The Beach Club (11 page)

“Traveling incognito,” Vance said, pushing them up his nose. “Guests are crawling all over this place. I don’t want them to recognize me.”

The first thing someone would notice about Vance was that he was a large African American man with a shaved head, and no pair of sunglasses could hide that. “Why not?” she asked.

“Mixing business and pleasure makes me uneasy,” he said.

“Oh,” Love said. “Well, what did you want to know?”

“I want to know what you think of Mack.”

“If you don’t like mixing work and pleasure, then why are you asking about Mack?”

“Forget about work,” Vance said. “What do you think about Mack as a person?”

“I don’t really know him as a person,” Love said. “He seems fine. He has that great Midwestern, apple-pie personality. He’s a good boss. He has a pretty girlfriend. I guess you could say I like him as a person.”

Vance shook his head. “So you’ve been taken in too.”

“Taken in by what?”

“By the facade that is Mack,” Vance said. “No one in the world is that happy all the time. That fucking pleasant. His whole attitude of not having an attitude. I’m surprised you don’t see past that.”

“I’m sorry,” Love said. “I don’t.” Across the room, the Beebes got their check, and then a few minutes later, they stood up. Arthur Beebe took his wife’s arm and left the restaurant. He didn’t look her way once. Love experienced familiar pain. Really, this was absurd! How could Arthur Beebe, whom she had just met that day, matter to her enough to cause this crazy longing?

The portobellos arrived and thankfully, Vance seemed less interested in talking and more interested in eating. Love took a bite of her mushroom. It was delicious. At least there was that.

The breakfast hour was the busiest part of Love’s day. By the time she reached work, Jem had set up the buffet table: the coffee and hot water thermoses, the carafes of orange and cranberry juice sitting in a tub of ice, the glass canisters of granola, Cheerios and All-Bran, the milk, sugar, butter, cream cheese, silverware, plates, bowls, napkins. Then at eight-thirty, Mack entered with the day’s doughnuts, the bagels, the muffins and five loaves of Something Natural bread. A few people loitered while Jem set up; these were the people who needed their coffee. Mack’s arrival indicated the Official Start of Breakfast, and the lobby filled with guests pretending to wait patiently for their choice of doughnut. It never ceased to amaze Love what waiting to eat did to people. They became completely irrational.

Arthur Beebe balanced three doughnuts on his plate and poured himself a glass of orange juice. Mrs. Beebe only drank coffee. They moved with their food to one of the wicker sofas. Some guests liked to take their food out onto the pavilion, and some liked to eat in their rooms. But thankfully, Arthur Beebe was a lobby eater. He set his plate and glass down on the carpet and then went in search of a desirable section of the newspaper.

The newspaper frenzy followed directly after the doughnut frenzy. The hotel provided complimentary editions of
The New York Times
, the
Boston Globe
, the
Wall Street Journal
, and
USA Today
. But everyone wanted
The New York Times
, and of course, being from Manhattan, Arthur Beebe was a
Times
reader. Love watched him as he read. She wanted him to look at her! She’d worn her sexiest dress—a short, flowered sundress with spaghetti straps. Then, finally, she got her wish. Mrs. Beebe finished her third cup of coffee, said in her shrill voice, “I’m going to
bathe
, Arthur,” and left the lobby. A few seconds later, Arthur Beebe put down the paper and cha-chaed his way to the desk.

“The funniest thing just happened,” he said.

Love surveyed the lobby. There were still a few stragglers refilling their coffee cups, but for the most part the guests had returned to their rooms.

“What’s that?” she said.

“This morning I wanted a coconut doughnut. And I noticed only one coconut doughnut on the buffet table. So I reached for it. But another man snapped it up first.”

“That’s been known to happen,” Love said.

“So I give this guy a dirty look to let him know he’s taken my doughnut. Then I pick up the
Times
and who do you think is on the front page of the business section? The very same guy.” Arthur Beebe held up the paper. Love squinted at the picture. The grainy photograph was of Mr. Songttha, room 17.

“You’re right,” Love said. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, that man’s not even staying on the Gold Coast. He’s only in a side deck room.”

As soon as she said this, a human noise came from the back office: Mack clearing his throat. Love hadn’t realized he was sitting back there. Giving out information about other guests was prohibited. Especially when Love was insinuating that Mr. Songttha hadn’t paid as much for his room as Mr. Beebe. Love bounced on the balls of her feet nervously. What kind of effect was Arthur Beebe having on her? Her good judgment had totally vanished. She was so busy chastising herself that she didn’t catch what Arthur Beebe said next.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you had a good time last night at the restaurant.”

“I stopped by for a drink and I bumped into a co-worker,” Love said. This was her rehearsed line—getting across that she and Vance were
co-workers
, and that they hadn’t
planned
to meet—but it didn’t exactly answer his question. “How about you and Mrs. Beebe? Did you like your meal?”

“It was marvelous,” he said. He put his hand over Love’s. For an instant they were holding hands. Then Mr. Beebe gave her the wink. “Keep up the good work.”

Love watched him leave the lobby. She took a few deep breaths, scribbled a note on a piece of paper, and wandered back into the office where Mack sat at his messy desk.

“I made a mistake out there,” Love said. “I’m sorry.”

“At least you recognized it yourself,” Mack said. “It’s important to be discreet. Don’t discuss the guests at all, especially not with other guests.”

Love thought of what Vance had said the night before. Was Mack a phony? Now that Love thought about it, it was a bit disconcerting to have him behind her, listening in like Big Brother.

“I need to make a request,” she said.

“What’s that?” Mack asked.

“More coconut doughnuts,” she said. She handed him the slip of paper; it was amazing how doing this one small thing for Arthur Beebe delighted her. “Here, I’ve written it down.”

Arthur Beebe walked into the lobby that afternoon, wearing swimming trunks and a crisp white polo shirt. Love was perched on her high stool, reading
The Prince of Tides
.

He leaned on the desk, arms crossed, the face of his Tag Heuer flashing. “Hello there, Love. How are you?”

Love slipped a hotel brochure into her book to mark her page, and smiled. Arthur stared at her, and Love stared back, unembarrassed. Then the phone rang, catching them both off guard.

It was Mario Cuomo, calling for Mr. Songttha. Love tightened her grip on the receiver and said in her most professional voice, “Let me put you through to his room.” She patched the call and laid the receiver down quietly. Arthur was smiling at her. She wished she could tell him that she’d just spoken to Mario Cuomo, but she’d learned her lesson that morning. She was attracted to Arthur Beebe but she wasn’t prepared to lose her job for him.

“Did you need something special?” Love asked. “Beach towels or something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Arthur Beebe said. “My wife is busy sitting in the sun. I can only take it for an hour or so before I get bored. I came in here to talk.”

To talk. To her. He sought her out. The phone rang again. Love looked at the console and saw it was the same call—Mario Cuomo—bouncing back to her.

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Songttha’s not in his room. Would you like to leave a message?” She wrote down Mario Cuomo’s name and number, shielding the notepad with her body. She hung up and put the message in the slot for room 17.

“Songttha? That’s the guy from the newspaper, right?” Arthur asked. “Who called for him, Alan Greenspan?”

Love laughed as though she found this preposterous. “No, no, not Alan Greenspan.” She had to change the subject away from Mr. Songttha! She climbed back onto her stool. “So, Mr. Beebe, what do you do for a living?”

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that. I wish I could say I worked the front desk at this hotel. I’d probably be much happier.”

“It has its ups and downs,” Love said. “Did you go running this morning?”

“I did,” Arthur said. “I ran through town.”

“You should try the bike path,” Love said. “Less traffic, and prettier.”

“You can show me the way yourself when we go on Tuesday,” Arthur said. “You promised, remember? Your day off, Tuesday.”

Love knew she very specifically had
not
promised to run on Tuesday. She couldn’t remember her exact words, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t even agreed. It was just like the wealthy to assume everything would go just as they wanted. And what if Arthur Beebe didn’t even work for his money? What if he were an example of the idle rich, flying his plane, sitting on beaches? Love knew this should make him far less attractive in her mind. But it didn’t.

“Okay,” she said. “Tuesday.”

“It’s a date,” Arthur said. “So, where are we eating tonight?”

Love checked her notebook, although she already knew the answer. “Ships Inn,” she said. “Eight o’clock.”

“And will we see you there?” Arthur asked.

Love hesitated a second. Did Arthur Beebe think Love had intentionally followed him to 21 Federal the night before?

“No,” she said. “Tonight is a stay-at-home night.”

Arthur Beebe straightened up. “That’s too bad,” he said.

But, in fact, Love couldn’t keep herself away from Ships Inn. After a fish burrito at home, Love told herself she would go for a walk through town, window shop, get an ice cream cone. She did just this. She spent half an hour in Mitchell’s Book Corner before purchasing
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. She spent forty-five minutes in Top Drawer looking at lingerie, and bought a lacy white bra and panty set after realizing that all the underwear she owned was athletic and functional. She went to the Juice Bar and ordered a kiddy cup of Almond Joy ice cream, because she too loved coconut.

And at ten o’clock, she found herself walking home via Fair Street, where she lingered outside Ships Inn. She crossed the street to St. Paul’s Episcopal Church and read last week’s program, even though she was a nonpracticing Roman Catholic. Then she heard the freakish, high-pitched warble laugh. Mrs. Beebe. Love saw the Beebes standing in front of the restaurant waiting for a cab. It was unlikely that they would be able to pick Love out in the dark, and so she sat on the steps of the church and watched. She watched Arthur standing with his hands in his pockets while Mrs. Beebe did a tap dance around him. She was drunk, and happy.

Love watched them until the cab came. Arthur helped Mrs. Beebe into the cab. He hesitated before he got in himself. It seemed to Love he was looking at her. Love sat clutching her package in her lap as Arthur Beebe blew her a kiss.

The next morning, Arthur Beebe said, “That was you last night? In front of the church?”

Love had debated all night about how to answer this question. “Yes,” she said.

“Good,” Arthur said. He lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to blow a kiss to a stranger.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “I blew one to you.”

Love blushed. She was glad Mack was outside washing his Jeep.

“Well, thank you,” Love said.

“I thought you said last night was a stay-at-home night.”

“I went shopping,” Love said. “I bought a book.” She hesitated. “And some lingerie.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

“What?” Love said.

“Fly my plane to Antarctica. What do you think of that? My wife thinks it would be too cold. Do you think it would be too cold?”

“Depends who you’re with,” she said. Desire shot through her. Her thighs ached. “I’d like to go to Antarctica.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Arthur said. “I thought you seemed like a woman in search of some adventure. So maybe Tuesday, then? A little adventure?”

“Adventure,” Love said.

That night, the Beebes were eating at the Summer House out in ’Sconset, and thankfully Love managed to stay away. Instead, she rode her Cannondale to the airport. She inspected the private jets, wondering which one belonged to Arthur Beebe. She decided on a gray plane with a red racing stripe. The body of the plane was long and phallic. Love imagined herself boarding this plane for Antarctica, or places unknown.

Love’s conversations with Arthur Beebe worked on her like aphrodisiacs. Arthur Beebe putting his hand over hers, and saying, “Keep up the good work!” Arthur Beebe asking to see her book so he would have an excuse to touch her fingers or the inside of her arm, Arthur Beebe asking if she’d bought any more lingerie. Arthur Beebe reminding Love about Tuesday. Their running date Tuesday. Their date Tuesday. Tuesday, her day off. It became the world’s biggest euphemism. Tuesday, to Love, meant only one thing: she was going to have sex with Arthur Beebe.

And how did Love feel about this? At certain times—the few heady moments after Arthur left the lobby, for example—it thrilled her. She envisioned herself and Arthur jogging along Cliff Road, Love inhaling deep breaths of the oxygen-rich air. At home, she could offer Arthur lemonade, a mimosa, a refreshing shower. Randy and Alison announced they would be off-island on Tuesday, which only convinced Love further that sex with Arthur was destined to happen. They would have the house to themselves. It would be fervent, Love supposed, maybe even rushed. He would have to get back to the hotel. Charged, delicious, secret—these were words Love associated with sex with Arthur Beebe.

But sometimes, other words popped into Love’s mind. Foolish, irresponsible, not to mention
immoral
. How could she sleep with Arthur Beebe? He was a married man, and a hotel guest. She might ruin his marriage, jeopardize her job. The Beebes were leaving on Wednesday, paying their bill, boarding the jet plane, and flying back to Manhattan. Checking out. Would Arthur leave her a
tip
? It was too horrible to imagine.