, carping and sniping instead of loving.
“I thought we’d go over to the club today,” I said as she stared out the car window. “How does that sound?”
“Weird.”
“Why weird?”
“Because you never go to the club.”
“That was last year, Kimberley. This summer I’m using the club.”