The Beach Club (27 page)

Love reread that part. Could that be right? Mia,
poisoning
the red sauce?

Jerome gets sued and the business goes belly up. Mia is indicted and Jerome spends all the money he has left on her lawyer, a man (suspiciously) named Mark Paterson, with whom Mia falls immediately in love. She wants a divorce from Jerome so she can marry Mark when she gets out of jail. She’s sentenced to thirty years.

Broke and without his wife, Jerome returns to his hometown and finds his mother sitting on a barstool at JD’s Lounge drinking a bloody Mary, but when he approaches her she pretends she doesn’t know who he is, and when he starts to repeat, “I’m your son. It’s me, Mom, Jerome,” she has the bouncer throw him out.

The story ends with Jerome buying a bottle of Courvoisier and setting out to drive his Datsun into the side of the Browning Elementary School. Without question, a downward spiral.

Love lowered her feet from the footboard and stood up. She jumped on the balls of her feet. A stream of warm semen trickled down the inside of her thigh. She was shaking from head to toe when Vance came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I’ve conceived. We’ve conceived
. How easily this too could become a downward spiral. Vance suing for custody and taking away the child that was meant to be hers alone. Stealing her dream.

“I read your story,” Love said, and she burst into tears.

Vance put his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head. “It’s just a piece of fiction.” He ran his hands down her bare back, which, much to her dismay, aroused her.

She knocked his hands away. “You have to leave,” she said.

“Come on,” he said. “I can be a little late. The boys know what they’re doing.”

“You have to
leave!
” Love was so disappointed with herself, letting this get out of hand. First he wanted to visit Colorado, then move there, and the next thing she knew he would be asking her to marry him, he would be interested in fathering the child that was only minutes old inside of her. “Get out!” she said, pointing to the door.

“You hated the story,” Vance said. “You thought it was trash.”

“That’s not it,” Love said. “Your stupid story has nothing to do with it.”

“It’s not a stupid story,” Vance said. “It is a published story. My only published story.”

“Listen, I need some space, okay?” Love said. “I see you every day at work, and I see you every night. Can you give me some space for a couple of days? Please?”

Vance dropped his towel and angrily stepped into his boxer shorts. “You hated my story. And the irony is, I let you read it because I thought you would understand. Ha! I should have known that I, Vance Robbins, am utterly un-understandable. Story of my life.” He slid on his red shorts and pulled a shirt over his head backward. When she touched his arm, he shrugged her off. “I’m leaving,” he said, twisting the shirt around his body. “Enjoy your space.”

As if that weren’t bad enough, it started to rain, which immediately presented the problem of how to get to work, because Love wouldn’t be able to use Rollerblades, or ride her bike. She called a cab, and as she waited for it to show up, she imagined taking an EPT and having it turn out positive. Her stomach flippety-flopped. Damn Vance! He’d ruined it. Thinking about pregnancy was supposed to make her feel elated, not apprehensive.

Love’s cab was thirteen minutes late. She huffed as she climbed into the backseat.

“I said eight-fifteen.” She looked at the cab driver. The short black hair, the seven silver hoop earrings. It was Tracey, the girl who had picked Love up from the ferry her first day on the island.

“It’s raining, lady,” Tracey said. “You’re not the only person on the island who wants a cab this morning.”

“I know you,” Love said, leaning forward. “You’re Tracey. You gave me a ride in May, remember? I showed you the Hadwen House and the Old Mill.”

Tracey blinked into the rearview. “Oh, yeah.” She laughed. “You’re the woman who wants a baby. So what happened? Did you get knocked up?”

“This morning, I think,” Love said.

“Wow,” Tracey said. “Congrats. You don’t seem too happy about it. What’s wrong, did you boink somebody ugly?”

The girl should write a book on how to be indelicate, Love thought. “No,” she said. “Worse. I boinked someone who now claims he wants a child.”

Tracey backed out of the driveway. “Okay, so what?”

“I want to be a single parent. I want the baby for myself.”

Tracey turned down the radio. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, but that’s fucked up.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Love said. “You’re too young.”

Tracey lifted her hands from the steering wheel and held them palm-up as if to say,
I am what I am
. “Are you going to tell the guy you’re pregnant?”

“I might not be pregnant,” Love said. “I just think I am.”

“If you were thinking for the kid, you’d tell him,” Tracey said. “Every kid should have a shot at two parents. To deny the kid that is wrong. That’s my take on it. If you care.”

“Well, I don’t care,” Love snapped. Immediately, she was embarrassed. First she yelled at Vance and now at Tracey, an innocent cab driver.

Tracey was quiet for the rest of the ride. When she reached the Beach Club, Love gave her a five-dollar tip, even though this was an ugly gesture in her book: act rude and then try to make up for it with money. But what else could she do?

“I’m sorry I was short,” Love said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Tell him,” Tracey said.

Because of the weather, the lobby looked like a second grade classroom without a teacher. Guests were eating their muffins and bagels and doughnuts, leaving trails of powdered sugar and smears of cream cheese on everything they touched. Someone had spilled coffee on the green carpet, and sections of the newspaper were scattered about as though the whole pile had been dropped from the rafters. Kids ran around screaming, and the phone was ringing. Vance stood behind the desk, his lips puckered.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Vance, listen, I’m sorry,” Love said.

He raised a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“It wasn’t about your story,” Love said. “I liked your story.”

“Love, the damage is done, okay? Don’t insult me further by trying to backpedal.”

The phone rang again. Vance made no move to answer it. Love hurried through the office, hanging her wet jacket on the handle of a vacuum. She popped out to the front desk and Vance disappeared. Vanishing Vance. The phone nagged at her like a crying baby.

“Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel,” Love said.

“Do you have any rooms available for this weekend?” a woman asked. “The lady at Visitor Services told us you were located on the beach.”

“We’re fully booked, ma’am,” Love said. “We’ve been fully booked since early spring.”

“Can you check to see if someone has canceled?” the woman said.

“Just a moment, please.” Love poked her head into the office. Vance sat at Mack’s desk, staring out the window. Why did they have to work together today of all days? Why couldn’t he be Jem? “Vance, do you know where Mack is? I have a reservation call.”

Vance said nothing.

“Vance?” Love said.

Nothing.

“Okay,
fine
,” she said. She picked up the phone. “No cancellations, ma’am. Sorry.”

A man with horn-rimmed glasses stood at the desk. He had a muffin crumb in his mustache. “Do you know when the sky is going to clear?” he asked.

“Do I know when the sky is going to clear?” Love said. “No, sir, I don’t. You have a TV in your room. You could check the weather channel.”

The man wiped the crumb off his lip and Love relaxed a little. “My wife has forbidden me to turn on the TV,” he said. “This is a no-TV vacation. Which is really going to be trying if the rain persists, you see what I mean?”

“I’m sorry,” Love said.

A line formed at the front desk. This had never happened before—it was as though everyone thought of a question for Love at the same time.

An older woman with two children stepped up. “I’m Ruthie Soldier, room seven,” she said. “What is there to do with kids when it rains?”

“There’s the Whaling Museum,” Love said. “That’s only down the street. There’s the Peter Folger Museum. There’s the Hadwen House.”

“Is there anything to do that will be fun for these kids?” Ruthie Soldier said. “I don’t want to bore them with history.”

“Thank you, Gramma,” the older child, a girl wearing multicolored braces, said. “We have to go back to school in a few weeks anyway.”

“You could go out for ice-cream sundaes,” Love said.

“We just ate bagels,” Mrs. Soldier said. “Is there a movie house with matinees?”

“No,” Love said. The phone rang. She eyed the console’s blinking red light.

“What about bowling?”

“No bowling.”

“Do you have any board games?”

Love tried to block out the ringing phone. “Let me check,” she said. She thought she’d seen an old, mildewed Parcheesi in one of the closets. In the office, Vance was still lounging at Mack’s desk.

“Vance, do we have any board games?” Love asked. “These people want something to do with their kids.”

Vance smiled meanly. He was his back-at-work creepy self. Someone whom Love would not date, not sleep with, and certainly never parent with.

The phone continued to ring. Love ran back to the desk to answer it. The people standing in line crossed their arms and shifted their weight. A man still in his pajamas tapped his bony, bare foot impatiently. Where was Mack?

“Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel,” Love said.

“This is Mrs. Russo. I’m calling to see if the Beach Club is open today.”

Love looked out the window. The peaked roof of the pavilion created a minifalls. “It’s raining, Mrs. Russo. No Beach Club today.”

“That’s a shame,” Mrs. Russo said. “We paid so much money.”

Love hung up. The line of people swarmed and blurred in front of her hand and then she remembered Mrs. Soldier. “No games,” Love said. “Would you like a VCR?”

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Soldier said.

Love went back to Vance. “Room seven wants a VCR.”

“They’re all signed out,” he said.

Love returned to the desk. “The VCRs are all signed out,” Love said. The man in the pajamas raised his hand. She was the second grade teacher.

“Yes?” Love said.

“You’re out of coffee,” he said.

“You’re kidding,” Love said. Several people in line sadly shook their heads. Normally, they didn’t run out of coffee until midafternoon and by then things were quiet enough that Love could make more. She poked her head into the back office again. “Vance,” she said, in her most pleasant, ass-kissing voice, “we’re out of coffee. Could you be a doll and make some more?”

“That’s your job,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “But I have a line of people out here who need help. Really, a line.”

Vance smiled at her again. He hated her. “I wouldn’t want to
infringe
on your
space
.”

“Oh, God,” Love said. “Please help me.”

Vance had the crossword puzzle from the
Boston Globe
in front of him. Love thought she might cry. She stepped out to the desk. “The coffee is going to be a minute,” she said.

The man in the pajamas pointed a bony finger at her. He was a health-class skeleton with skin. “We pay a lot of money for these rooms,” he said. He looked to the person behind him in line, as though he wanted to organize some kind of group revolt. “I heard you say there are no more VCRs. Why not? Why doesn’t every room have a VCR?”

“I don’t know,” Love said. “It’s not my hotel.”

The phone rang. Love’s hand itched to answer it, but she was afraid that if she did, the guests would storm the desk. The rain had turned the normally well-heeled guests into a class of emotionally needy students, into a band of ruby red Communists. Where was Mack?

An elegant-looking gentleman in an Armani suit was next in line. Love remembered checking him in: Mr. Juarez, room 12. “I have a flight to New York at ten-thirty this morning. Would you be so kind as to call and see if it’s going to be delayed?”

“I’d be happy to,” Love said. This man, at least, was pleasant. She liked his tone of voice. She liked his calm demeanor. She wanted to shake his hand. Gold star student.

Love called the airport and found it was closed temporarily, due to lightning.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Juarez,” she said. “The airport is closed. No one is flying.”

“I have a lunch meeting at one o’clock that can’t be missed,” he said.

“The man at the airport said ‘temporarily,’ “Love said. “So perhaps they’ll resume flying in a little while.”

“Will you call again when you get a chance?” Mr. Juarez asked. He slid a fifty-dollar bill across the desk. Love hesitated. Everyone behind Mr. Juarez was watching.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t accept that.”

Mr. Juarez slipped the bill into his coat pocket. “It’s yours if you get me on a flight.”

The honeymooners from room 20 stepped up; behind them, the room was a carnival. “We’d like lunch reservations,” the wife said. “Somewhere in town. Where do you suggest?”

Sit in your room and feed each other grapes
, Love thought.
There’s a big bowl of them over there
—but when Love looked at the breakfast buffet, she saw the grapes were all gone.

“Why don’t you go into town and try your luck?” Love said. “I can lend you an umbrella.”

“Okay,” the husband said.

“We’d like a reservation,” the wife said. “We’d rather not waste our time.”

The husband nodded along. “That’s right.”

“The Chanticleer serves lunch,” Love said. “So does the Wauwinet. Which would you prefer?”

“I’d prefer coffee,” the skeleton in the pajamas called out. “I’d really like a steaming mug of coffee to drink on this dreary day.”

Back by the piano, two boys were yelling at each other. Love looked over in time to see them hit the floor. “Whose children are those?” she asked. No one answered. “Well, they must belong to somebody.” Still no one. They pulled each other’s hair and started slapping and punching. “Boys!” she said. “Stop it!” Her maternal instincts rose in her like a fever. “Boys!” No one in the line made a move to stop them. Love hoisted herself over the desk, and ran to where the boys were rolling around. They were stuck together, one had a death grip on the other’s hair. Love physically wedged herself between the two boys. Then, perhaps realizing that there would be no more coffee or lunch reservations until this was taken care of, the honeymooners came to help Love hold the boys away from one another. The honeymooners smiled at each other, as if to say,
Isn’t this cute, a fight?
One of the kids started to cry, and the other’s nose bled all over the carpet. The husband took out a handkerchief and gave it to Mr. Bleeding.