One would not have guessed Theodore “Dads” McGinnis capable of making as much money as he did. Slow-moving, broad-faced and amiable, his only advantage was subtle, even inconsequential:
He knew a good deal when he saw one.
So did Lila, his wife. With her marriage, she gave up medicine and spent her days with crossword puzzles, or paging languidly through fashion magazines, or lazing in the vast solarium, or shopping at Gucci or Max Mara on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile.
Sunday was the family’s one day to be together for dinner. Otherwise they wandered far and wide. Lila or the kids might be eating dinner in their bedrooms. Or they might be eating dinner at La Caravel in Palm Beach.
“Not going anywhere, are you Lila?” It was 1lam Sunday morning.
Lila stood in her dressing chambers. “Of course not. Why would I?”
“I just want to make sure everyone is here. We’re having dinner with a special guest.”
“Who?”
Dads had told her half a dozen times. He found her wide-eyed confusion captivating. “Stella’s new beau.”
“Stella’s beau? You mean boy.”
“You speak French, my dear. It’s beau.”
Lila disdained details. Or arguing with her husband. But sometimes she had to put her foot down. “Indeed, mon chere. I know French. And beau means gorgeous.”
“Exactly.”
***
It was another hot May day, and the back patio at Indian Hills Country Club baked under bright skies. The patio’s black marble tiles didn’t help. Imported from La Spezia, they radiated heat right back into one’s sandals. Stella McGinnis put her feet on a chair, fanning herself with the day’s lunch menu, printed on fine parchment.
She looked at the other club members, mostly women. Bored and indolent in wide-brimmed hats, they wouldn’t be caught dead in a golf cart, and waited for husbands to finish their rounds. As a practicing therapist, Stella reflexively studied faces, hands, postures for personality quirks.
There are only four character types, she knew. Demanders. Receivers, Organizers, and Pleasers. The worst are the Pleasers.
No one wants to be a Pleaser. Pleasers can’t help putting others before themselves. They never take what others might want. Whether praise, or fame, or time, or the last piece of carrot cake, Pleasers are giving machines.
Stella was a Pleaser. It came as a shock, sitting with her notebook in her first graduate seminar, when she realized this. Well, it figured. Little Stella, such a sweet girl. Lovely Stella, so considerate. But the worst shock came at the end of the lecture. “We have no control.” the professor intoned. “Over our personalities. They cannot be changed. Get used to it.”
Easy for him to say. He was a Demander.
It took additional reading and corroborative study, then much introspection before Stella made up her mind. As a Pleaser, she would henceforth and forever do one thing, and one thing only:
Please herself.
Her phone buzzed. Looking up she saw her boyfriend, Jake Hooker, crossing the lawns with that athletic stride. He skirted the putting green and its gaggle of fat men staring down putters and mounted the hill, where the clubhouse gleamed. Tall and square-shouldered, even at this distance she was impressed. Even in grass-stained shorts and a cut-off tee. Especially so.
She leapt from the patio and met him mid-lawn, raising a cheek to be kissed. “Jake,” she said. “Before we go further…”
“Where have we gone already?” Jake liked to have fun.
She ignored him. This was too important. “You know the dinner tonight? Dads likes us to dress up.”
“Dads?”
“My dad. I know you have clothes. But I don’t want to take any chances. Can I get you a club jacket?”
Indian Hills also had a code, and kept a line of navy blazers for those too distracted or lazy to be bothered with remembering. One simply chose from a complete line of Armani sport coats, cleaned and pressed. Jake said nothing, his face frozen in a good-natured smile. Stella knew him enough to know this was his way of assenting.
“What are you, 42 long?”
He cleared his throat. “Forty three.”
“Yes. I should have known that. Those shoulders. Let’s pick one out.”
Stella took his hand. They walked to the main building. At the broad steps she turned. “I’ll meet you in the lounge.”
“Meet me?”
“I’m sorry, Jake. But you have to use the employee entrance.”
The day was bright with sunshine. Bright with possibilities. Bright with love. Stella let go of him, bounced up steps, and disappeared.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com