It was with great anticipation that the inaugural meeting of the Rosalie Country Club Bridge Bunch was about to take place, and Wendy Winchester was so proud of herself, she thought she might pop just like a champagne cork. Following the untimely demise of the venerable Rosalie Bridge Club and its four wealthy society matrons more than a year earlier in the historic Mississippi River port, it was Wendy who had taken the initiative to form a club with fresh new faces devoted to the game. Because she had been on track to become a fledgling member of the old group, her interest in learning the game and becoming more polished at it had not waned. She had continued to practice online and believed she was getting much better as a player.
As a result, the Rosalie Citizen’s twenty-six-year-old investigative reporter had forged ahead bravely in her spare time. The strawberry-blond, blue-eyed “power magnolia” had approached Delia Dorothy Hornesby—“Deedah” to her friends, as well as the director of the RCC, itself—about forming a new club and had discovered a formidable ally for her efforts.
“I’ve always thought we should have a bridge club that meets out here in the middle of the hardwood forests instead of in town where everything is so crowded. We don’t have to have all our activities within sight of the Mississippi River, you know,” Deedah had told her when they had met in her office several months earlier. “We have tennis, golf, swimming, and Ping-Pong here at the country club, so why not bridge? As much as I like the game, you would have thought I’d have come up with the idea, myself.”
Wendy had paid her the ultimate compliment with a gracious smile to seal the deal.
“You were too busy running the country club to perfection, I would imagine. You’re a woman of priorities.”
Deedah had leaned in across her desk and given Wendy a conspiratorial wink. “That’s the truth of the matter, I’m afraid. It takes some doing to keep this place humming, what with all the conflicting personalities who belong and want their way in everything. It appears the method the late William Voss used was to give in to Brent Ogle all the time, and that was the only way to keep the peace. Well, I have other ideas about how to get around the high-and-mighty Mr. Ogle.”
The first female director of the RCC, Deedah was no slouch in the “high-energy department.” Against the sexist opposition of the club’s most substantial contributor, Brent Ogle, she had won over the rest of the board when the previous director, William Voss, had keeled over unexpectedly from a heart attack and left an opening ripe for the taking. Had Brent campaigned against her? Not up front unless he had to. That was not his style. He preferred under the table and behind the scenes. At those tactics he had always excelled. Nonetheless, he had not succeeded in preventing Deedah Hornesby’s ascent to the directorship, and that had made him more hostile than ever.
Meanwhile, Wendy and Deedah had managed to collect two other members to form the Bridge Bunch’s first ever table: Hollis Hornesby, Deedah’s gangly, “pushing forty” son, whose art gallery had just closed after nearly two decades of struggle on Royal Street in the New Orleans French Quarter; and Carly Ogle, the long-suffering wife of the notorious Brent, himself. There had been a few others who had expressed interest but had not followed through. Perhaps they would join at a later time when the Bridge Bunch had gelled. Rosalie was full of those who were joiners only after a project had gotten off the ground and made a success of itself. There was always tremendous pressure to conform socially and do the “acceptable” thing.
This first meeting of the Bridge Bunch would be taking place on a gray, overcast Saturday afternoon the week before Halloween, and Wendy was hopeful that the threat of severe thunderstorms would not affect attendance for bridge in any way. At least it shouldn’t, she reasoned. It was obviously keeping most of the golfers and tennis players away, however, as there weren’t many people meandering around inside or outside otherwise. The Bridge Bunch would have the multi-columned brick clubhouse with the classic portico to themselves, practically. In fact, the only other person visible inside at the moment was the RCC’s longtime bartender, Carlos Galbis, who stood like a short, uniformed sentinel in his tux behind his marble-topped counter in a corner of the sprawling great room with its impressive vaulted ceiling.
The rest of the great room was unremarkable. There were sofas, chairs, and tables scattered here and there, some near the bar, others near the huge flat-screen HDTV mounted on the wall so that members could watch sports events of interest while they chatted and sipped their drinks. There was also a covered deck outside that wrapped around three sides of the building itself, offering rocking chairs to those who just wanted to enjoy frequent episodes of quiet laziness.
Wearing a pale-blue shift that she had bought at Lehman’s Department Store because she thought it matched the color of her eyes, Wendy had taken her place just inside the front entrance with its matching potted palms standing guard on either side of her. She was sipping on a glass of white Zinfandel, shifting it now and then to keep nervously checking her cell for the correct time at ever closer intervals. At least she knew where Deedah was, working as usual in her office in one of the building’s two wings. But it was almost three o’clock—their designated start time—and Wendy disliked stragglers of any kind, a pet peeve she wisely kept to herself. She also firmly resisted the urge to text any of the fledgling group as a reminder, having already decided to resort to that only if anyone was unfashionably late.
Finally, at five after three, the stylish, leggy Carly Ogle rushed in with a downcast expression. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Wendy,” she said, gasping. “Brent was supposed to fill up my car, but he apparently forgot, considering his golf date today with Tip Jarvis and Connor James. They’re out there on the course right now, the three of them, even if it looks like the weather will chase them in any minute. It had already started to rain at our house downtown, and it’s on the way. Anyway, I had to stop for gas, and wouldn’t you know it? There was a line a mile long at every one of those pumps. Isn’t that always the way when you’re in a hurry?”
Wendy gave Carly a quick, reassuring hug and then drew back gently with a smile. “Calm down, dear. It’s no big deal. Hollis Hornesby isn’t here yet, so you haven’t kept us waiting if that’s what you were worried about.”
“Oh, thank goodness for that,” Carly said, finally catching her breath while fanning her face at the same time. “I hate being a problem.”
“You are anything but. We’re going to be about playing a relaxed rubber or two of friendly bridge while we forget the cares of the world for at least this afternoon.”
Carly managed a mischievous smile. “Might I indulge in a drinkie-winkie before we start?”
Wendy graciously pointed in the direction of the bar. “Carlos is at your service over there. Help yourself. And there’s a snack table next to where we’ll be playing. I stocked it with mixed nuts, a couple of dips, some cherry tomatoes, and crackers in case we get the munchies. Maybe we’ll bring some fancier food as time goes on.”
“Yes, well, I think I’ll have Carlos whip up a mint julep with his magic mortar and pestle,” Carly said, her face lighting up immediately as she sashayed over.
Indeed, the RCC was known for its mint juleps, mojitos, and other exotic concoctions, and Carlos Galbis, whose father had escaped Cuba as a teenager just before Castro’s takeover, had become somewhat of a fixture in his ten years of service as a bartender. That was all to the good, since the RCC didn’t offer much in the way of food service—some store-bought sandwiches kept in a mini-fridge were about it—nor did it offer dancing and other formal social activities as most country clubs did. All of that was the exclusive purview of the venerable garden clubs who ran the Spring Tours and staged the Historic Rosalie Pageant for the tourists who appeared mostly in March and April in the midst of a thousand pink, purple, and red azalea blooms.
It was Wendy’s observation that Carly Ogle was almost never without a cocktail of some sort in her hand in most social situations. Probably because she had to live in the same house with her husband, Brent, and his rude, overbearing personality that offended nearly everyone who had to deal with him. Otherwise, she was the epitome of a modern, chic woman. Given to designer clothes that always flattered her figure—her height always doing them justice—she had never been seen around Rosalie without just the right touch of makeup, an impeccable coiffure, and an ingratiating smile. Wendy had thought to herself more than once that she hoped to be that “put together”—minus the cocktail crutch—when she reached the shank of middle age, but she was a good fifteen or twenty years away from that.
Wendy watched from afar with a combination of admiration and awe as the swarthy Carlos began his polished ritual of muddling the mint and lemon with his heavy but elegant Carrara marble pestle, then adding that fragrant mixture to simple syrup, good bourbon, and crushed ice in a blender to create the incredibly smooth but seductive julep that had brought him such fame in Rosalie. Seductive was the proper word—because drinking one seemed harmless enough, often leading to a second and sometimes even a third. That was when the bourbon became its own butler, standing up tall in the doorway and announcing itself loudly. If it could actually be heard, it would surely have said something like, “Time to put away those car keys and take a long nap.”
At any rate, Carly was soon settled in at the bridge table, sipping her julep and sighing at the ceiling as if giving thanks, while Wendy eventually made eye contact, lending her support by waving playfully. They would soon be all set for the first hand once Deedah and her son were in place.
At ten after three, Hollis Hornesby made his grand entrance. Some might even have described it as dramatic, as in Shakespearean, as in having his own follow spot in an off-Broadway production.
“Here I am at last in this too, too solid flesh,” he announced to Wendy, while not bothering to look her straight in the face. He seemed to be playing to some phantom balcony off in a corner of the room where Juliet was delicately waving her handkerchief.
In fact, Hollis was anything but too, too solid. No one had ever seen him eat anything in public, and he had always been notoriously underweight. “I couldn’t do anything with this long, mousy brown hair of mine today, so I put it up in a ponytail. I assume there’ll be no dress code with this group. I’m definitely not up for a Joan Rivers–type assessment.”
Wendy laughed appreciatively. Hollis had that effect on most people—Brent Ogle being the most notable exception. Hollis’s flamboyant gesturing and posing were perfect accompaniments to his artistic temperament, his speech always leaning toward hyperbole. Furthermore, he dressed as if he had just been spit out of a time warp grounded firmly in the turbulent late sixties. He wore a psychedelic T-shirt with a pair of ripped jeans and sported sandals on his feet. All that was missing was a hand-lettered protest sign with a peace symbol scrawled on it for good measure.
Since his return to Rosalie, Hollis had been somewhat disgruntled about life in general, but Deedah had stepped in and footed the bill for a new art gallery on Locust Street. Not to mention giving him his old room back in his childhood home. At least he had a second chance at selling his art—a collection of oils and acrylics that consisted mostly of people hanging out under lampposts or hanging over lacework balconies throwing Mardi Gras beads and doubloons to the fevered crowd below. His was a somewhat one-note talent, and that had not served him well so far in his career.
“You’re just fine, Hollis,” Wendy told him. “Why don’t you go on over to the table and talk to Carly Ogle while I round up your mother? You need to get her to lighten up with one of your patented anecdotes. She was beating herself up way too much because she was just a few minutes late. You and her mint julep are bound to do the trick and bring her around for some expert bidding.”
“I’m sure I’ll be up to the challenge.” Then Hollis pointed to the office wing. “Is Mother holed up in there again with her number crunching? She never takes even a nanosecond off from her work. Why she won’t hire a secretary is beyond me. She says it’s because she wants to control everything herself. I keep telling her that if she continues on her current path, she will go to an early grave just like Father did. Then it will be me all alone in the universe. Lost in the stars, as the song says. Was it Frank Sinatra whose version I remember and admire so much? Anyway, I’m nowhere near ready for that.”
“I’m afraid it takes the kind of effort your mother is putting in to run the RCC,” Wendy said, smiling at Hollis’s last couple of comments. “Your mother shared a lot of the details with me while we were putting the Bridge Bunch together. But I wouldn’t be concerned about her health if I were you. She’s a very robust woman.”
“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Hollis said, smirking. Then he turned on his heels and sped off, while waving at Carly Ogle in the distance as if she were his long-lost playmate.
Wendy was about to head over to Deedah’s office when the director, herself, suddenly appeared in the doorway to the office wing. “Everyone here, Wendy?”
“All accounted for. We are ready to play.”
“Even Hollis? He’s always late for everything. I seriously considering renaming him ‘Dawdle’ by the time he was in his teens.”
“Even Hollis,” Wendy said, somewhat amused.
“Then let’s deal the cards.”
“Did you want one of Carlos’s cocktails before we start?”
Deedah waved her off vigorously. “Not yet. Let’s see how the cards go first. I may be driven to drink if I have an afternoon of passing on every hand I’m dealt.”
“Maybe the cards will take turns being good to us.”
As the two women moved together to the bridge table, Wendy marveled once again at the foursome who had formed the new bridge club. How different they all were—particularly the women. Where Carly was constantly drowning her sorrows, Deedah was the quintessential “take charge” personality. A retired accountant who had put her skills to good use after her husband’s death, she was eminently qualified to run the RCC, making quick decisions and apologizing to no one.
Unlike Carly, however, she disdained the latest fashions, preferring voluminous caftans that had the virtue of covering all of her significant figure flaws. Decidedly matronly in appearance, she usually just pulled her graying hair back into a knot or French twist and left it at that. Nonetheless, hers was a pleasant-enough round face that was far from off-putting. Wendy wasn’t quite sure how the four of them would get along as bridge players, but she was certain their time together would be anything but dull.
Finally, it was time for the Bridge Bunch to get things started, and it was Wendy who did the honors after everyone was seated. “Well, here we are,” she began, smiling at the look of anticipation on their faces, “and I trust we will become the only game in town after a little time has passed. We’re only four right now, but we can always hope that we will grow to four or five tables with two dozen regulars. Maybe we can eventually hold our very own championship that will mean something.”
“That would be lovely,” Deedah chimed in, and the others nodded approvingly.
“Before we begin,” Wendy continued, “I’d like to offer a helpful pointer. I thought it would be fun for one of us to take turns explaining one particular element of bridge that’s not used as much as it could be. I’ll be the one this first time, and we’ll go around the table as the weeks pass.”
She paused and then drew their attention to a hand she had already arranged for herself, separating it by suits and displaying it in the center of the table. “If you need to get up and stand behind me while I discuss this, be my guest.”
The other three did exactly as she suggested, and then Wendy began explaining. “Today’s pointer is the preemptive bid. Take your time to look it over.”
There were, in order:
After a short period of time had passed, Wendy resumed her presentation. “As you all can see, this hand does not have very much in the way of high card points—just seven, counting the four face cards. It does not have the thirteen or fourteen points normally required for an opening bid. But what it does have is length in hearts—seven of them, in fact. This is the perfect hand for a preemptive bid.”
The others agreed by nodding their heads or making soft noises that showed they understood.
“Although it’s possible that the heart suit might become the trump suit, depending upon what your partner has in the way of support, the primary purpose of a preemptive bid is to give the opponents trouble, to disrupt their communication. You preempt by opening at a high level. Thus, if they should get the contract, they will probably be at a much higher level than they would prefer to be. So, you would bid three hearts here, and your partner knows you do not have strength, you have length. The preemptive bid is a defensive bid, but you take the offensive even though you are in a weak position with point count traditionally.”
Wendy allowed a few more moments to pass and then said, “Any questions on the preemptive bid?”
It was Hollis who spoke up, applauding her softly a few times. “You did that beautifully, Wendy. I’ve always understood about preempting, but I must confess, I’m always nervous about actually using it. I’m afraid I’ll actually get caught playing the hand and messing up. You know, going down in flames.”
“Probably not, though,” Wendy said. “At the very least, you will likely rob your opponents of a legit contract they could have had if you hadn’t thrown them off the track and gotten them out of their comfort zone.” Wendy then asked for further questions, but as there were none, the foursome again took their places around the table, and the Bridge Bunch began their very first deal.
The expected deluge that Carly had described upon her arrival began just as Brent Ogle, Tip Jarvis, and Connor James were finishing up the RCC’s ninth hole sometime after the bridge game had started. An explosion of thunder and a spidery bolt of lightning against the frowning black sky had them stuffing their clubs into their bags quickly and jumping into their golf carts as if their pants were on fire. Seconds later, sheets of heavy rain drenched the course, but the men did not have far to go to reach the clubhouse. The trio had been well aware of the forecast, yet had decided to see if they could get in a round anyway.
For the first time ever in their years of casually playing together, the much more athletic Brent had finished behind the others by three strokes—even if they hadn’t managed the full eighteen. Incredibly, he had double-bogeyed the eighth hole and then followed that with another bogey on the ninth. Until this afternoon, he had never been bested by either of the other men by even a stroke at the end of nine or eighteen, even if they were all thoroughly middle-aged. Tip and Jarvis had whooped and hollered over their long-awaited triumph at the hole and on the way back in their carts. They were like giddy little boys in bumper cars. If they could have rammed Brent, they would have. Tip even raised his fist in the air, and Brent reacted to the gesture with a pronounced scowl plastered across his angular features. If he could have instantly grown a mustache and twirled it, he would have.
“You guys both know the score wouldn’t have held up if we’d gotten to play the back nine. I just had that crazy slump there at the end,” Brent insisted as they entered the back door of the clubhouse off the wraparound deck and headed down the long hallway toward the locker room, lugging their clubs. Their intention was to put their clubs away, do a quick toweling off of arms and faces, and then avail themselves of Carlos’s services in the great room. The term designated driver was simply not in their vocabulary, yet they had somehow managed to avoid traffic tickets and car wrecks in all their outings together. The gods of the golf course were evidently looking after them.
Brent decided not to drop the subject of his milestone loss, however. “I mean it. You fellas act like you won the US Open or something. Get over yourselves.”
“Hey, we’ll take what we can get,” Tip said as an afterthought as they all sat down on the changing benches with their towels. He meant the reply as a joke, but Brent’s frown indicated that he was clearly not taking it in that spirit.
They were perhaps Rosalie’s most unlikely trio of recreational friends. Not because they did not enjoy their cold dranks, as they preferred to call them, at the bar after golfing; and not because they never failed to swap “dumb blonde” and other juvenile sexist jokes in the locker room. It was anyone’s guess as to why undressing and showering within shouting distance of each other brought out this macho trait in them. Could they all really be that insecure?
No, the puzzler was that Brent—who still had a full head of dark hair and was enjoying an incredibly successful career as a personal injury lawyer—was a graduate of Rosalie High School, while Tip, now a portly dentist with an old-fashioned, graying crew cut, and Connor, a balding pediatrician with a habit of slapping his friends on the back too heartily—had both graduated from St. Mark’s Academy, an Episcopal private school that attracted wealthier Rosalieans to its corridors.
The rivalry on the football field between the RHS Devils and the St. Mark’s Saints was as fierce and loaded as the biblical implications of their nicknames and mascots. All three men had played the game for their respective schools, but Brent had been RHS’s most accomplished quarterback ever, winning a scholarship to LSU for his dazzling athleticism. Tip and Connor had never been better than second string for St. Mark’s and had spent most of their time playing in mop-up situations after games had gotten out of hand.
Over the years, there had been many showdowns when an invitation to the state play-offs was at stake. Victories against the other team were rubbed in, and losses were taken with bitter resignation and resentment. It was public school versus private—the less privileged versus the snobs—perhaps a concept officially left unspoken but branded upon the brains of everyone following the games.
The most controversial of all the contests between the two schools was the one that had become known as The Four-Second Game, which had taken place quite a few decades earlier. St. Mark’s had led for most of the game, and the score was 16–10, St. Mark’s, with four seconds left. At the time, it had been nine years since St. Mark’s had beaten its public school rival, but it appeared that a breakthrough was at last at hand. Brent had thrown a pass into the St. Mark’s end zone for what would have been a tying touchdown for RHS, but the ball was batted down expertly by a Saints defender.
Game over. Brent and company had finally tasted defeat in the series for the first time in a good while. Along with Saints fans in the bleachers, Tip and Connor had both jumped up and cheered wildly from their vantage point on the bench.
But as it turned out, the game was not quite over. Saints fans and players looked up at the scoreboard clock, which somehow had one second left on it. But the pass play surely had taken at least four seconds. Not according to the clock, however, which was the assignment of the clock operator who sat in the press box. When Brent got off one last play in that final second and scored a touchdown when his receiver grazed the very edge of the left pylon, then won the game 17–16 when the extra point was kicked with time expired, Saints fans cried foul, insisting that the clock operator had kept the clock from running out by putting his thumb on it and giving RHS and Brent that one extra second to pull the victory out of the fire.
“Sour grapes,” was the rallying cry of all RHS fans, including Brent, himself. “Get over it. . .
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