Chapter 3

I swallowed hard. Marty’s comment reminded me of something I had let slip my mind. That day was the great unveiling: Marty and I were going to appear together in public for the very first time. Together we were going over to the country club for luncheon and bridge.

Oh, well ... I suppose I could order a salad; they’re pretty hard to ruin. The fact was that for months now I had been eating food prepared by one of the world’s finest chefs. And you know what? It’s been utterly spectacular. JJ’s food is so good, I no longer even mind all the additional work I have to do to burn off the calories.

Marty and I finished breakfast and returned to our suite. We shared a shower, followed by a soak in our baby swimming pool with musk oil floating on the surface while taking turns caressing each other’s body with the expensive oil. We finished it by giving each other massages and finally doing each other’s hair. Marty’s was a golden blonde and was arranged identically to my own.

Since we both had all-over golden tans, we had decided that we would rush the season a bit and wear white sleeveless dresses over thongs.

I was leading the way as we went down the curved staircase in the front of the house. For a change, the other four were dressed, too. James was wearing a gray chauffeur’s uniform cut a bit large at the left armpit so that his shoulder holster wouldn’t cause an unsightly bulge. (In addition to their other duties, Jim — James when on duty — and Paul were our bodyguards.) Both had concealed-carry permits, and given their proven records in battle, we were as safe as if we were in church.

Paul was wearing a pair of Levi’s cut-offs and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. Maria had on a pair of Levi’s short shorts and a T-shirt cut off just below her nipples. The swell of her bare tits was visible below the bottom of the shirt. There was quite a lovely expanse of smooth, tight tanned belly showing. JJ was just wearing short shorts like Maria’s but she dispensed with the top. The two girls looked gorgeous, as usual.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, I stopped and asked, “Well? How do we look?”

At that moment my respect for the two women increased dramatically. As you’ve probably guessed by now, the teasing in our home was a constant. But this was different. As self-confident as Marty always was, the two women instantly realized that it didn’t extend to her personal appearance. She had come up on my left and was standing very slightly behind.

“Utterly ravishing!” JJ breathed. “You two could not possibly look better than you look today!”

Maria echoed JJ using similar words.

Hearing the two, I could hear an audible release of bated breath from Marty. Clearly, she had been nervous while awaiting the appraisal of the two. “Do you really think so?” she asked skeptically.

“Martha Stone Smith, you’ve never looked a fraction as good as you look right now in your entire life! And your mother!” JJ intoned. “Today, you really are the gold and silver twins. You’re simply scrumptious!”

James was already at the door waiting to hold it for us. I gave him a grateful smile as I went out the door ahead of Marty. James immediately rushed past us to be in position to open the car door for us.

Another first! That day I was getting my first ride in our latest acquisition, a silver Rolls-Royce limousine. Frankly, James looked proud as punch as he held the door for us. Wow! The Rolls was at least as lovely within as it was without. I settled back in the seat with Marty beside me.

She was so funny! She was trying her best to look unimpressed, but failing miserably. Not only was she funny, she was so damned cute! And that’s pretty hard to do when you’re five feet ten as she is.

But off we went.

James pulled up to the main entrance of the country club, jumped out, ran around the car and held the door open for Marty and me to alight. Fortunately for the sake of our grand entrance, other members who had walked over from the parking lot arrived at the doors at about the same time. As a result, as I was the first to exit the car, the main door was open and the people gathered inside got the full treatment.

And you know what? It felt simply great!

I paused for a few moments to let Martha get out and then the two of us marched up the steps. James was ahead of us. He was already at the door to open and hold it for us. He was being ever so sensitive to us weak ladies; I mean ... we couldn’t have opened that big ol’ door all by ourselves, could we? (I choose not to think about the hundreds of pounds of weight the two of us work out with every day.)

At any rate, the two of us entered the club’s foyer, and instantly a man came around from the office. Although I had not set foot in the club for more years than I cared to think about, I recognized Tom Chandler, the club manager, from his pictures in the club’s monthly newsletter that I received at home.

“Good morning, ladies,” he greeted us. And although his voice was friendly, his eyes were not. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Chandler,” I replied. “I’m Catherine Smith, and this is my daughter, Martha. We’ve come over today for luncheon and bridge.”

When I mentioned my name, Chandler’s eyes flared. “But ... but that’s impossible! Catherine Smith is one of our oldest members. You’re much too young.”

“I am probably one of the most senior members,” I responded, “and I should be. After all, I’ve been a regular member since I was about one week old.” At that I glanced over to a plaque at the entrance which contained the names of the 25 most senior members. And what do you know? I was number one!

A bit of additional background is in order: In the first place, Marty and I didn’t just happen to select that day to appear at the club. First — and it relates to my seniority — I own the damned thing.

Many years earlier, when golf and country clubs were being “invented”, my family leased the land on which it stands to the club for 99 years. The oddity was the rent. Rather than paying us money, the family was given ten regular memberships which included all club fees: greens fees, tennis fees, etc. Furthermore, the family — and at that time it was just me — was the sole judge of fitness for membership. If I named someone as a member, he (or she) was instantly a regular member. The fact that, for example, only men could be regular members meant nothing.

The second element was one I learned from Ann Stockdale: The club had been seeking to borrow a number of millions of dollars for a massive expansion. The club’s credit was very good and initially it appeared that the loan would be a no-brainer. But then the major bank that had been approached — not UVB — undertook its due-diligence, and actually did it.

The bank learned that the club didn’t own its property. Rather, they had a 99-year land lease, and guess what? The lease was due to expire in just a few more years. As a result, the Board of Governors was collectively stunned to learn, first, of the land lease (the then current members had forgotten all about it, if, indeed, they had ever known), and second, that the only way the bank would lend the money would be if the governors, individually and severally, personally guaranteed it.

Needless to say, the governors were not happy to hear either of those bits of news.

But there was another element: I mentioned the club’s monthly newsletter. In it, there were near-constant mentions of Laura Baxter, the wife of the club’s president. As far as she was concerned, she was Mrs. President. Moreover, I had learned something else: The club’s women had an annual bridge tournament with a solid-silver loving cup as its trophy. (Okay, so it’s silver plate. Close enough.) Further, if a woman were to win the tournament five years in a row, she retired the trophy and obtained permanent possession of it. And guess what? Laura Baxter had won it each of the previous four years. (Of course she had a partner, but she had changed partners annually so as not to have to share the prize.)

Martha and I had other ideas with respect to the trophy.

But back to Tom Chandler.

“My!” I commented, “I see that I’m now the club’s most senior member. How nice!” Then I looked at him and said, “How about if I sign something? Would that help? I’m sure you have my signature on file around here somewhere.”

He did.

We moved over to the reception desk where I picked up a piece of paper and signed, Catherine Smith, X-1.

You know, I think it was my account number that did it. The club members’ numbers were always a combination of the first letter of their last name along with a number in sequence. Since my name is Smith, ordinarily my account number would be S-something. But that gets back to our peculiar lease. The Smith family membership numbers are all prefaced by X. (If the club ever accepts a member with a last name beginning with X, there will be a bit of a problem.)

When Chandler saw X-1, his eyes flared. “Welcome to the country club, Miss Smith,” he said. His attitude had changed dramatically. Then I remembered that he was an ex officio member of the Board of Governors, so of course he would know of both the lease arrangement and the prospective loan. He continued, “It’s been a very long time since you’ve been with us. Aside from lunch and bridge, is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Please issue the necessary items for my daughter, Martha Stone Smith, to be admitted as a regular member. I assume her account number will be X-2?”

“That’s correct, and I’ll take care of it immediately,” he responded. Then to Marty he said, “Welcome to membership. We’re delighted to have you.” Then to both of us he added, “Since you haven’t been with us for a very long time, I’ll immediately remind the staff of your position and the fact you’re likely to be with us more frequently in the future.”

Off we went to the dining room after Marty signed a few items for the club’s records. As we went in, I noticed Chandler speaking with a woman seated at another table. I immediately recognized her from her myriad photos in the newsletter: Laura Baxter. When she jumped up from her table and headed out of the dining room, it was all I could do to control a grin.

I was nearly certain of two things: First, she wanted that trophy so badly she could taste it; and second, she would do everything possible to stack the deck in her own favor. The latter was something Marty and I had been counting on. Because, while it wasn’t completely necessary, we thought it would be nicer if we beat her out of “her” trophy face to face. I was almost certain she was arranging for us to be at her table on the assumption that we hadn’t played bridge there and therefore couldn’t be very good.