The Beach Club

3 The Gold Coast

June 5

Dear Bill,

I don’t know why you insist on torturing yourself by continuing to run the hotel. Just imagine-with the money I’m offering you, you could buy a huge home here on Nantucket-right next door!-and a house in Aspen as well-and enjoy life for a change. I have no evil intentions in buying the hotel; I am only trying to right the wrongs I’ve done in my life.

I’ve caught a glimpse or two of you over the past three weeks and I must say, you look harried. Carrying that heavy book with you everywhere! What is that book, anyway, Bill, the Bible? Don’t turn to religion, Bill-turn to me. My offer stands.

S.B.T.

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?”

“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.

On Monday afternoon, Love and Arthur confirmed their plans. They would meet in front of the lobby at 7:45 the following morning and start their run.

“We’ll go where the day takes us,” Arthur said with a wink.

Go where the day takes us. That seemed like a good way of looking at it. Love always operated with a plan, but why? Why not go with the flow, follow their noses, fly by the seats of their pants? No reason why Love had to decide in advance about having sex with Arthur Beebe. She needed to take it easy. Relax. At five o’clock, after work, Love walked home past the Hadwen House. The Hadwen House with its ballroom under the stars. Its dreams of romance.

Tuesday morning, a taxi dropped Love off at the Beach Club at 7:35. She liked being early. It gave her a few minutes to stretch her legs and look at the ocean. The 6:30 ferry was a white speck on the horizon. Love watched the seagulls drop hermit crab shells onto the parking lot. She glanced at Bill and Therese’s house and figured they were probably in bed making love, but today Love didn’t feel jealous. Today she would just be one of many lovers on Nantucket. That was all she wanted-to be another person’s focus, if only for a day, if only for a few hours. Love was honest enough with herself to realize that unless a baby was conceived, this would be the best part of the whole affair: the sweet, exquisite anticipation.

But after another ten, twelve minutes, her anticipation became tinged with nerves. Her multipurpose sports watch said 7:48. Then 7:50, and then 7:53. Love jogged back and forth in front of the hotel; she peeked in the windows of the lobby, thinking perhaps Arthur was waiting for her inside. But the inside of the lobby was dark, deserted.

At 8:00, Mack pulled into the parking lot. He was early! She hid around the corner of the lobby and waited until he unloaded the cartons of that day’s breakfast and carried them into the lobby. Then she sneaked behind the pavilion, and down the side deck rooms to the water. She jogged past the Gold Coast. A few of the guests were out on their decks reading, a woman sat on a mat doing yoga. Love ran by room 10, room 9, room 8. The door to room 8 was closed, the deck uninhabited. Love ran all the way down to room 1 and then cut behind the Gold Coast rooms. The back door to room 8 was also closed. Love returned to the front of the lobby in case she had missed Arthur somehow. She consulted her watch. It was 8:06. She shielded her eyes and peered into the lobby. Jem and Mack set up the breakfast, the coffee loiterers loitered. Tiny stood behind the front desk. But no Arthur Beebe.

A minute later, the front doors of the lobby opened. Mack lugged Therese’s plants out onto the front porch. There was no time to hide again; Mack saw her.

“Hey, Love, what are you doing here?” he said.

“I was just…running,” she said. Although she wanted to, there was no way she could ask Mack if he’d seen Arthur Beebe.

“Nice day for it,” Mack said. He was in client mode: chipper, chatty, ready to skate across any topic of conversation. She could be in tears and he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m off,” she said.

Love ran home as fast as she could. She pushed herself to go faster, faster, faster than her fastest mile split (a 5:49 in the Boulder 10k, 1988). She arrived at home winded and sweaty, her heart pounding in her throat and her face. At first she was glad Randy and Alison were away, because she certainly didn’t want anyone to witness her humiliation. But the empty house was awful too-the way the wind blew right through it-and she wished for some company.

Love waited until ten o’clock, the usual time for her first conversation with Arthur Beebe, and then she called the front desk.

Tiny answered. “Good morning, Nantucket Beach Club.”

Love cleared her throat. “Yes, is Arthur Beebe in, please?”

“I’m sorry,” Tiny said. “The Beebes are no longer staying with us.”

“No, no,” Love said. “Tiny, it’s me, Love. I think you’ve got the wrong room. The Beebes are in room eight. They’re not checking out until tomorrow.”

“Oh, Love,” Tiny said. “The chambermaids went in to clean about forty minutes ago and noticed all the Beebes’ stuff was gone. So I called the airport. The Beebes’ jet left at five o’clock this morning. They skipped out on their bill-two grand.” She gave an amused little laugh. “Happens every year. I’m always suspicious of people who don’t use a credit card, but you figure someone with his own plane is going to be able to foot the bill. But not these folks-they snuck out of here in the middle of the night, like they were on the lam or something. What’s the deal? Did you know these people? What did you want with them anyway?”

Antarctica, Love thought. Would he have been so cruel as to dash his wife off to Antarctica? She hoped not, despite the fact that right now she wanted Arthur Beebe as far away from her as possible. At five o’clock this morning, Love had been lying in bed, listening to the birds, thinking about Arthur Beebe. Had she heard a plane flying overhead? No, just the birds.

“Oh, nothing,” Love said. “I didn’t want them for anything.”

By the next morning, Love had convinced herself that she was the reason Arthur Beebe had left the hotel in the predawn hours. Perhaps his feelings for her escalated, perhaps he was frightened by their intensity. Perhaps last night at dinner (Straight Wharf), he told Mrs. Beebe about his running date with Love-and maybe she was the one responsible for their early departure. There were many excuses Love could make for the man, but it didn’t change the fact that Arthur had disappeared, literally, into thin air, taking her hopes for a child with him.

Love was folding hotel brochures, thinking of how she might surprise Arthur Beebe someday in New York when Vance poked his head out from Mack’s office.

“Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

The lobby was empty and so she slipped back into Mack’s office. Mack was in the laundry room fixing a dryer.

“What?” she said.

“You know the people in room eight, the druggies? The ones who skipped their bill?” Vance said.

“The Beebes?” Love said. The name tasted funny on her tongue.

“I stripped their room yesterday and look what I found,” he said. “This ain’t no BB.” He brought his hands out from behind his back and showed Love a gun.

“You found it in their room?” Love asked. It was a handgun, shiny and silver. She tried to picture it in Arthur Beebe’s hand; she tried to picture him pointing it at someone.

“I told you they were drug dealers. Their own plane? Taking off in the middle of the night? And then I find this baby tucked in between the mattress and box spring? Come on, Love, we’re not stupid here.”

A little of this, a little of that. “What should we do?” Love asked. “Should we call them?” A part of Love wanted to speak to Arthur Beebe again. He’d left her feeling empty. Angry and humiliated, yes, but mostly empty.

“They never left a phone number. Tiny searched for it yesterday, but when Bill made the reservation, all he wrote down was a fax,” Vance said. “And guess what? We can’t fax a gun.”

“We could send a fax telling them we have the gun,” Love suggested. She wanted to fax herself to Arthur Beebe.

“Tiny faxed them about their bill, and we haven’t heard back. If we had the address, we could send the gun through the mail, although you can’t send the clip and the gun together,” Vance said. Love didn’t ask how he knew this. Vance pointed the gun out the window. “Pow,” he said softly. “Listen, I’ll take care of the gun. Let me know if Beebe calls asking for it.”

“Okay,” she said. It was scary watching Vance point the gun. Pow!

Love went back to the desk. The gun created possibilities Love hadn’t even considered. If Arthur Beebe were a drug dealer, if he did use his plane to fly back and forth between countries transporting illegal substances, then she should be glad nothing had happened between them. She should be relieved Arthur left. But she wasn’t.

Jem Crandall was making mistakes. He supposed his mistakes were standard, run-of-the-mill mistakes that any freshman on the job would make. What he couldn’t figure out was how to stop them from happening before he got fired. If he got fired, he might not be able to find another job. It was June already and the college students had arrived in force. If Jem couldn’t find another job, he would have to return to Virginia and work at his father’s bar, the Locked Tower, and deal with his nutty sister, Gwennie, and her bulimia. He wrote himself a note-soap on the bathroom mirror-No More Mistakes! When he shaved, it was tattooed across his forehead.

Jem’s first mistake was also the most embarrassing: Mrs. Worley. The Worleys were a heavy-set couple from Atlanta. He noticed them each morning hovering around the breakfast buffet while he tried to clear it. Once, mister followed Jem into the galley kitchen when Jem left with the platter of muffins. Mr. Worley selected the last two mixed-berry muffins, and Jem, who understood unreasonable hunger, said, “Yeah, those are my favorite, too.”

Several days later, when mister was paying his bill, Love said, “Jem, room ten is ready to be stripped. The Worleys are checking out.”

Jem licked his fingers clean of powdered sugar (he was allowed to eat the leftovers from breakfast), and said, “Okay, I’m going.”

Stripping the rooms was Jem’s least favorite part of the job. The chambermaids cracked jokes about “love stains” when they made the beds, and although Jem laughed at the term, it didn’t make him feel any better about having to gather the sheets up in his arms. And love stains weren’t as offensive as some of the things people left in the sheets. He’d seen blood, urine, used condoms, and food-globs of guacamole, a lobster claw. He was responsible for taking out the trash, and he tried not to look at what the guests threw away. One horrifying day, he found a Styrofoam head covered with a stringy brown toupee sitting on a dresser. He also collected the soiled towels, bathmat, and bathrobes from the bathroom. Another lovely task, but at least it was better than swabbing nests of hair out of the bottom of the shower.

Jem went to work on the Worleys’ room. The TV was on-ESPN SportsCenter-and Jem watched the highlights, waiting for a score on the Orioles’ game as he did his work. He threw the quilt and the blanket off the bed and stripped the sheets, trying not to think of the rotund Worleys rolling around in them. He removed the plastic bag from the trash can, twisted it and tied it. The TV announcer finally showed a clip of the Orioles’ game-and Jem thought of his father, who had a collection of Orioles memorabilia hanging behind the bar at the Tower.

Jem checked the closets for items left behind. He checked the drawers. He’d heard Vance whispering about some great thing he found in one of the rooms. Jem guessed it was lingerie, or a dirty magazine. These closets and drawers were empty, thank God.

Jem swung open the door to the bathroom and heard a loud gasp. Mrs. Worley was sitting on the toilet, reading the TV Guide. She looked at him with wide brown eyes, her mouth agape. All Jem could think at that moment was Please don’t stand up. But it was too late. Mrs. Worley stood, and Jem couldn’t help but look. His eyes were drawn to her lower half: her shorts drooping around her ankles, her stomach hanging like so much bread dough over her…

“Get…get!” Mrs. Worley stuttered. Her face was bright pink.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jem said. “They said you were checking-” Mrs. Worley lunged, slammed the door in his face. A second later, he heard Mrs. Worley crying. Jem hurried out the door, leaving the trash and the pile of dirty sheets behind. He stumbled into the sunshine, feeling exposed and ashamed. He wanted to run for the safety of his rented room, lock the door, jump into his bed and hide under the covers. Instead, he sought refuge in the coolness of the laundry room, which had the soothing, clean smell of detergent. He stayed there for nearly half an hour, wondering if Mrs. Worley would report him. Jem buried his face in a pile of green fluffy towels and tried to think of other things, pleasant things-going to the Muse and drinking a cold beer, talking to a pretty girl in a sundress-but he couldn’t shake the image of Mrs. Worley, her thighs, white and dimpled like cottage cheese. It was far, far worse than even the Styrofoam head and toupee. Jem felt sick to his stomach. Then the phone rang in the laundry room. It was Mack.

When Jem walked into Mack’s office, he was still shaking. “Are they gone?” he asked.

Mack nodded, his face grim. “You’re lucky she wasn’t thinking sexual harassment, or attempted rape.”

The picture of Mrs. Worley standing up from the toilet presented itself again in Jem’s mind, as he feared it would for the rest of his life. “No way,” he said, “not in a million years.”

“A smart thing to do when you see a closed door is to knock,” Mack said. “Otherwise we leave ourselves open to those kinds of allegations. You don’t want that, do you?”

Jem shook his head. Mack’s face twisted, and then he burst out laughing. “You poor kid,” Mack said. “You should see yourself.”

“It was so embarrassing,” Jem said. He watched Mack laugh, and wished for some laughter from himself, a warm release, but none came. It was funny, in a way, wasn’t it? Jem waltzed into the bathroom with every intention of collecting the towels until-whammo! Mrs. Worley, front and center. Of course, Mack hadn’t heard Mrs. Worley scream, and he hadn’t heard her crying.

Mack sobered up and wiped his eyes. “I’m not angry,” he said. “But I am serious. Always knock before you strip the rooms. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Jem said.

“You’ll have to write Mrs. Worley a note of apology. It was your mistake.”

Jem wondered what he could possibly say to Mrs. Worley-I’m sorry for the very awkward moment? I’m sorry to have barged in on you in the John? He almost smiled until he heard Mack use the word “mistake.” It was then the train of thought first materialized: getting fired, working at the Locked Tower, his sister, Gwennie.

“Okay,” Jem said. “I will.”

Three days later, a very famous man checked into room 6. The man was so famous that when Jem saw him at the front desk he had a hard time keeping a straight face. Why didn’t Mack warn them people like this were coming? Jem might have worn a cleaner shirt. But the Beach Club showed no one favoritism, and so Jem led this famous man, a major player, a mogul (for if anyone in the world could be called a mogul this man was it) to room 6, as though he were anyone else. Jem could only think of the man as Mr. G. This was what he was called in the media, the same way that Donald Trump was called “the Donald.” Mr. G had brought a briefcase, and a small black Samsonite suitcase. Jem took the Samsonite. It was so light that Jem wondered if it were empty. He walked just in front of Mr. G, reciting his spiel about the chambermaids, the ice machine, the Continental breakfast from eight-thirty to ten.

“I won’t be here for breakfast,” Mr. G said. “I’m only staying overnight. I have an extremely important meeting tomorrow in Washington.”

“Just overnight?” Jem said. “At least you have a nice day for it.” It was true: the sun was shining, the ocean a glorious blue. Jem walked along the boardwalk, then up the three steps to the deck of room 6, and paused for a minute, searching his pocket for the key. He couldn’t believe he was about to unlock a door for Mr. G.

Mr. G cleared his throat and Jem fumbled with the keys. Get the door open, you idiot! he thought. This is Mr. G! Jem opened the door. “Here you go,” he said. He waited until Mr. G stepped in and put down his briefcase. “My name is Jeremy Crandall. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“I’d like a wake-up call for six-fifteen.” Mr. G said. “And I need you to show me how this phone works.”

Jem picked up the receiver of the phone. “The phone works just like a regular phone, sir,” Jem said. Did this sound snide? He needed to get a grip. “Except you have to dial nine to get an outside line. If you want the front desk, you dial zero.” He set the receiver down, then moved quickly to the alarm clock. “Is there anything else?”

Mr. G smiled. Jem smiled back. He and Mr. G were smiling at each other.

“No,” Mr. G said. “Thanks for your help.” He reached into his pocket but all he brought out were a few pennies and a dime. “I’ll get you later.”

Jem waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a pleasure to help and meeting you. I mean it was nice meeting you. Exciting.” Jem backed out of the room onto the deck. He waved to Mr. G. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Mack wasn’t in the office, but through the crack in the door, Jem saw Bill reading at his desk. Bill was a poetry buff, and half the time he sat in his office he wasn’t even working; he was reading poems, then closing his eyes and trying to recite them from memory. It amazed Jem that Bill didn’t seem at all flustered by Mr. G’s arrival. Perhaps he didn’t even know.

Jem tapped on Bill’s door. “Bill? I just wanted to let you know Mr. G-is here and I’ve shown him to his room.”

Bill knit his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks for the update.”

Love came into the office. “He’s been on the phone since he got here,” she whispered. Her cheeks were pink. Love was always talking about the big shots she saw in Aspen-Ed Bradley, Sean Connery, Elle McPherson. But even Love was impressed by Mr. G. She put her hands on her hips. “This doesn’t seem like much of a vacation,” she said. “He’s here for the afternoon, dinner with friends, and then he leaves first thing tomorrow, poor thing.” Love was returning to her normal self, acting like everybody’s aunt. “I wonder if he brought his bathing suit. That’s something I’d like to see. Mr. G-in a pair of trunks.”

The fax machine beeped and churned out a few pages. Love checked it. “For Mr. G, naturally,” she said. She wrote the fax information in her notebook then handed the pages to Jem. “Care to do the honors?”

Jem walked to room 6, the fax pages fluttering in his hands. He wondered what would happen if he let the pages go. What if he were responsible for tossing Mr. G’s fax to the wind? It was torturous to consider. He wanted to read the fax, but it was good discipline to respect the man’s privacy, to resist peeking at the masthead.

Jem knocked on the door. “Jeremy Crandall here,” he said in a strong voice.

The door opened. Mr. G had the phone to his ear; he was still in his suit. He looked at Jem quizzically, and Jem held out the fax pages. Mr. G took the fax, glanced at it, and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out the same few coins then shook his head, and handed the coins to Jem.

“Thanks,” Jem said. When he returned to the lobby, he checked in his pocket. Mr. G had given him thirteen cents.

That night, Jem ate three peanut butter sandwiches and drank two cans of warm Sprite, and he wrote his first letter home to his parents. Jem’s father was a famous man in Falls Church. The owner of the Locked Tower, a member of Rotary, and Kiwanis. A model citizen. Jem could have this kind of fame too. But, he was ashamed to say, he wanted something bigger. He was cursed with aspirations.

“My job is going well,” Jem wrote, “and guess who checked into the hotel today? Mr. G!” Jem wanted to show his parents that he could live away from home, hold a job, use good judgment. “He tipped me thirteen cents.” If Jem gave his father news to share at the Tower-and surely Mr. G was news-maybe his parents wouldn’t object quite so much when he brought up California. Lacey Gardner told Jem to disregard what his parents thought, and though he found this extreme, one thing was true: he was going to California whether his parents liked it or not.

Then Jem thought of his sister, Gwennie. She ate his mother’s baked chicken, grilled steaks, chocolate cake, and then after dinner she disappeared into the upstairs bathroom or outside-no matter how closely Jem’s parents watched her-and she puked it all up. And Gwennie had reinvented the laws of perpetual motion. When she was on the phone with her girlfriends, she paced the house. She went jogging in the middle of the night while their parents slept. She ate standing up, and if she had to eat sitting down, she scissored her legs back and forth under the table. Just thinking about it made Jem exhausted, and sad.

“All in all, I’m doing well,” he wrote. “I think this summer is going to be quite a learning experience.” His mother would appreciate that. “I miss you! Love, Jem.”

Jem mailed the letter on his way to work the next morning. He still had the thirteen cents in his pocket. He might just carry that thirteen cents all summer, for luck. As Jem approached the Club, he saw Mr. G standing on the front steps of the lobby. Jem checked his watch. It was five of eight. Mack stood next to Mr. G, holding a carton of doughnuts.

“Jem!” Mack called out.

Jem ran to the front porch of the lobby. But something wasn’t right. Both Mack and Mr. G looked upset.

“Did you set the alarm clock for Mr. G-yesterday afternoon?” Mack asked.

Jem’s mind swam through murky water to yesterday afternoon. He had set it, hadn’t he? Oh, God, his life was over. But he distinctly remembered sitting on the side of the bed and pressing the plastic buttons. Setting the alarm for six-fifteen. Mr. G had said six-fifteen, hadn’t he?

“It didn’t go off,” Mr. G said quietly. He looked up into the sky. “Needless to say I had to call and cancel with the president.”

The president? Of the United States? Jem clenched his stomach. “Oh, sir,” Jem said. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, of course, doesn’t put me on my plane an hour ago,” Mr. G said. “Sorry doesn’t make it up to the president.”

A cab pulled up to the front of the hotel. Jem reached for Mr. G’s Samsonite, but Mack snapped it up first. “I’ve got it,” Mack said. “Go wait for me in my office.”

A few minutes later, Jem shuffled through the sand, following Mack to room 6.

“I asked you in the interview if you could set an alarm clock,” Mack said. “And you assured me that you could. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” Jem said glumly. He thought of the letter to his parents and wished he hadn’t sent it. Jem imagined his mother at the Giant, pushing her cart through the produce section, telling everyone she knew that Jem had met Mr. G. What she wouldn’t know was that Jem had screwed up royally, that Jem had single-handedly fouled up Mr. G’s meeting with the president of the United States.

In room 6, Mack checked the alarm clock.

“It’s set for six-fifteen,” Mack said, and for a second Jem felt the sweet wash of vindication. Then Mack said, “Six-fifteen in the evening. See this P.M. thing here, P.M. means-”

“I know what it means,” Jem said.

“The alarm must have gone off while Mr. G-was at dinner.”

“I’ll write a letter of apology,” Jem said. “I’ll sit down and write it now.”

“Don’t write a letter,” Mack said. “I don’t want you to waste any more of that man’s time. Okay, Jem? But see if you can use your head. See if you can make me feel like less an idiot for hiring you. Now, go do your job.”

Jem sat on a bench outside the Stop & Shop eating half a roasted chicken. It was Monday, his day off, and he’d had another miserable weekend. The incident with Mr. G depressed him so much that he didn’t feel like going out. It was the fifteenth of June and Jem hadn’t seen the inside of a bar since he and Vance had shot pool at the Chicken Box back in May, before the hotel opened. He supposed if he went out he would meet some girls at least, but he was shy about going to the bars alone. His father always said that a person who goes into a bar alone goes to drink, and you know what that means.

Was that any different from sitting outside the grocery store alone, eating chicken alone, or going to the beach alone, which was where Jem was headed next? He felt like a loser-he kept messing up at his simple job, and after five weeks on the island, he still had no friends. If this was what happened to him on Nantucket, what the hell would California be like?

The Stop & Shop parking lot was jam-packed: cars lined up at the entrance, snaking onto Pleasant Street. These were the Summer People, Jem supposed, coming to refill their cupboards with watermelons, hamburger buns, Popsicles.

Jem gnawed on a chicken leg and watched a woman roll a shopping cart with about fifty shopping bags and a baby girl up to her Isuzu Trooper. She loaded in her groceries, which probably cost as much money as Jem made in a week. The shopping cart with the baby rolled backward just as a couple of college chicks in a red Cherokee rounded the corner. Jem ran out in front of the Cherokee. The car jerked to a stop. Jem pushed the shopping cart closer to the Isuzu, although he was chagrined to see the cart hadn’t really been in the way.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said to the girls. “And slow down.”

The girl driving said, “For your information, I was watching where I was going. I wasn’t even close to hitting it.”

The baby’s mother turned and saw Jem holding the cart.

“I’m sorry?” she said. Her eyes locked on Jem’s fingers gripping the handle of the cart. Jem started to sweat. It was about a hundred degrees out and his face and hands were shiny with chicken grease. He pictured a scenario where he grabbed the shopping cart and it slipped from his greasy grasp and rolled right in front of the Cherokee, making him not a baby snatcher but a baby murderer. He needed to be more aware. Awareness, how did one acquire it?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Those girls almost hit your cart. Your baby.”

The woman looked at him blankly and Jem experienced the uncomfortable feeling he got when he was waiting for a tip from one of the hotel guests. He walked away.

Jem returned to his bench and found Maribel sitting next to his messy pile of napkins and chicken bones.

“Busy saving the world?” she asked.

“Wait a minute,” Jem said. This was exactly what he meant about being more aware. Where had Maribel come from? “You saw that?”

“Brave and valiant. This damsel’s impressed.” She shifted a backpack at her feet. “So, what are you doing here?”

“It’s my day off,” Jem said. “I’m headed for the beach.”

“Me too,” Maribel said. “The library is closed on Mondays.”

Maribel was in a pair of jeans shorts and a yellow flowered bikini top. Her blond hair was in a bun. Jem saw faint yellow hairs on the tops of her thighs.

“Do you act?” he asked. “Sing? Dance? Juggle?”

Maribel laughed. “No, why? Do you only sit on benches with people if they have special talent?”

“I just thought you could be my first client,” Jem said. “You know, I thought maybe you needed an agent.”

“I’m a librarian,” Maribel said. “In fact, I’m not even a librarian. I’m not brainy or organized enough to be a librarian. I’m a fund-raiser. I ask people for money, and when I get the money I think of ways to spend it. Now, do I need an agent? Yes, I do. A beach agent.”

“I’m actually a very good beach agent,” Jem said.

“Meaning you can guarantee me a fun time while I’m there?” Maribel asked. “What’s your cut?”

“Fifty percent,” Jem said. “Of the fun time.”

“Okay,” Maribel said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Maribel drove a Jeep Wrangler just like Mack’s, but newer. It was black and the inside was roasting hot. Jem’s legs stuck to the vinyl seats.

Maribel pulled out of the parking lot, and said, “So, do I dare ask? How’s work?”

“It’s great,” Jem said, trying to sound upbeat. Usually Jem felt comfortable with women, but with Maribel he was going to have to watch what he said. Talking to her was as good as talking to Mack.

“You like Bill and Therese?” Maribel asked.

“I almost never see them,” Jem said. “Bill sits in his office reading and Therese is busy chasing the chambermaids around. She rides those girls hard.”

“Therese is a renowned slave driver,” Maribel said. “I suppose you’ve heard she hates me.”

“No,” Jem said, “I hadn’t heard.”

“Things used to be okay between us, but ever since Cecily got to high school-Cecily’s their daughter, you know-Therese has been dead set on pushing Cecily and Mack together. An he’s twelve years older than she is! It’s ridiculous.”

“Do you ever think maybe Mack will give in? You know, to get a piece of the Beach Club and all?”

“No,” Maribel said sharply, “I don’t.”

“Sorry,” Jem said. He should just keep his mouth shut! “I didn’t mean I thought he should. Hell, no. You two make a great couple. How long have you been together?”

“Six years,” Maribel said.

“Are you planning on getting married?”

“No,” Maribel said. “We have no plans to get married.” She paused. “You know what the funny thing is about Cecily? She and I are good friends. Everything would be so nice if Therese just backed off.”

“Oh,” Jem said.

“Never mind,” Maribel said. “It’s just politics. You’re smart to stay out of it.” They turned left by the high school. “So tell me, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Me?” Jem said. “No, not right now.”

“Haven’t met anyone on the island, a handsome guy like you? Mr. November?”

He’d opened his mouth during his job interview, and it would haunt him forever. “I haven’t been out much,” he said.

“Cecily’s coming home next week,” Maribel said. “Maybe you’ll like her.”

“I don’t know,” Jem said. “I hate being set up.”

Maribel patted his knee. Jem felt a sort of thrill when she touched him, and instantly he began to worry. What was he doing with his boss’s girlfriend? Maribel turned onto a sand road. The Jeep started bouncing up and down in whoop-dee-dos.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Miacomet,” she said. “The pond’s coming up on the left.”

Jem looked out Maribel’s window. Cattails and dune grass bordered the pond, and there were a few wild irises. A red-winged blackbird.

“This is one of my favorite spots,” she said. “And the beach is terrific too-very peaceful. It’s a nude beach.”

Jem took a deep breath. Nude beach? “Wait a minute, I’m the beach agent here. I don’t know if that’s in the contract.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Maribel asked. “Because we can go someplace else.” But she made no move to slow down the car.

“Well…”

“You can keep your suit on,” she said. “I sometimes do. Tell you what, I will today, how about that?”

Now Jem felt like a child. What was wrong with a nude beach, really?

“Whatever you want,” he said.

Maribel shrugged. “Okay.”

Maribel drove the Jeep over the dunes onto the beach. She was right-it was peaceful. The beach was a long stretch of practically deserted sand-way down to the left Jem saw the mob of folks at Surfside, where he usually went. The waves here were giant and rolling, and the water bottle green. Behind them, all Jem could see was blue sky and dune grass. This was the real Gold Coast. He started to relax.

“This is nice,” he said.

Maribel spread out a blanket, stripped off her shorts, and sat down. She waved Jem over. “Join me,” she said. “I brought lunch.”

Jem sat tentatively on the edge of her blanket. He removed his shirt and looked down at his abs. He did a hundred sit-ups before he went to bed each night and it was paying off. “Thanks, but I already ate some chicken.”

“I packed enough for about sixty people,” Maribel said. “And I’m a good cook in case you haven’t heard.” She unwrapped a sandwich and handed Jem half. “Here, this is Saga, prosciutto, and fig.”

The sandwich was delicious, the kind of delicious Jem had never tasted before.

“You like it?” Maribel asked.

He finished chewing. “It’s the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten.”

“You can be my sandwich agent.”

“Definitely,” Jem said. “Definitely your sandwich agent.” An old woman walked by, naked. She smiled at Maribel and Jem and wandered off down the beach.

“See, it’s no big deal. This is a free and easy place.” Maribel pulled more food out of her backpack: homemade potato chips, clusters of tiny purple grapes, thick chocolate brownies.

“Nothing at all like the chicken at Stop and Shop,” he said. “And no exhaust. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“I taught myself,” Maribel said. She threw a scrap of bread to the seagulls. “My mother worked full-time and when she got home she was too tired to do much of anything. I liked having dinner ready for her. I cleaned the house and did the laundry, too. My mother called me her housewife. And I thought of it as practical training.”

“Training?”

“For when I get married myself,” Maribel said.

“So you do want to get married,” Jem said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

Jem had stepped in mud and he hadn’t even seen it. “Nothing. It meant nothing. I’m sorry.” Where was safe ground? He finished his sandwich and licked his fingers, and then, before he could stop, he thought about being married to Maribel himself, and how awesome that would be, awesome beyond his wildest dreams.

“You know when you asked me about work before?” Jem said. “I was just wondering, does Mack ever say how I’m doing?”

“Not really. He did tell me about Mr. G.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, and I don’t see what the big deal is. So the guy was an hour late. So he had to cancel with the president. Shit happens. I’ll bet by noon he’d forgotten all about it.”

“There was this other thing that happened, too,” Jem said. “This woman Mrs. Worley. I walked in on her in the bathroom and she started to cry.”

Jem was expecting Maribel to laugh the way Mack had, but she didn’t.

“When I was a little girl, I walked into the men’s room at a restaurant and I saw the men standing next to urinals. I didn’t know men peed standing up. I don’t have any brothers and my father wasn’t around, and I just didn’t know. Now, that was a shocker.”

“So it was just you and your mother then?” Jem asked.

“My mom was only nineteen when she had me. It’s just the two of us.” Maribel fell back onto the blanket. “Nap time.” She rolled onto her side and propped her head up with one arm. “I’m going to take my top off, if that’s okay with you.”

“Wait a second. You said-”

She put her hand on his arm, and again he felt a thrill.

“We don’t have to tell Mack we met up,” she said.

“We don’t?” He didn’t like where this was headed: lying, secrecy, a secret from his boss. But Jem was happy sitting next to Maribel-so astonishingly happy whereas just an hour before he’d been so miserable-that he didn’t care. “Go ahead then,” he said.

Maribel untied her bikini and slipped it over her head. Jem looked at her breasts; he knew she wanted him to look at them, and admire them the way he’d admired the food. They were just like the rest of Maribel-sunny, perky, gorgeous. They were the size of teacups with a pale pink nipple. She took a bottle of Coppertone from her bag and rubbed herself with lotion. In a minute, Jem had an aching erection pushing through his swim trunks. He flipped onto his stomach.

“Nap time,” he said.

He closed his eyes and tried to think about other things, things that were not Maribel related, things that were not Maribel’s breasts and their impossibly pink softness. He surprised himself by falling asleep. When he woke up, it felt as though he were emerging from a hot, dark tunnel. He raised his head. Maribel was lying on her stomach, reading. She still had her top off.

“What are you reading?” Jem asked.

She flashed him the cover. “The Collected Stories of John Cheever,” she said. “And there’s a whole lot of cheating going on.”

“Really?” Jem said. What was that supposed to mean? “Hey, want to go for a swim?”

“Sure,” she said. He was thankful that she put her top on, tying the strings tightly. When Jem felt ready, he dashed to the water. Maribel chased after him. The water was freezing but that was okay. He needed to cool down. Maribel went under and when she popped back up, she shrieked.

“This is great,” Jem called out. A wave rolled over him.

“Next stop, Portugal,” Maribel said. She went under again and surfaced right next to him. “The rip current is bad here,” she said. “I don’t want to get too far away from you.”

“I don’t want you too far away,” Jem said. He touched Maribel’s forehead. Her hair was sleek. God, she was pretty. If she were anybody else, he might playfully untie her bikini. He might go under and pop up with her on his back. He might simply hold her and let her rock in his arms as the waves passed over them. But it wasn’t anybody else. It was Maribel.

“Would you like to come over for dinner some Sunday?” Maribel asked.

Here was the dinner invitation Jem had been waiting for, and yet now he felt uncomfortable. “Sunday is the day Mack eats with Lacey,” he said.

Maribel squinted her eyes toward shore. “Yep.”

“So it would just be us?” Jem asked.

“You’re more than welcome to bring a date,” Maribel said.

“I couldn’t find a date,” he said. “Would you tell Mack I was coming for dinner?”

“Would you want me to?”

He took a mouthful of salty green water and spouted it through his teeth. “I don’t know.”

“What do you say we call this a friendship,” Maribel said. “Unless you’re still determined to be my agent, in which case it’s a business arrangement. Would that make you feel better?”

“Yeah,” Jem said, “it would.”

“So you’ll come for dinner sometime?” she asked.

“Okay,” Jem said.

“Great,” she said. She rode the next wave all the way to shore, where she washed up on her hands and knees. Jem watched as she picked herself up, cleaned the sand from her legs, and headed back to the blanket. At that moment, Jem hoped she didn’t tell Mack about their day together. It had been Jem’s best day on Nantucket by leaps and bounds-good enough to wipe away all the nonsense that had preceded it, and Jem wanted the memory of it all to himself.