The Beach Club (28 page)

“Are you two brothers?” Love asked.

Mr. Crying shook his head. He was pudgy and sweet looking, and now he had two raised red scratches under his eye. “No. We’re not brothers. We’re friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” Mr. Bleeding said. The handkerchief bloomed with red. “Not anymore.”

Love herded both boys toward the office. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone in line. At Mack’s desk, Vance diligently counted squares on his crossword.

“You can help these two cowboys find their parents,” Love said.

“Cowboys?” Mr. Bleeding said. “We are
not
cowboys.”

“You’re monsters,” Vance said. He meant it to be derogatory, of course. Love had never heard Mr. I Want a Child Someday call children anything but monsters, but both boys brightened up.

“We’re monsters,” Mr. Crying said. He stopped crying, and nudged Mr. Bleeding.

“Yeah, we’re monsters,” Mr. Bleeding said. He gave Love a withering look. “But we’re not cowboys.”

“Whatever,” Love said.

Reluctantly, Vance stood up. Love returned to the desk, and she heard Vance telling the boys a joke as they moved down the hallway.

Back at the desk, Love saw the skeleton in the pajamas shaking his head.

“What’s your name, sir?” she asked him.

He straightened up and crossed his arms against his chest. “Michael Klutch.”

Mr. Klutch! The man who had booked rooms 4, 5, and 6 all for himself. He was staying in room 5, and the other two rooms were “buffer rooms,” so he didn’t have to hear his neighbors shutting their dresser drawers or flushing their toilets.

“We’re going to make a list,” Love said. “Put your name on the list and I’ll get to you as soon as I can. I am now going to make some coffee.” Love walked back into Mack’s office, and the phone rang. Love tried to walk past it, but the receiver was a magnet.

“Front desk,” Love said.

“This is Audrey Cohn, room seventeen. My son just came in with blood all over his face! I’d like you to call an ambulance right away. There’s blood everywhere.”

“It’s a bloody nose,” Love said. “He was out here in the lobby unsupervised and he got into a fight. All he needs is a wet washcloth.”

“
Please
call an ambulance,” Audrey Cohn said.

Love was glad it had come to this—sirens and flashing lights—because maybe
that
would get Mack’s attention. When Love stepped out into the hallway, she bumped into Mr. Juarez.

“I didn’t sign the list,” he said, “because you were helping me before.” He removed the fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and wound it through his slender, tan fingers. “I was hoping you’d be so kind as to call the airport again.”

“Mr. Juarez,” Love said. “I have to make the coffee. Please sign the list.” She hurried into the galley kitchen and closed the door. There, taped to the cabinets, was a piece of paper that had been ripped from the front desk notebook, and on it, a note in Tiny’s handwriting. “Beware the eight weeks of August.”

Love got the coffeemaker chugging and walked back into the lobby. The guests were still standing in a line. Love slowly made her way behind the desk.

“Now,” she said. “Who’s next?”

Before anyone could answer, Love heard the sirens and saw red lights whip around the lobby walls. A paramedic stormed in the lobby doors, black uniformed, self-important, his walkie-talkie alive with raspy static.

“Who’s hurt?” he said.

Love called room 17. “Your ambulance is here.”

Audrey Cohn laughed. “Jared is fine,” she said. “We cleaned him up and it turns out it was just a bloody nose. No ambulance needed.”

Love retreated into the office and sat in Mack’s chair. The front of her dress was sticking to her. She heard a commotion in the lobby, everyone talking at once. Then, Vance walked in.

“What’s with the ambulance?” he said.

“Room seventeen had me call it for the kid with the bloody nose. Now she doesn’t want it. What should I tell the paramedic?”

“Tell him you’re sorry,” Vance said.

“I’ve told everybody I’m sorry this morning,” Love said. “I’m sorry it’s raining, I’m sorry the airport is closed. I’m sorry we don’t have VCRs, nor do we have coffee. I am very sorry!”

“And don’t forget you’re sorry you asked me to leave this morning,” Vance said. “You’re sorry you hurt my feelings.”

“Of course I am,” Love said. She caught his eye. “Vance, I
am
.”

“I won’t come to Colorado this winter,” he said. “Because you only want a summer romance, is that it? No strings attached?”

“Yes,” Love said. Was her egg still waiting for a date? For a mate? “Is that okay?”

Vance rubbed the top of his head. Love knew what it felt like, warm and stubbly, alive, growing in. “Sure,” he said. He gave her a hug; her feet weren’t touching the ground when the paramedic stormed into the office.

“Is there a problem here or
not
?” he asked.

“No, bud, no problem here,” Vance said.

The paramedic spun on his heels and left the office, slamming the door behind him. Love and Vance kissed a long making-up kiss, and then she returned to the desk—but the line had dispersed, all except for Mr. Juarez, who stood patiently with his hands folded in front of him.

Love called the airport and found it had opened. “You’re all set,” Love said. “Let me call you a cab.” She thought uneasily of Tracey.
Tell him
.

Mr. Juarez gave Love the fifty, which she tucked into her pocket. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee. Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle; the clouds were breaking up. Love heard piano music, bright and jangly, a rag tune. Across the lobby, Vance, her summer-romance man, played her a song.

Jem was glad when August arrived because that meant he was one month closer to being finished with Nantucket. As soon as he heard Maribel and Mack were getting married, he wanted to pack his stuff, buy a ferry ticket, and leave. But Jem stayed. He needed the money, but more than that, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the island because of Maribel. She came to the hotel almost every day now that she and Mack were engaged, and it was pure hell to see her. The last time, she showed off her diamond ring. It was a single round stone, simple and sparkling, like Maribel herself. It nearly killed Jem to look at the diamond. It was physical proof that she was Mack’s. Time to start accepting it.

As painful as it was to see Maribel, Jem was certain that not seeing her would be much, much worse. And so, when she showed up around the hotel, he was both miserable and elated; he couldn’t keep from talking to her. How’s work at the library? How’s your mother? How’s the running? In turn, Maribel would ask, How’s work going? Have you been to the beach much? Been out? Met anyone? She wanted him to find a girlfriend. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. If he made her feel guilty, so be it; at least he made her feel something.

“No,” he answered. “Haven’t been out. Haven’t met anyone.”

Neil Rosenblum was the first guest to snag Jem’s interest in a long time. He looked like Stephen Spielberg. He had shoulderlength gray hair and tiny frameless glasses. He wore a Hawaiian shirt open at the neck, a pair of jeans, espadrilles. He was staying in room 5, alone, for three nights. He brought a knapsack and a garment bag, and when Jem tried to help him with these, he raised a hand, and said, “I never pack more than I can carry myself. But why don’t you show me the way?”

Jem led Neil Rosenblum down the beach to his room, giving the usual spiel about the chambermaids, the ice machine, the Continental breakfast. Neil wasn’t listening. He stared out over the beach, shaking his head. Jem climbed the three steps to the front deck of room 5 and unlocked the door.

“Here you go, sir,” Jem said.

Neil Rosenblum walked past Jem into the room. Jem waited just a minute—the Tip Linger. Neil dropped his backpack and laid his garment bag across the leather chair.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Jem said, backing up. The No-Tip Retreat.

Neil Rosenblum swung around. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Jem Crandall.”

Neil Rosenblum stuck out his hand. “I’m Neil,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Jem shook his hand. “Likewise.”

Neil Rosenblum looked around his room. “I have to tell you, Jem, this place is just what a guy like me needs. A place to let it dangle for a few days.”

“Yes, sir, I know just what you mean.”

“Call me Neil.” Neil unzipped his backpack and took out a couple of folded shirts, a bathing suit, a pair of flip-flops, a disposable camera, a bottle of Ketel One vodka and a plastic baggie full of weed. He held the baggie up.

“Do you smoke, Jem?” Neil asked.

Jem tried not to show his surprise. “No, Neil, not really.”

Neil opened the baggie and sniffed its contents. “Too bad.” He held up the Ketel One. “Do you drink?”

Jem shifted his weight and looked at the room’s digital clock radio. It was only 2:45. “I have to work until five o’clock.”

“But you do drink?” Neil asked.

“Yes.”

“I own Rosenblum Travel. Ever heard of it? Ever seen the commercials?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’re out of New York—Manhattan, New Jersey, Connecticut. It’s a huge business. Huge! And it’s killing me.” Neil sat down on the bed. “Do you know why I’m here, Jem?”

“No,” Jem said.

Neil kicked off his espadrilles. “I’m here to smoke dope, drink vodka cranberries, and sit in the sun. I’m here to dabble my feet at the ocean’s edge. I’m here to do things I enjoy. I am not here to talk on the phone, read faxes, listen to voice mail, or send wealthy Mrs. Tolstoy or Mrs. Dostoevsky on a luxury cruise to Leningrad. I’m leaving Tuesday morning, at which time I’ll take my suit out of this garment bag and put it on. But until then, I don’t want any phone calls. No messages. If you knock on my door, it should be because you want to drink with Neil Rosenblum or help me smoke some of this weed.”

“Okay,” Jem said. “I understand.”

“He understands, he says. I hope so. I really do.” Neil pulled a bill out of his jeans and handed it to Jem. Tip Success. “Come back at five o’clock and we’ll have a drink. See if you can round me up some tonic, a couple of limes, a little Ocean Spray. How does that sound?”

“Tonic, limes, Ocean Spray,” Jem repeated. As he left Neil Rosenblum’s room, he looked at the bill. It was a hundred dollars.

At five-ten, Jem stepped onto the deck of room 5 with a paper bag containing two bottles of tonic, two of cranberry cocktail, and six limes. The door to room 5 was closed. Jem knocked, and waited. Neil opened the door. His hair was disheveled and he was wearing his Hawaiian shirt and his bathing suit but not his glasses. His eyes were red. He looked confused when he saw Jem. “Yes?” he said.

Jem held the bag out. “I brought you some tonic, the things you asked for….”

“Oh, right, right. God, I fell asleep. Come on in, have a seat. I was on my way to the beach, but I guess I never made it.” He picked up the baggie of dope. “The guy who gave this to me is a professional.”

Jem sat on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the indented place where Neil had slept.

“Do I have glasses?” Neil asked.

“You were wearing some this afternoon,” Jem said.

Neil rubbed his eyes and laughed. “My eyeglasses, yes. Thank you for reminding me. I meant do I have drinking glasses? Highballs? Martinis?”

“Glasses are on top of the fridge,” Jem said.

Neil made the drinks. “Shall we go onto the deck?” he asked.

“Sure,” Jem said. He felt awkward, as if this were a first date. Jem accepted one of the vodka cranberries from Neil and walked out onto the deck. Jem sank into one of the deck chairs. It had been a long time since he’d had a mixed drink; at the bars, he could only afford beer. Neil sat in the other deck chair, his eyeglasses in place. It was beautiful: the water, the sun, the cold cocktail, the surprisingly comfortable deck chair. A sliver of beautiful life.

“So, Jem, tell me,” Neil said. “How did you find your way to this island?”

“I just picked it off the map,” Jem said. “I knew kids in college whose families had homes here and I thought I could make money.”

“Are you making money?” Neil asked.

“Well, yeah,” Jem said. The hundred-dollar tip rested deep in his pocket. “I guess.”

“And what are your plans after Nantucket?” Neil asked.

“I’m going to L.A.,” Jem said. “I want to be an agent.”

Neil Rosenblum threw his shaggy gray head back and laughed. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “That’s just gorgeous. He wants to be an agent. He’s heading to L.A. You kill me, kid.”

“Why?” Jem said. He didn’t love being laughed at.

“Going to Hollywood to break into the business? I didn’t think people did that anymore. Just like no one goes to Paris to become a writer; it’s been done. Overdone. I can tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to get to Cali and work at the Bel Air or Spago until you get fed up, and then you know what you’re going to do?”

“What?” Jem asked.

“I don’t know,” Neil said. “I don’t know what you’re going to do. Come back East? Get hooked up with some pretty older lady like Nicole Simpson and have her jealous ex-husband hack you into tiny bits? Join a cult and participate in group suicide? I don’t know.”