The Inner Circle
By Edwin G. RiceiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Edwin G. Rice
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-3605-8Chapter One
"Could you please move!" It was not a question it was an order. She was standing inside the door to the lounge area off the pro shop when the two young women entered. Not within the stretch of anyone's imagination was she impeding their progress through the doorway or to the door to the women's locker room, their obvious objective.
In a moment the same young woman who had spoken turned toward the open Champion's Gallery on her left, smiled and called to a man seated there. "Mark darling, it will be about ten minutes; Father and Mother should be here any moment."
Neither her haughty and arrogant tone nor time were foremost in his mind as Mark Edwards rose from his easy chair and walked through the Gallery's open arch toward the young woman who was standing in silence backed again the far wall of the lounge. She saw it in his eyes. It was gone in an instant like a like a draft that had brushed across one's face. "Was it surprise or was it anger," she would later wonder. Hurt and apprehensive she was still looking at him as he approached and stopped at her side. Again his handsome face wore an expression that she would remember; it was kind; but even more it showed true concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Surprised again and not yet through fighting against a threatened flood of tears, she was able to whisper a reply, "I'm alright, thank you."
"You were treated very rudely; I'm very sorry. Is there anything that I can do or get for you?"
Near speechless she finally found the word and replied softly, "I'm fine, but thank you. It was nothing." For a moment he simply looked at her, then nodded, smiled and returned to his chair beneath a portrait in the elegant Gallery.
Moments later the nearby door to the men's locker room flew open; striding out was a big man whose over-bearing confidence was evident in every aspect of his carriage. Mark knew him; he was six feet four inches tall weighed at least 230 pounds had dark hair and the beginning of a paunch at his belt line. Even more recognizable to Dr. Mark Edwards were the man's voice and demeanor.
Not even glancing at the woman cowering by the south wall he strode toward the pro shop door loudly issuing an order as he passed her, "Come on, let's get going; I've got work to do."
In the now quiet Gallery, Mark Edwards seated there alone let his thoughts choose their direction. "Brock Sherman, the most abrasive man I've ever met on and off the golf course. He was rude to her too. Twice within minutes she had to take it.- The first time was from Deborah. Why? I've never seen her treat people like that before. Does she feel that her position in society gives her license to treat people that way? Wealth and elitist entitlement was that what it was all about? Yes and the young woman is Asian? I wonder?"
Sensing the warm beauty of the May evening and feeling the need for some fresh air, Mark Edwards rose, crossed the lounge and stepped out the side door onto the stone patio. After taking a deep breath he let his gaze sweep across the park-like beauty before him. Ahead was the gentle slope to the first tee which in the late spring evening was lush and green and lined by immaculately and meticulously tended flower beds of brilliant spring tulips in every possible color. The only sound was the soft shifting of the flag at the crest of the rise to his left as he turned his eyes to the manicured fairway of the first hole, its bordering shrubs and blossom covered trees.
Moments of quiet thought had passed when he heard sharply-edged call, "Mark darling, I said it would be only ten minutes, why didn't you wait inside for us? We had to have one of the boys look in the men's locker room for you."
Edwards' glance at his watch told him it had been twenty minutes and instant before he turned to the smiling and pretty woman standing in the open doorway behind him. Returning her smile he shrugged slightly, "It was a little stuffy in there, and it is so beautiful out here. It's really a very lovely evening."
"But Mark, we must go up for dinner now; father and mother are waiting for us, and Father doesn't like to wait."
"Yes, I suspect it is time," Edwards replied, "But perhaps we can walk around to the front entrance; as I said it's such a lovely evening."
Before climbing the steps to Hickory Hill's grand front entrance, Edwards paused to survey the vast green carpet-like expanse of the practice range and the incomparable floral landscaping before the elegant and sprawling club house. There he was struck by a sound; it was a voice, clearly familiar and angry. Glancing toward the nearby parking lot, Edwards saw in that instant another scene he would remember; that of Brock Sherman beside his familiar black Cadillac angrily berating the same silent and cowering young woman.
"Mark, is something the matter? Do come, they're waiting," Deborah whined.
Having turned toward the door and saying nothing, Edwards let his thoughts reflect upon the last minutes. "We are so privileged to be here amidst all this beauty. Nevertheless, not for a moment does it deny entry to that form of character which displays calculated rudeness such as I have seen today. Three times she was treated with actual and deliberate cruelty which she faced in dignified silence.
"Yes, she is so tragic and she is also very beautiful."
Chapter Two
"I'm sure that I've seen her before, but at the moment I just can't remember where," thought Mark Edwards sitting at his desk a day later. "Well I'd better write those progress notes and get back to the office for the morning clinic." Having finished his rounds and appropriately completed his records, he walked to the elevator and was shortly out the door crossing the parking lot when his cell phone buzzed.
"Good Monday morning, Mark. Where are you; on your way over I hope?"
The instant irritation that he felt was slight; but it was there and marked the second time in the last 24 hours that it had come. "What's Deborah's hurry this morning? She knows I need to make my rounds. The business, after all, of this organization is the practice of medicine. Taking care of the patients who have come to us and put their trust in us must come first. Ok Edwards, think about it, there are pressures on her too.
Minutes later she was a vision standing in the doorway to his office. Edwards could not fail to appreciate what he saw. She was slender, her smiling face was lovely, her hair was dark blond shoulder length; and she had assumed her familiar jaunty hand-on-hip posture as she watched him approach from the far end of the hall. Quickly he thought, "Yes, she is stunning and so endowed with confidence. All the hallmarks of her having come from wealth are there too; are they ever! How do the rich do it? Is it never having wanted for anything or having worried about money?-Can empathy and compassion be present at the same time? I simply don't know, but one wonders; or should I say that I'm beginning to have doubts."
"Hi Mark, it was fun at the club yesterday; don't you think so?" Deborah purred as Mark approached. "A day or two ago Father happened to mention that there is a membership opening right now. You probably could have it if you'd just apply."
Having reached her side, smiling he replied, "No Deborah, I can't have it; because I'm not going to apply, and that is because I can't afford it. You're in the business end of this organization and have access to my salary. If you check it out, the numbers just don't work."
"Okay for now, but that's not why I'm here. The real reason is that Barton Simmons is retiring from his position as medical director which will create an opening there in the management section. You've been the chairman of your section for a long enough time to have clearly established yourself as very good at working with the different personalities, and you are obviously respected by all the men and women in the clinic. Why don't you consider applying for his position?"
One thought instantly flashed through Edwards' mind, "It would mean discontinuing clinical practice. After all that is what I've been trained for and love. Is this about money; the bigger salary that position pays?" Smiling, Mark stepped into his office and then turned to her, "Deb, I'll think about it. Now, I'd better get to work."
"And, I have meetings all morning. Call me this evening?"
Minutes later Mark Edwards reached for his schedule. Having scanned the day's appointments, he leaned back in his chair to consider a question that pressed to the forefront of his thoughts. "So I'm to call her this evening. The way she said it and the tone of her voice; was it a question or was it a command?"
Chapter Three
Ten past five that day Mark Edwards walked out of the Oncology Ward and started for home with his thoughts concentrated on the day's cases, "Mr. Holden's marrow is responding again with a climbing white count; that will help to lessen the chance of his having an opportunistic infection. I must see him twice again tomorrow. Now for home and a run; I could use a little of the `high' that it usually gives me."
The moment he turned onto his driveway his reflections began again. This time, driven by a sense of disquiet, his thoughts were limited to his life to date; most particularly the time since he joined the clinic. The running that he anticipated and enjoyed was not only a time for Mark to think clearly and to enjoy a post-run high, but was also a personal solace for him in his caring for the desperately ill.
After quickly changing into running togs and completing his pre-run stretching, he set out onto his usual route. At the base of his driveway he turned right and headed east.
Along his route there were as he termed them, "Treasure points," which he anticipated and always savored as he passed them. The first of these came in the first mile; it was a single walnut tree, rather spindly and slender which by mid-summer would be heavily laden with its wonderful fruit.
Once onto on Excelsior Boulevard Edwards picked up the pace; eager as he was to dip under the bridge and begin his trek along the north side of Shady Oak Lake. His path there was flat, lightly covered with sandy gravel and a near silent refuge from the din and clatter of the large thoroughfare behind him.
He had scarcely reached the east shore of the lake when he saw them, pink and beautiful clusters of wild roses; always they were a reminder of his mother and her stories of her youth on the western prairie.
Onward he pressed thinking, "Will I see him today? Not always, but often his song will announce that he will permit me to catch a quick glimpse of him. Ah there you are. How grand you look perched up there on the highest branch singing with the sun shining on your incomparable rose colored breast." Mark murmured as he passed the Grosbeak's thicket.
A quarter mile beyond after casting a last glance out onto the lake shimmering and blue in the late afternoon sun, Mark crossed over into what he considered to be the wilderness section of his run. There he would pass ponds with resident ducks bordered by dense thickets; it was where he knew a time of solitude awaited him. There on this day he knew it was time to think about Deborah Van Guilder.
"She clearly has the same ability and drive for business that has led to her father's financial success. Preston II, her brother, sadly seems not to have inherited any of the same drive or talents. Perhaps he just doesn't fit in that kind of business environment; anyway he is very likeable and I believe very bright. Can there be any doubt that the ultimate plan for Deb in perhaps two to five years is to step into her father's position as CEO? She is too perceptive, at least I believe she is, to think that I would leave medicine and take some sort of management position in her families companies."
After slowing slightly and moving to the side of the trail to permit two bicycle riders to pass, Mark resumed his musing. "The country club, Hickory Hill, she's really into that. It is very much a cornerstone of her life and her vision of her future. I enjoy my rounds with Sis and Mike at Hollydale public course and the friendly crowd that plays there. Would I fit with the country club set? Some physicians do; many don't. I definitely would not."
Having reached the end of the wilderness section and its intersection with Baker Road, Edwards turned and headed back. I'm 29; she's 27. Oh yes, Mom and Dad and Janet would like to see me married and have a family. Deborah is fun; yes, she's pretty; some would say beautiful. Odd though, how she has shown no real interest in my family. Brother-in-law Mike didn't say anything after he met her the one time; but it was there in sister Janet's reaction. She didn't like her one bit and I know it."
Momentarily Mark slowed as he approached a pond where he often saw nesting ducks usually mallards. "Look at that will you," he thought, as a brace of wood ducks swam out of the shadows into the sunshine, their colors a dazzling wonder. "Even the more modest little hen is lovely; I must admit she is one of my favorite ducks with her quiet elegance."
Directly ahead was a crossing where he paused as two cars passed. Beyond the crossing was again that portion of the trail that ran along the lake's north shore.
It was there on the one bench that faced the lake that he saw her. She was sitting alone and looking out over the water. For just an instant he was struck by the sheen of her black hair in the late afternoon sun. When he stopped she turned.
Mark Edwards had not been mistaken. It was the young woman whom he had seen verbally abused by Brock Sherman and Deborah Van Guilder.
Chapter Four
The weekend had come again; and at Hickory Hill the practice tee was bustling with activity as the first foursomes waited anticipating their call by the starter. In the locker room there was a similar flurry of activity as the attendants shined, hopefully to a satisfactory level, the shoes of those scheduled to play later.
The pro shop was enjoying the same attention as prosperous appearing members probed through the near-opulent display of the finest in clubs and accessories. Prosperous though the members were at the club that morning, one notable fact would be obvious to any observer; it was their age. If a description of the members were offered, middle aged would be a generous choice of words. Conspicuous by their near absence was anyone, man or woman, under the age of forty five.
One of the rare exceptions and quite probably the finest player at the club was Gregory Maxwell who was present that day for his round and ready once more for a trial of the latest in golf technology. "You have that new Taylor Made Driver, don't you? I think I'll play a round with it. A few extra yards will put the finishing touches on my game. I have to be ready for the State Amateur and the US Amateur Qualifying," Maxwell barked at one of the staff professionals.
"Here it is, Mr. Maxwell; it has a stiff shaft; or would you prefer regular?"
"Regular!" Greg Maxwell snapped, his dark eyes flashing, "That's for duffers!" Snatching the driver from the young pro's hand he turned and strode out the door.
Outside the pro-shop he was immediately met by a golf cart driven by Gregory Maxwell's father Thurston Maxwell who immediately spoke, "Get in Greg; Preston and his son are at the first tee; I believe we are on deck. The usual weekend crowd is here; it's a busy and beautiful day. I see you have a new driver, Taylor Made."
Driving to the first tee the elder Maxwell asked, "In the qualifying for the Amateur who will be your chief competition, Carmichael from Town and Country?"
Gregory Maxwell gave a shrug of dismissal replying, "Nobody. Brock Sherman the big ape is a big hitter; but he's vulnerable in the short game and recovery shots."
At the first tee on-deck position Gregory Maxwell slashed at the air with his new driver menacing anyone within yards. A few steps distant Preston Van Guilder and Thurston Maxwell, the elder members of the foursome, were negotiating over the wager to be attendant to their match. Van Guilder was first to suggest a figure, "Fifty per hole, but you have to give us two strokes per side to compensate for the edge you have with Gregory."
Thurston Maxwell responded, "Alright, it will be two strokes; but at one hundred per hole. Agreed?"
"Thurston, I like your style; just as I always say that I like successful people. We agreed."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Inner Circleby Edwin G. Rice Copyright © 2010 by Edwin G. Rice. Excerpted by permission.
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