Page 10 of Old Money

“ A nd over here’s the library. Usually dead this time of day.”

Jamie opens the door. A fire is crackling in the old stone hearth, despite the fact that nobody’s in here, and also, it’s June.

“Yes, they do, and no, they have not. You don’t have to whisper in here, by the way.”

I shake my head, embarrassed. The library was a no-kid zone when I was growing up, and we all knew to keep silent even walking by, lest we disturb one of the cranky old men who camped out there all afternoon, napping beneath the Wall Street Journal .

“Old habits,” I say, speaking up.

Jamie nods, understanding, and waves us back into the lobby.

“You might want to keep quiet about climate change though.”

Jamie is taking me on an orientation tour that I don’t need.

I told him as much when I arrived this morning, hauling my bulky tote bag and wearing Jules’s shoes.

Jamie sent me the dress-code document last night, attached to an ominous one-line email: Okay.

Here it is. Reviewing it this morning, I understood.

As a female staffer, there are two types of shoes I may wear: oxford lace-up or penny loafer, “white only.” I’ll have to hit the mall later, to find a knee-length skirt in “buff khaki,” “buttercup” or—wait for it—“true white.” No pockets allowed.

Today I’m making do in Jules’s beige oxfords, which are both too long and too narrow for me, and a skirt which is regular khaki and has one back hip pocket.

“But it’s sewn shut,” I told Jamie. “Purely decorative.” Then he told me my shirt wasn’t white enough.

I’m now wearing a club-issued polo shirt, in the signature crème de menthe green.

My white blouse—with its non-regulation-gray buttons—is stuffed inside my tote, hanging from one of the hooks in Jamie’s office.

I’d hesitated to leave my bag, filled as it was with all my police forms. But I didn’t have much choice.

Jamie had given me the shirt and pointed me toward the break room, saying I could change there and leave my bag in any open cubby.

I’d paused, and he’d looked at me with concern and confusion—a combination that looks a lot like suspicion.

“Or my office, if you prefer to leave it there?” he’d added. “It’s not locked either though.”

“Perfect,” I’d said, feigning relief. “Some things never change!”

Now I remember though— nothing changes. The clubhouse is just as it was twenty years ago.

The further we get into orientation, the more I recall: the toilet in the powder room that was always running (still there, still running).

The grill menu, with the same four lunch items: turkey club, Caesar salad, blackened chicken and the clam chowder that no one ever orders.

Even the ashtrays are still here, as is indoor smoking.

“They sued the state over the ban,” Jamie explains, as if this is a totally normal thing to do. “Indoor smoking is now legal in all of Briar’s Green. Legal again , I guess.”

He heads toward the center of the lobby, moving a hair faster than his usual fast clip. I have to speed-walk to keep up with his long-legged strides, my shoes skidding on the felted green carpet.

“Are you serious? The whole village?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry. They only smoke in here.”

Jamie narrates as he goes, pointing to the far-right corner.

“Cloakroom’s still there, next to the powder room. Fire exit’s in the back. Reception desk is on the left—not to be confused with the old reception desk.”

He stops in the middle of the lobby, facing the grand marble staircase that swoops up to the second floor. There’s a small door carved into the base of the stairs, and in front of it, a matching marble desk, topped with a tidy vase of lily of the valley. Jamie gestures to it, lowering his voice.

“You remember the deal with the old desk, right?”

“It’s haunted.”

“Ha ha.”

“It’s electrified, and anyone who steps foot behind it will be zapped to death.”

The old reception desk was another subject of several childhood rumors—all started by the club itself.

The real story was that marble had been crumbling off the side of the staircase for sixty years, and no one wanted to pay for all those tiresome safety repairs.

Better to simply use the funds on a new reception desk, and keep children away from the old one with ridiculous horror stories.

“Do they still tell the one about the secret room behind it, where they torture kids who run by the pool?”

“Yes, and the archive full of cursed jewels and skeletons.” Jamie deadpans. “But seriously, don’t go back there. It’s coming off in chunks now.”

I nod soberly.

“Okay, second floor.” Jamie heads up the staircase, narrating as he goes. “We can skip the guest rooms—mostly just mice in there. Fire exit’s on the landing, left end of the hall is the airing cupboard, and staff steps are on the right. Sorry for rushing this.”

“We really don’t need to do this at all, Jamie,” I say, clutching the banister, steadying myself on the slick, worn marble. “I know where the fire exits are.”

The village is militant about fire safety laws, not for the sake of its citizens, but its precious old properties. I guess I’d be worried too, what with all the indoor smoking and roaring, unattended fireplaces.

“We really do,” Jamie counters, marching up the steps. “If you break an ankle on the staircase I need to be able to say I told you it was slippery and uneven.”

“Roger that,” I reply, still grasping the banister. Jamie nods me along.

“The grill starts serving Bloody Marys at ten, and I need us off the floor by then.” His voice rebounds off the marble and he drops into a murmur. “They’re fussy about staff tours ‘getting in the way.’ ”

They , I have gleaned, are the club’s old-guard members and its almighty board.

Jamie may be concierge here, but he’s not one of them—far from it.

His dad had worked on the overnight maintenance team, and Jamie started there too, at eighteen, chipping away at a hospitality degree during the day.

But he was always aiming for management, and having grown up in the clubhouse, he knew the place inside-out.

He’d proven a unique and invaluable resource, trusted by both members and staff, and soon he’d worked his way up so high that even the board had to agree—with great reluctance—to create a senior position for him.

“ Concierge isn’t really the appropriate title,” he explains as we walk down the long corridor that comprises the club’s second floor. “But that’s the one they agreed on. After nine board meetings.”

I laugh. He looks at me, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not joking.”

“God,” I say, half whispering again. “It’s like they enjoy wasting time.”

We stroll briskly past the row of guest rooms that line the upstairs hall—originally meant for overnight shooting parties and debutante balls. They’re cramped and stuffy, and the members never use them, but they’re always made up with fresh linens nonetheless. These people enjoy waste, period.

Jamie sighs, shrugging lightly.

“They sure do. Staff stairs are down here.” Jamie points us down the hall, continuing. “Before me, it was just Brody running the show, and they were fine with that. They loved it—all his formalities, rules for the sake of rules.”

“I remember,” I say, still chilled thinking of him. “An etiquette for everything. ‘Always time for manners.’ ”

“Exactly. Can’t put out the newspaper until it’s been ironed by hand,” says Jamie, adding darkly, “That is also not a joke, by the way.”

But it still makes me snort with laughter.

“God, and then what? They all shared the one copy?”

“No, it just sat there all day!” Jamie whisper-shouts.

“People get the news from their own papers—or phones or TVs. That’s the point, it was a lot of needless ceremony and zero efficiency.

The younger members started to complain, and eventually forced the board to bring on some new management.

‘Additional’ management, not replacement. ”

He gestures at himself.

“So, it’s like Brody’s the monarch and you’re the prime minister.”

“Basically. If the monarch still retained the right to decapitate someone for pouring wine from the bottle without decanting.” He holds up his hands.

“I mean no disrespect to Brody. I get it—we’re here to serve our members, and the old-school crowd still likes doing things the traditional way.

But the newer folks expect a little more service for their $50k. They want Wi-Fi.”

That, they still don’t have. Currently, the club operates on a hodgepodge of spreadsheets and leather-bound ledgers.

If a member wants to book a function room, they have to call the front desk and be transferred to the events manager (or more likely, his voicemail).

If they want to reserve a tennis court, they have to call a different number to speak to the recreation manager (who, as it happens, is often outside).

There is no such thing as online booking because nothing is online.

Every form, list and menu is saved on paper, and most important records are written by hand—Mr. Brody’s, specifically.

If a member needs to update their phone number, he must go in person to Mr. Brody’s office and dictate it to him while he inscribes it in the register.

This is the kind of inefficiency that they hold dear. It’s tradition.

My job as “floating admin” is to streamline and digitize operations just enough to make life easier for the newer members, without disturbing those who still prefer to do things the old, annoying way.

“So, install an online booking system, and—what?” I ask, following Jamie down the spiral staff staircase. “Scan the paper records?”

He stops at the bottom, thinking.

“Uh, yeah. I guess that’s the bulk of it.” He gestures to the doorway, leading out of the staff hall and into the gallery. “I told you, you’re overqualified. I was just going to hire a college kid.”