were leisurely finishing their prime rib and lobster dinners. The little country club was noted for their fine cuisine, in an elegant, yet down home setting - so, no cause to wonder why the rather out-of-the-way place tended more toward the local, if not regional, old money set. From one corner, that overlooked the 18-hole golfcourse, a young pianist played soft music upon a grand piano - which had been purchased, going on a century ago, by the club, along with the sprawling old stone farmhouse, that dated back to around 1830.
Other original furnishings were also lovingly kept polished. A large mahogany sideboard, reputed to predate the revolutionary war, sat along the wall - which was probably true, and maybe, that large oaken table in a neighboring room. Needless to say, the sometimes visiting "updates" - who preferred the large club, located closer to the city - were known to simply hone in upon nicks and dents. And yeah, they never failed to run in the fact, they had superior golfers. Forty year olds golf better than sixty year olds ... moving right along. Genuine crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings in several of the rooms - and yes, the upkeep of those was a ha$$le, but the members continued to vote yes, they're worth it.
Had been a near miracle the club was able to sustain a healthy margin of black. Some six or seven years ago...well sometime during Donalds' first term, the club had chosen to take a big risk; the vote was nearly three out of four in favor to close on sunday - no small decision, since sunday income rivalled saturdays. Needless to say, there, for a while, the club found itself scrambling for staff. It had gotten to the point, where several of the members, themselves, from time to time, were, tending bar, waiting tables, and even cleaning restrooms.
Ward Waterfeld would never know why a certain highly coveted client had chosen to partner with his employer. To sum it up, a prominent man - who was reputed to be worth several billion - had been impressed by the the middle-aged lawyer, who, in his suit, had quietly disappeared for a few moments, into the kitchen. Yep, billionaire wanted people who were willing to keep things running - even if those things were menial.
Okay, club backstory done.
Mr and Mrs Ward Waterfeld, along with three or four other couples, slowly danced to a soft melody. While, predictably, much of the muted conversation, all around, was about - and for Rowans, another conversation, from one of the tables, had nothing to do with voting. Though June didn't care for Rowans, atleast, with him and his, in office, if war was to break, young unmarried women would be exempt - which is likely why, Rowans would get it per landslide. Of course, the Waterfeld's were free from the worry of having to come up with a dodge - both agreed, "over my dead body..." Sure, Roger, at fourteen, was starting to chomp at the bit; he wanted to go and notch off a few commies. June kept her focus upon the election, lest she mope. She'd plans for Molly - a lovely white gown, with veil and train, lots of flowers, attendants, aline, and a reception here at the club.
From that certain table - where the two husbands were debating which ski lodge was better - a set of overly mascara'd eyes peered up and down the delicate folds of June Waterfeld's pale burgundy gown. Alice really didn't know June that well, nor cared to - she was just miffed about something, and looking for an ego-fix. She inched her chair back, then tilted her head a bit sideways. The other wife, knew the signal. A savory tidbit was about to be served. While Carla, for good reason, didn't much trust Alice, doggoneit, she sure had the goods.
"Ah, yer fulla s*it!" the one husband was going on about something related to snow removal equipment. "Albert, please!" Carla chided - being partially annoyed, for having missed a little tidbit. Something about a teen wearing a prom gown to a "fundoid" wedding. Alice's next remark clarified matters, and it was sweet music to Carla's ears. The girl, Molly, had been in her current affairs class, and had, more than once, expressed obsolete views regarding the "two" genders. What really rankled Carla was: the heffer not only did her homework, but went beyond the mile. Conflicting thoughts rose up to occupy another tract of mental acreage. Carla wasn't having that ... reality. Hampstering was easier, took far less mental energy. Anyway, ha-ha, to the not-so-little brat, a smirk crossed her face. Pro-patriarchal values? Ma-molleee was likely getting a payload of it.
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