“Prepare your hearts for worship,” came the call from the new minister.
Brooke was seated in the family pew, near the front, across the aisle from the one she had crawled under during her great-grandmother’s funeral. Her mother let her stay under the pew that day. At least curled up in a ball their little girl wasn’t crying so loud.
Brooke’s worship preparation was to uncross her legs and tug her skirt. Grandmother Doris would tap her on the knee if too much of a leg was showing. “Polite girls don’t cross their legs in church and they always keep their skirt straight and taut, Brooke,” her grandmother would whisper. Thank goodness she didn’t need to wear stockings anymore, although many still did. A few women were wearing pants, but not many.
No one said a word until it was time to stand for the first hymn. That’s when she gave her mom a sideways hug and reached over to squeeze her dad’s hand who pulled her closer and whispered, “Lunch at the club after?”
Brooke hadn’t been making it to church much since she moved into her own place, but she knew the routine. They would not linger after church so they could be ahead of the Methodists in line at the club. They’d eat upstairs because her dad said he needed to use up his minimum. “Why go anyplace else?” he’d say.
Brooke had thought about that when she was younger. If the food was so good (and she wasn’t sure it was) then why weren’t more people lined up? Why did the members need to pay extra each month, on top of all the other money, as a kind of non-refundable deposit on food?
It wouldn’t be like that if she were in charge, she thought. If she ran the club, the service and food would be so good no one would eat anyplace else!
As Brooke expected, the lunch wasn’t all that good and the conversation was even worse. Her parent’s words made her feel like a tennis ball being volleyed back and forth over some net.
First came her dad. “Who do you expect to meet in … what’s the name of that neighborhood again … and who are those people – anyway?”
“Dad, they are great people. You’d like ’em if you ever came to visit.” She could have said more, should have said more, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood for discussion.
“Why aren’t you dating that cute Simpson boy who took you to the prom? I’m in book club with his mother, I’ll find out what he’s doing these days,” came from her mom. Brooke didn’t answer. Everyone knew the Simpson boy was gay. Everyone except Brooke’s mom.
“Why not join the new singles class at church, you’ll meet someone there!” said her dad.
On it went until the large room was almost empty. The staff was ready to go, clustered in small groups with their arms folded, the tables cleared and waiting to be stacked away. Brooke wondered if her parents had any idea how they were keeping these people from going home to their families, on Sunday.
One thing Brooke knew for sure, whatever job she got it wouldn’t be one where she had to work while everyone else was having fun.
By this time there were only two women still at a table, and when they finally stood, Brooke knew it would be time to go.
The women walked right by their table, one woman didn’t look happy, but the other stopped to talk. Brooke and her dad stood up.
“No, no,” said the woman who stopped. “I won’t be a minute, finish your meal,” a meal that was finished long ago.
“Are you playing Thursday, Lucinda? I hope so. I love it when we’re in the same nine-holer group,” the woman said. “Give me a jingle and I’ll set it up.”
Brooke knew the women were called nine-holers because they only played half the holes. There were other differences than just playing half a round of golf. The biggest was how these women liked to talk. The conversations would start before they even reached the first tee (or the tenth, depending) and they would go on, uninterrupted, until lunch was finished in the Teak Room. No matter if one of the women was about to tee off or standing over a six-foot putt that should have been a gimme, her mom though, the talk went on.
Once a member of her mother’s foursome was telling a story about whatever as she walked up to the par three, the one over the lake. Still talking, she took her swing, then reached down to pick up her white tee (that the club provided for free) and was upset to be interrupted in the middle of her story by the cheering from the other three. A hole-in-one was not something that happens every day at the club, and never for a nine-holer.
News spread, as news like that does, and when they got back to the golf shop, the pro wanted to have the ball framed as a special memento. She was sorry to report the ball missing, lost on the very next hole, (she said). But the ball that had gone in the hole that day was labeled “RANGE.” No self-respecting nine-holer would ever hit their own ball over the lake.
They did, however, have an extra glass of wine that Thursday.
Marion, the golfer, but not the one with the hole-in-one, the one standing by their table, was in the real-estate business. She owned her own firm and knew everyone who mattered in the zip code surrounding the club. She had restored a large house on the best street and entertained often. When all the lights were on at night, her home looked as big as the club.
Before Marion got Lucinda’s answer about Thursday, she said, “Ya know dear, what I need in the business is someone who could show clients around, let them see houses. Most of my friends have children who want homes in this neighborhood and I’d bet your daughter could help.” She’d forgotten Brooke’s name.
“All you need to do, Sweetheart, is help them choose between the ‘dollhouse’ and the one with ‘good bones’.”
Brooke knew the children would use some of the money from their trust for a renovation requiring more pickups than you would find on a dealer’s lot. If this zip code were a factory with a pay-window, the line at quitting time on Friday would stretch all the way ‘round the block.
It did occur to Brooke that Marion had no idea whether Brooke needed a job or not. Incidentals like that were never important to women like Marion.
Marion said she was late for a showing. As she hurried out she looked over her shoulder and said, “Be in my office tomorrow at 9:00, I’ve got something for you.”
If that was a question, Brooke had missed it.
At nine, sharp, Brooke was there. She needed a job. Her mom had suggested what to wear but Brooke went with her usual: navy suit with a silk blouse and sensible shoes.
Marion’s office looked more like one of the fancy private rooms at the club, with old rugs, antique tables, and chairs, each carefully placed. There were even fresh cut flowers; she hadn’t seen any of those at the banks, at least not in the HR offices.
The plan was simple. Brooke knew the neighborhood and Marion’s clients had children her age who needed to live close by. All she needed to do was show them houses until they picked one.
Marion was the broker and had people who would handle the details. Neither the clients nor Brooke, needed to worry about any of that – it would all get worked out.
“Now go out and ask Sue to take you to Tulip’s office. She’s got your paperwork filled out and even marked the places for you to sign with those cute sticky notes I got her if she remembered. Then Ruthie can see what’s on the schedule for today. Oh, and ask Tulip for the name of that lady who takes our pictures so good. She can give you the right look.”
“One more thing, Honey,” came Marion’s voice, as Brooke went looking for Sue, “You’ll do great, we’re counting on you.”
And with that, Brooke had her first job.