The Beach Club (26 page)

Elizabeth left and Therese furiously unwound the cord for the vacuum. Mack appeared in the doorway. “Geez,” he said. “What a mess. Here, let me help you.” He started to pick up the bottles and put them in an empty Lion’s Paw bag.

“Leave them be,” Therese said. “Anyone who makes this much of a mess deserves to live with their own filth.”

“But I want to help,” Mack said. “What can I do to help?”

Therese looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not changing my mind about the profit sharing,” she said. “You know I love you, Mack, but I can’t do it. I have a teenage daughter to think of. When you have a teenager of your own, you’ll understand. Boy, will you ever.”

“It’s not the profit sharing,” he said. “I have something else to talk to you about.”

Therese spied a bra dangling from the ceiling fan. She switched on the vacuum and swathed a path only where the floor was clear—around the cans, around the chips, around the clothes. It took her thirty seconds. She shut the vacuum off. “So what is it?” she said.

“I’m getting married.”

Married. The word took her so by surprise that she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she caught her reflection in the scummy mirror. She looked fuzzy, as if someone were trying to erase her. “You’re getting
married
?”

“I asked Maribel and she said yes.”

“I thought you two were on the rocks,” Therese said. The room went out of focus. It looked like a wedding that had been through the blender. “I thought she threw you out.”

“We’ve worked through that,” Mack said. “I’m going to marry her, Therese.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said. She didn’t want to believe it. Her dream of Cecily marrying Mack, a dream for the trash. She stood on the bed and unhooked the bra from the fan and threw it on the floor with the rest of the girls’ clothes, although what did it matter now? What did a messy room matter now that everything else was collapsing? Therese found a notepad. “
The proprietress has cleaned your room!
” she wrote. She left it amid the clutter on the nightstand and wondered if they would even see it, if they would even notice. Mack sat on the dresser, tapping his fingers on the top drawer.

I know what’s best for you
. Therese thought.
Nobody believes it, but I do
.

Shotgun wedding. Handgun wedding. However you phrased it, Vance had Influence. His stunt with the gun had brought about Mack and Maribel’s breakup, and then Mack’s proposal. Vance might have been jealous—Mack marrying someone as perfect as Maribel—but instead he felt a grand satisfaction. He snagged control from Mack’s hands. He had made something happen. And oddly enough, it was something good.

It inspired Vance to go after Love. She was older than he was, but she was pretty and athletic and organized. He liked the way she spoke to guests; he liked the way she listened. He liked the way she didn’t wear makeup or hairspray. She was a natural Colorado outdoor beauty. She smelled like a pine cone. A refreshing change from the girls Vance usually brought home from the bars. She made him want to lighten up. She made him want to laugh. So he would have his own summer romance for once. And who knew, maybe someday he’d be the one getting married. Vance. Vance Romance.

Maribel wondered if she’d ever be this happy again. Hearing Mack finally propose was an answer to her daily prayers. Just when she’d given up hope, just when she thought she would have to somehow endeavor to move on, he asked. He asked and she said yes. More than anyone, Maribel wanted to tell her father. A man who didn’t exist, except for in her mind.
See there, someone wants me. Someone wants to marry me!

Maribel called Cecily, and then her mother, and after relaying the news to a teary, elated Tina (“God bless you, Maribel. God bless you and Mack”), Maribel called Jem. She called early in the morning—during the bracket of time when Mack had left for work but Jem would still be at home.

He answered sleepily. “Hello?”

“Jem, it’s Maribel.”

“Maribel?” He sounded confused, then alarmed. “Did Mack hurt you?”

Maribel felt a flurry of guilt. “He didn’t hurt me,” she said. “He proposed.”

Silence. Then, quietly, “You’re kidding.”

Maribel winced. “No.”

“Oh, God,” Jem said. “Wow. He asked you to
marry
him? The nerve of that guy.” More silence. “But you said no, right? I mean, this is a guy who left you in the dust for another woman. This is a guy who cheated on you.”

“Jem…”

“You said no, didn’t you?”

“I said yes.”

“You said yes.”

“It’s complicated,” Maribel said. “We’ve been together for six years. You understand that.”

“Not really,” Jem said. “Not really at all.”

“Jem,” Maribel said, “I’m sorry. You’ll have to trust that I know I’m doing the right thing.”

“Because you’re in love?” Jem said.

“Yes,” Maribel said.

“And what does being in love feel like?” Jem asked. “Does it feel like when you’re with the person you’re the best version of yourself and when you’re not with the person your insides hurt?”

“I don’t know, Jem,” Maribel said gently. “It’s different for everyone.”

“And does that person become the only person who matters, and no matter what you can’t stop thinking about her. Is that what it’s like, Maribel?”

“Jem…”

“Is being in love finally realizing why we were put on this earth? Is it when everything starts to make sense?”

“Jem,” Maribel said. What could she possibly say? He was right. “Yes, Jem.”

“Yes,” Jem said, “I thought so.”

“You’re not in love with me, Jem.”

There was huff on the other end of the line. “I wish you were right,” Jem said. “I really wish you were.”

“Jem…”

“I have to go,” Jem said. “I have to get to work.” And with that, he hung up, and Maribel, who thought nothing could squelch her happiness, stared at the dead receiver. She closed her eyes and wished his pain away. She knew just how he felt.

The next evening, Mack and Maribel went to dinner with How-Baby and Tonya at Kendrick’s, on Centre Street. How-Baby reserved the back room for just the four of them; a magnum of Dom Perignon chilled on the table. Mack had been very careful not to say anything to How-Baby about his engagement to Maribel or his decision about the job, but from the looks of things, How-Baby already knew. Or maybe this was just his superconfidence shining through: live as though everything was going to go your way. When Mack took his seat, though, he started to enjoy it: the private, candlelit room, the waiter pouring him a glass of Champagne. There was already the sense that things had changed.

How-Baby raised his glass. “I’d like to make a toast,” he said. “To you charming young people. Maribel, you are positively glowing, and Mack, that makes you one lucky man.” How-Baby winked.

They all clinked glasses and sipped the Champagne. Maribel
was
glowing—she hadn’t stopped smiling since Mack proposed. When they were home alone, she talked about nothing but the wedding. Mack was tickled to see her so excited, although the idea of a wedding disheartened him. He had no family to speak of; he would invite Bill and Therese and Cecily and Lacey Gardner. He felt a pang of guilt. The people he loved best, the people he would soon be leaving. He looked across the table at How-Baby and Tonya. His future.

“I have a toast as well,” he said. How-Baby raised his bushy eyebrows. The man knew, he just
knew
. “First of all, I’m proud to announce that Maribel and I are getting married.”

Tonya squealed and grabbed How-Baby’s arm. “You darlings!” Her beehive tipping dangerously close to the candle flame. “That is brilliant! We’re so happy. Aren’t we, How-Baby?”

How-Baby clapped his hands. “Congratulations! Maribel, my sources tell me you just landed the most eligible bachelor on the island.”

“I sure did,” Maribel said. “He’s the answer to my prayers.”

Mack laid his hands on either side of his dinner plate. “And I’ve thought about your proposition, Howard.”

“Have you, now?” How-Baby said.

“I have,” Mack said. He wondered what it would be like working for a guy who always sat on top of the world. Did the man ever falter, ever have a bad day? The Rangers had lost both halves of a doubleheader that very afternoon, but How-Baby was as smooth as ever.

“What did you decide?” How-Baby asked. “Did you decide to join the team? Or will you remain loyal to the Beach Club?”

“I’ve decided to join the team,” Mack said.

Tonya squealed again. How-Baby rounded the table to shake Mack’s hand.

“Good for you, Mack! I promise you won’t be disappointed. You’ll be our new travel and hospitality manager, answering directly to me. Tomorrow you show me your W-two from this year, and I will triple your salary.” He grabbed a fistful of Mack’s shoulder. “Welcome to the big league.”

“It was a hard decision to make,” Mack said, reaching for Maribel’s hand under the table. “My job at the Beach Club is the only job I’ve ever had, unless you count some construction work or helping on my father’s farm.”

“That’s right,” How-Baby said. “I forgot about you coming from the heartland. Where is it? Indiana?”

“Iowa,” Mack said.

“Do your parents still farm, Mack?” Tonya asked.

Mack paused. A new job meant starting over, explaining his circumstances, letting other people know him. He wished he could just say yes.

“My parents were killed in a car crash when I was eighteen,” he said.

Silence. Always, when Mack told this part, there was silence. He longed for Bill and Therese, because with them there wasn’t a need to explain.

How-Baby looked up from his menu. “Did you have a good relationship with your father?”

“I did,” Mack said. “We had a very good relationship.”

How-Baby nodded. “I can tell. Know why? Because you’re a good kid. A team player. If I should be so fortunate as to meet your father someday in heaven, I’ll tell him he raised a fine young man.”

Mack looked at Maribel; her eyes were shining.

“Thanks,” Mack said.

“Did you consider what your father would have thought about changing jobs?” How-Baby asked. “Did you maybe even have a conversation with him about it?”

“I figured he would tell me to do what was going to make me happy, and to go where I was wanted.”

“You’re wanted in Texas,” How-Baby said. “We’re going to take good care of you.”

NOTE SCRIBBLED IN FRONT DESK NOTEBOOK
(TINY’S HANDWRITING)

Beware the eight weeks of August!

Love and Vance lay next to each other in Love’s twin bed, naked. They had just made love for the eleventh time. Late last night, Love took her temperature and checked it against her temperature from earlier in the week. It had risen three degrees; she was ovulating. Now she propped her legs on the footboard of the bed. The conception books recommended fifteen minutes of repose to give the sperm a fighting chance.

Love and Vance had been dating for four weeks, ever since sitting on the roof of the hotel on the Fourth of July. Their first real date was a few days later. Vance borrowed Mack’s Jeep and took Love to Eel Point to go clamming. Vance made his own clammer out of a piece of PVC pipe. It had handles and two holes punched into the sealed end. He chose a spot in the wet sand near the water’s edge, and sank in the open end of the pipe. He put his thumbs over the holes and pulled up. When he released his thumbs, a column of sand fell from the pipe, along with four cherrystone clams. Love picked the clams up, rinsed them, and put them in the clamming bucket. She felt as if they’d struck gold.

“Can I try?” she asked.

“Sure,” Vance said. They moved farther down the shore. It was the perfect Nantucket summer evening—light breeze, piping plovers and oystercatchers, the sinking sun.

Vance wrapped his arms around Love from behind and spoke softly into her ear. “Hold your hands like this and push down. There you go, push.” His lips grazed her ear, sending a warm buzz through her body.

Love brought up six clams.

“Show me again,” she said. She loved the feel of his arms around her.

They collected a bucket of clams, and then Vance laid a blanket out in the sand. He showed Love how to hold the clam knife, how to slide it between the tight halves of the clam to pry it open.
Unlock the clam
. They ate the sweet, salty clams right out of the shell, drank a bottle of wine, and watched the sunset.

The more Love discovered about Vance, the more he impressed her. Around work, he skulked and moped and bristled with negative energy. But away from work he was sincere, kind. He had interests: he clammed and fished, and scalloped in the fall; he could play rag tunes on the piano. He’d traveled all through Southeast Asia and he knew fifty Thai words. He taught Love to say hello,
sawadee kah!

The first two weeks there was No Sex, because Love was ambivalent about entering a relationship. Vance told her he didn’t want children, but Love had hoped for a complete and total stranger—someone like Arthur Beebe—who would impregnate her and be gone. Relationships could get sticky.

The night she gave in, they were sitting in the driveway of Love’s house on Hooper Farm Road after an evening at Mitchell’s Book Corner (Vance loved to read; he kept a list of books and checked them off when he finished, something Love did as well). Before Love got out of the car, Vance asked her to touch his head.

“You always look at my head like you’re afraid of it. So I want you to touch it.” He dipped his chin, and the bare, brown expanse of his skull pointed at her, a blank face. Love hesitated; Vance’s head did scare her.

“You want me to touch your head?” she said.

“Yes.”

She expected it to be cool and smooth, like a marble. But it was warm, and she felt the beginnings of stubble. She ran her hands over it the way one might rub a pregnant woman’s belly: what was in there? Something mysterious, unknowable.

Love invited Vance inside.

Now, two more weeks had passed and they’d made love eleven times. Vance frequently spent the night at Love’s place; they developed a routine, a way of being together.

Love was lying with her feet on the headboard dreaming of a tiny brown baby when Vance asked her to read his published short story.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to know what you think.”

“Okay,” Love said. “I’ll read it.” There was still time before they had to go to work, and the story had been on her nightstand since the Fourth of July. Love was wary, however. Her job at the magazine in Aspen taught her all about writers and their hypersensitivity to anything that might be construed as criticism.

“Thank you.” Vance whipped the story off the nightstand and handed it to Love. A ring from her water glass marked the first page.

“Are you going to watch me while I read it?”

“I’m not going to
watch
you,” Vance said. “I’ll read, too.” He picked an
Atlantic Monthly
off the floor.

“Fine,” Love said.

“Fine,” Vance said.

Love looked up from the story. Vance flipped through the pages of the
Atlantic
. He caught her eye over the top of the magazine, like a spy at a bus stop.

“What do you think so far?” he asked.

“It’s good,” Love said. “I like how the mother is a car mechanic. Is
your
mother a car mechanic?” Here was one thing about their newly established routine that baffled Love: Vance never talked about his family or his home. He seemed to be without a past. When Love asked where he grew up, he said, “Here and there. The East mostly.” He had majored in American literature at Fairleigh Dickinson University in New Jersey, which he called “Fairly Ridiculous.” But there was no mention of parents, siblings, or a hometown; the one time she’d been over to his cottage, she saw a picture of two people she thought might be Vance’s parents standing arm in arm in front of a split-level house with aluminum siding. When she asked him. “Are these your folks?” he didn’t answer.

Vance didn’t answer the question about his mother either. No surprise there.

“Keep going,” Vance said. “A lot happens.” He went back to the
Atlantic
and Love continued reading.

Love looked up. “I can’t believe the way some people parent.”

“Tell me about it,” Vance said.

Love laid the pages over her bare breasts. “Parenting is such a daunting job,” she said. She pictured her egg: a girl waiting for a date.

Vance closed his magazine. “I imagine it will be.”

“Will be?” Love said. “But not for you. You don’t want children.”

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did,” Love said. “I asked you when we were on the roof on the Fourth of July, did you want children, and you said no.”

Vance maneuvered his arms around Love so he was holding her. He had muscular arms and nice hands with blossom pink palms. He kissed the corner of her eye. “You know I’m crazy about you.”

Love’s skin itched, as if she were about to break out in a rash. “I thought you definitely didn’t want children. You hate all the children at the Beach Club.”

“That’s an act,” Vance said. “My reputation as a grump must be upheld.”

“So all this time I thought you hated children, you secretly wanted some of your own.”

“I could see having a kid someday,” he said.

“You’ve changed your mind, then. I can’t believe this. Men aren’t
allowed
to change their minds.”

“I think it might be nice to have a kid someday.”

“You think it might be
nice
,” Love said. “Having children isn’t
nice
, Vance. It’s an enormous responsibility that lasts for the rest of your life.”

“I know,” Vance said. “Listen, I’m not saying I want to have a baby in nine months.”

“You
don’t
want to have a baby in nine months,” Love said. “Of course not. Ridiculous thought.” Her voice was reaching its upper registers, its screechy tones. She wondered if he thought this was a pleasant surprise, like the ragtime piano.
Surprise, I love children!

“I said
someday
, Love. Someday is a word that women don’t understand. It means,
possibly
, in the
future
. Women always want to know when, when, when. But all I’m saying here is someday. Someday I’d like to get married, someday I’d like to have children. Look at Mack. He told Maribel ‘someday’ for six years, and now they’re going to tie the knot. So, you see, someday really exists.”

“You want a child someday, but not anytime soon,” Love said. She waited a beat. “And maybe not at all.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say not at all. I would like a child someday. And I just defined someday. Why are we having this conversation?”

“What conversation?” Love said. She was officially perspiring. She couldn’t tell him what was happening in her body; he thought she was on the pill. She wanted a baby more than she wanted to tell the truth. “Back to the story,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” Love said. “Our hero just shaved his head for some woman named Delilah. Does any of this ring true? Did you shave your head for a woman?”

“I told you why I shaved my head,” Vance said. “I like to feel the sun.”

“Jerome shaves his head for a woman named Delilah.”

“That’s Jerome,” Vance said. “He’s a fic-tion-al character.”

“Would you shave your head for me?” Love asked.

“I think the question is, would I grow my hair for you,” Vance said. “And the answer is yes. I’d do anything for you.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Vance said. “In fact, I’ve been wanting to ask what you think about me coming out to Aspen this winter.”

“Aspen?” Love said. This was getting out of hand. “What about going back to Thailand? I thought that was a definite.”

“That was before I met you,” he said.

“Okay, wait,” Love said. “Wait, wait. This is all moving so fast.”

“Don’t you want to give this a fighting chance?” Vance said.

“I’m not coming back to Nantucket next summer,” Love said. “
This
is a once-in-a-lifetime type of thing.”

“I’m not stuck here either, you know,” Vance said. “If Mack can leave, I can too.”

“I thought you wanted to work here without Mack. I thought that was the goal of the last twelve years. You’ll finally be in charge.”

“Let me put it to you this way,” Vance said. “I wouldn’t be opposed to moving to Colorado.”

Moving to Colorado? Love froze up with fear.
Moving to Colorado?

“Let me finish your story,” she said.

“I should shower,” Vance said. “How are you getting to work?”

“Blading,” Love said. Vance had to be at work earlier than Love so he could supervise the beach boys. As part of their routine, he’d been driving her home in the evenings, but as far as Love could tell, no one at the Beach Club knew she and Vance were seeing each other. Everyone was absorbed with the craziness of their own lives. Jem even caught Vance and Love standing in the utility closet—they were kissing when he opened the door looking for some bleach—and he didn’t seem to think finding them in the dark closet together was strange. He just stood there and said glumly, “I need bleach,” and after Love handed it to him, he closed the door.

While Vance was in the shower, Love tried to finish the story, but she found herself sucked back to those terrifying words,
moving to Colorado
. She closed her eyes and saw sperm shooting through her, racing for her waiting egg. She felt dizzy.
Wait! Stop!
she wanted to say.
He wants to move to Colorado! Stop!

Love tried not to think about it. She read somewhere that 70 percent of conception was will, a positive attitude, and so she would fight her body with her mind. She would think negative thoughts, ugly, sad thoughts. She picked up Vance’s story and skimmed through the pages to the end.

Jerome goes to college and gets a degree in hotel and restaurant management. He falls in love with an Italian girl named Mia, and marries her in a big, opulent wedding with lots of uncles and homemade gnocchi and finger kissing. Jerome and Mia open an Italian restaurant called Mamma Mia’s. It’s a very successful venture until some of the customers start getting sick and dying. Turns out Mia is putting poison in the red sauce.