The Beach Club (10 page)

Love couldn’t be certain, but she thought Mr. Beebe, in room 8, was interested in her. He and his wife arrived on Nantucket in their own plane. This wasn’t a big deal—Love knew people in Aspen who owned jets, and some of them were just regular people that she saw in line at all-you-can-eat taco night at La Cocina. But Mr. Beebe
called
from his jet. To Love, this indicated a blatant disregard for the value of money. She felt the same way about people who used the phones on regular planes. It seemed ludicrous to pay so much money for something so transient. So while Love didn’t begrudge Mr. Beebe his jet, a part of her was annoyed by the phone call.

Mr. Beebe’s question: Would there be a car at the airport to pick him up?

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, loudly (the reception was poor.) “You’ll have to take a taxi. There’s a taxi stand in front of the terminal, and always plenty of taxis waiting.”

“I’m arriving in my own plane,” Mr. Beebe said.

Love agreed with the Beach Club’s policy. All of the guests were important, but no one was important enough to get picked up at the airport. Not Michael Jackson, not George Bush, and not this man, Mr. Beebe.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” she said. “We look forward to your arrival.”

Mr. Beebe was a very handsome man. He stood well over six feet tall and had wonderfully broad shoulders, and his dark hair was going gray in the front. He wore white slacks, a crisp blue Façonnable shirt, a navy blazer, Gucci loafers. Mrs. Beebe was frosted blond and already deeply tanned. She wore a hot pink linen dress and about thirty gold bangle bracelets that jingled as she walked. They were a stunning couple.

Mr. Beebe smiled broadly as he approached the desk.

“Are you the young lady I spoke to on the phone?” he asked.

Love fought off the desire to snarl at him. She was
hardly
a young lady. The wealthy often assumed that anyone not as rich as they were was also inferior in other ways—younger, shorter, less intelligent. It drove Love nuts. “Yes, I am,” she said. “My name is Love O’Donnell.”

“Love,” Mr. Beebe said. “What a beautiful name. Love.”

“You’re the Beebes?” Love asked. She pronounced the name like the gun. “You’re in room eight, on the Gold Coast.”

“The Gold Coast,” Mr. Beebe said. “That’s us.”

Mrs. Beebe gave a shrill laugh. Love looked at her, startled.

“My wife’s nervous,” Mr. Beebe said. “In general, but now specifically. New place and everything.”

Love called the laundry room, where she knew Vance would be sitting on one of the dryers, reading. “Check-in,” she said.

Mrs. Beebe laughed again. Her laugh was almost inhuman; it sounded like the mating call of some exotic bird. Then she spoke. “That plane really did me in.”

“Will you be needing dinner reservations?” Love asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Beebe said. “I’ll come back a little later and we’ll talk. Right now I need to get my wife to the beach.”

Vance appeared and took the Beebes’ bags. When Mrs. Beebe saw Vance, she erupted again in laughter, and it sent shivers through Love. Was Mrs. Beebe laughing at Vance because he was black? Because of his shaved head? Oh, she hoped not.

A few minutes later, Vance returned to the desk, and said, “That lady was drunk in case you were wondering. Well, drunk or high. Rich people have access to drugs we can only dream about. Anyway, mister gave me a fifty and he said he’ll talk with you in an hour or so.”

Exactly an hour later, Mr. Beebe appeared again at the desk. He’d shed his blazer, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He came into the lobby without shoes. His feet were pale and vulnerable looking.

He leaned on the desk with his arms crossed in a surprisingly casual and intimate way. “My wife is happily ensconced on the beach,” he said.

“Good,” Love said. In the hour he was gone, she’d looked through the files for a copy of his confirmation letter. There was no address on the letter, only a fax number in area code 212: Manhattan. A copy of Mr. Beebe’s personal check was stapled to the letter, but that showed no address either, only the name—Arthur Beebe. Arthur. Love wondered if he went by Art or Artie. “Did you want to discuss dinner reservations?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “We’re here for six nights.”

“Twenty-one Federal is a must. And American Seasons. You’ll want to eat out in ’Sconset one night, perhaps at the Chanticleer. Do you like classic French?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t.” He leaned forward. “How trustworthy are you, Love?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Love said quickly. How trustworthy was she? She hoped to God he wasn’t about to confide something in her. Mr. Beebe’s eyes were an intense green, and she wondered if maybe he were drunk or high also. Maybe he and his wife had indulged in a little cocaine on the plane. And who cared if they did? It certainly wasn’t Love’s place to judge, just as long as Mr. Beebe didn’t disclose where he got the drugs—or worse, tell her some private information about his wife. “I’d say I’m pretty trustworthy.”

Mr. Beebe let his eyes drift down the length of Love’s body at the speed that a feather floats through the air. “You look like you’re in good shape,” he said. “Will you go jogging with me tomorrow morning?”

“Jogging?” Love said. She should turn him down, of course. Mack said there was to be No Dating the Guests, although surely going running with a married man wouldn’t qualify as a date. It sounded like a date to Love, however, because she always met the important men in her life while exercising.

“I need a jogging partner,” Mr. Beebe said. “We could go before you start work, maybe?”

Tomorrow before work. Love’s mind zipped around in a crazy pattern, like a balloon losing air. She had to be one the desk by eight-thirty. She could conceivably bring a change of clothes and shower in the bathhouses. If she got here by seven, that would all be possible. But what if someone saw her? Mack? Bill? Another guest? Could jogging with someone be considered a special service? If she jogged with Mr. Beebe tomorrow would she then be required to jog with any guest who asked? What would Mrs. Beebe think? Would it seem like just another concierge duty, this jogging? And what was all that about Love being trustworthy? If such a simple request brought up so many questions, then maybe the request wasn’t so simple after all. What could
not
enter Love’s decision making was the fact that she
wanted
to go jogging with Mr. Beebe. She wanted to spend an hour with him alone, their heart rates accelerating, their legs pumping. Love’s own desire worried her. Her answer should definitely be no.

“Thanks for the offer but I don’t think I can,” Love said. “With work and everything, it would be too much, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, come on,” Mr. Beebe said. “Come on, Love. What about after work then?”

Love wished someone else would come into the lobby. Mack was at lunch. Bill was in his office with the door closed. Love felt both flattered and uncomfortable. Who was this man to insist Love go out of her way
on personal time
for him?

“I’m sorry,” Love said, in what she hoped was a definitive way. “Now, what about the dinner reservations? Did you want to try American Seasons, or—”

Mr. Beebe straightened up and sliced his hand through the air. “You make them,” he snapped. “Surprise me. But no classic French. Say, do you ever get a day off?”

“Tuesday,” Love said. “My day off is Tuesday. But—”

“On Monday I’ll come in and we’ll make plans for Tuesday. How does that sound?”

“I’ll have to see,” Love said. “I mean, I’ll check. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me,” he said. “I’m starting to take offense here.”

“Please don’t take offense.” Love said. She liked his green eyes and his salt-and-pepper hair. She had an urge to use his name, Arthur, Art, but enough! She lowered her eyes. “I’ll start on those dinner reservation.” She picked up the phone to show Mr. Beebe that she was serious, and to get him to go away, which he did—Love heard the whisper of his bare feet sauntering off down the hall. When the reservationist at 21 Federal answered, Love’s throat was dry, and it took her a second to think of what it was she had wanted to say.

Love thought about Arthur Beebe all afternoon and into the evening. There was no denying her attraction to him. He was sexy. She couldn’t say what made him sexy—maybe his green eyes, maybe his friendly, almost cozy manner with her at the desk. Maybe his airplane. Or maybe, Love thought, she was simply impatient. Finding a father for her child made Love feel like a sniper, an assassin. Centering her crosshairs on every man she saw. But she’d been working the desk for two weeks now and not a single eligible gentleman her age had wandered into the lobby. Of course, Arthur Beebe wasn’t an eligible gentleman. He only acted like one.

After work, Love skated home to her rented house on Hooper Farm Road. She lived with two other people. Randy and Alison were a couple in their twenties and they both worked at 21 Federal. Alison worked the reservation book and so it’d been easy for Love to get the Beebes a table there for tonight, even though it was last-minute. Alison always encouraged Love to stop by the restaurant for a drink.
You can’t meet people if you don’t go out!
she said.

Love enjoyed having the house to herself, although she was lonely at times. Their house was small, but it had a nice grassy yard with a picnic table out back. After Love got home from work, she tried to nap, but today she couldn’t sleep. She was thinking of Arthur Beebe. Ridiculous, pathetic even, but true. She made herself lie still for twenty minutes, then she put on exercise tights and rode her Cannondale out to Madaket. She liked to exercise right around dusk, and then come home and fix herself dinner and eat outside if it was nice, read her book and fall asleep. It was a pleasant routine, if unexciting. But tonight when Love returned from her bike ride, she was antsy. She felt as though she might jump out of her skin. She showered, put on her short black skirt and called a taxi, which delivered her to 21 Federal.

Alison greeted her at the door.

“Love!” she said. “Good for you. Are you here for a cocktail or dinner?”

“Cocktail,” Love said. She was afraid to turn her head and look around the restaurant. “Can you join me?”

Alison checked her watch. “I can join you in half an hour,” she said. “Have a seat at the bar. I’ll meet you there.”

The bar at 21 was clubby, with a lot of brass and dark wood. Love chose a seat that faced the dining room. She ordered Champagne from the bartender. As Love brought the flute to her lips, she caught Mr. Beebe looking at her from his table in the dining room. Love pretended not to see him. She crossed her legs, wishing that she smoked cigarettes so that she’d have something to do with her hands other than idly twirl her Champagne flute. Usually when she went to restaurants alone, she took along a book or
Time
magazine. But really, wasn’t that frumpy of her? Wasn’t that shutting other people out? Love watched the bartender dunk highball glasses into soapy water, and she sneaked looks at the Beebes’ table. Mrs. Beebe had her back to Love. She appeared to be doing most of the talking; Arthur Beebe said very little. He nodded every once in a while and ate his food. Love recrossed her legs. She felt Arthur staring at her. She flagged down the bartender.

“I’d like to see a menu,” she said.

Love felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around, expecting to find Alison, but instead she saw Vance.

“Vance!” she said. “What are you doing here?” He was wearing jeans, a tweed sportscoat, and aviator sunglasses. His bald head gleamed like polished wood.

Vance took the stool next to her. “I come here all the time,” he said. “Are you going to order something?”

Why was he wearing sunglasses inside? At night? Obviously he had emotional and possibly even psychological baggage. Love didn’t want him to stay and eat with her. Arthur Beebe had seen her and Vance together at the Beach Club. If he saw them eating together tonight, he might think they were dating.

“I don’t know,” she said, putting the menu down. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Get the portobello mushroom,” Vance said. “It’s outstanding. In fact, let me treat you to your first Twenty-one portobello. I promise you will never forget it.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said. It was funny, though—she did love portobellos, almost better than anything in the world.

“I insist,” Vance said. He waved at the bartender. “I’ll have a Dewar’s straight up, and we’d like two portobellos.”

“And I guess I’ll have another champagne,” Love said. She peeked over at the Beebes, and accidentally locked eyes with Arthur. Love raised her eyebrows and Arthur winked. The wink nearly knocked her off her barstool.

Vance turned around. “I see the druggies are here,” he said.

“Who?” Love said.

“You know, the people who checked into room eight this afternoon. The woman with the horrible laugh.”

Love sipped her Champagne. “My roommate works here,” she said. She swung around on her stool, still reeling from the wink, and searched for Alison. Alison was standing at the hostess station; she pointed to Vance and gave the thumbs-up.

Love rolled her eyes. Even Alison thought Vance was her date! How was it she only knew a handful of people on this island and they all converged here?

Vance leaned in close, and said, “There’s something I want to know.”

Love backed up. “Me too. Why are you wearing those sunglasses?”