The Beach Club

5 Independence Day

July 2

Dear Bill,

The answer to your question is yes, I am a parent. You do not need to know how many children I have, or if they are sons or daughters-it isn’t relevant and it’s too painful for me to discuss anyway, even in a letter. I know your daughter is quite young-seventeen? eighteen?-and I know she lives away from you a good part of the year. I wonder, Bill, if you have any idea what goes on in your daughter’s heart and mind. Does she want what you want? Does she see herself continuing with the family business? Does she love the hotel the way you do, Bill? Have you ever asked her? Maybe before you turn my offer down, you should.

Sincerely,

S.B.T.

Cecily’s job this summer was to watch the beach, keeping her eyes peeled for people who blatantly ignored the signs saying Nantucket Beach Club: Private Property. After four years at Middlesex-tens of thousands of dollars spent on her education-this was the job her parents gave her. Lookout. Policewoman. Head scout of the Nantucket Beach Club patrol.

Cecily sat on the steps of the pavilion with a clipboard and a computer generated list of the Beach Club members. If she saw people on the beach she didn’t recognize, she had to ask their names. If their name appeared on the list, she smiled and repeated their name, “Why hello, Mrs. Papale!” as though she had recognized them all along. That was what a club was about: Being recognized, belonging.

If their names didn’t appear on the list, she had to ask them, politely, to leave. Cecily’s father was too chicken to do this job himself, although he claimed he wasn’t afraid, but rather, too busy, doing financial things and reading from his volume of Robert Frost.

On one very hot and crowded day just before the major holiday of summer, Cecily encountered her first squatters. She was sitting with her legs stretched out in the sun when an unlikely couple wandered in from the right. What made them “unlikely” was exactly the thing that Cecily hated about her job: they looked poor. The price to sit on a swatch of her father’s beach under one of the umbrellas her mother ordered from the south of France was five thousand dollars for the summer. It was too much money for almost anybody to afford-and definitely too much money for the couple spreading their towels (short white towels, the kind one might find in a Holiday Inn) under a royal blue umbrella.

The couple looked like Jack Sprat and wife. The man was skinny and pale, wearing a black T-shirt and cut-off jeans, and the woman wore an enormous turquoise muumuu. The woman carried a red Playmate cooler, which she plunked down at the foot of the towels.

Cecily heard a clicking noise behind her. She turned to see her father tapping with his pen on the window of his office. He pointed at the couple.

Reluctantly, Cecily stood up. She trudged through the hot sand, savoring the torturous burning on the soles of her feet. The man turned his head from left to right, checking, literally, to see if the coast were clear. The woman plucked a green bottle out of the cooler: a Heineken. The beer of choice at Middlesex. The man offered the woman a penknife from the front pocket of his jeans shorts and the woman flipped the top off the bottle and let it land in the sand.

“Excuse me,” Cecily said. The man’s head whipped around. He hadn’t thought to look behind him. “I just need to check your name off our list.”

The man stood up. The front of his T-shirt had a mandala on it. He had long dirty blonde hair and a mustache. He touched his mustache when Cecily spoke.

“The name’s Cadillac,” he said. “Joe Cadillac.”

Joe Cadillac. It was a good try: maybe he thought it made him sound rich. Cecily checked her list. She could feel her father’s eyes boring into her back. The burning of her feet became unbearable and she moved to stand in the shade of the royal blue umbrella.

“Cadillac, hmmmm. Like the car, Cadillac?”

The man cleared his throat. “That’s right.”

“I don’t see it here,” Cecily said. She didn’t meet the man’s eyes.

“Are you sure you’re spelling it right?” he asked. “Cadillac, with a ‘C?’ With two ‘C’s?’”

“Yes,” Cecily said, “I’m sure.”

The man shoved his threadbare towel under one arm. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll go then.”

The woman let out a long, shrill laugh, like a hand trickling down piano keys. “Heavens, Joe,” she said. She had curly blond hair and wore red lipstick. “Would you please let us stay, sweetie?” she asked. “Just for today? I’m afraid in this sun I’ll positively fry up.” The woman had a stripe of bad sunburn already-across the tops of her round cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“I can’t let you stay,” Cecily said. She felt horrible; she felt like a child or an angry neighbor saying “Get off of my property!”

The woman held out the beer. “Would you like a swig?” she asked. “It’s ice cold.”

Cecily eyed the sweating bottle. How she wanted to take it, and force her father to watch her making her own choices.

“Debra, let’s go,” the man said.

The woman beamed at Cecily. Mrs. Sprat, Mrs. Cadillac. Cecily tore her eyes away. She looked, instead, at Nantucket Sound, lapping lightly onto her father’s beach.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Cecily was also maître d’ of the beach, the goodwill ambassador. She chatted with the Beach Club members, and made sure everyone was happy. Once she got to know the members by name and learn a little bit about them, the list would become unnecessary. Cecily hated chatting, she even hated the word chatting. She could never think of what to say that would sufficiently mask her real question. Why are you spending your money this way? Haven’t you heard of world hunger? Don’t you have a conscience? The Beach Club had existed since 1924. Back then, the club cost a quarter a day and was open to the public. Her father had sepia-tone pictures of men and women in old-fashioned bathing suits sitting under crazily striped and polka-dotted sunshades, drinking bottles of sarsaparilla. This was how Cecily preferred to think of it. She’d kept one of those pictures, framed, in her dorm room at school.

The number of people on the beach peaked on the Fourth of July, and this year, it was sunny and hot. On the south shore, Cecily knew there would be radios blaring, volleyball games, picnics, kegs, Frisbee, dogs. But here at the Beach Club, things were as much fun as a pile of wet bathing suits, as exciting as a handful of sand. Mr. Conroy, who had a glass eye and a pair of saggy old-man breasts, sported his starspangled swim trunks. That was it in the way of excitement.

Cecily stood in her father’s office. “Total hell,” she said, looking out the window at the beach.

“Someday it’s going to be yours,” he said.

“What if I don’t want it?” Cecily said.

“What’s not to want?” Bill said. “Now get out there and show ’em who’s boss.”

“You’re the boss,” Cecily said. “You get out there.”

Bill laughed, then his voice got serious. “Go,” he said, “and don’t forget to wish everyone a happy Fourth of July.”

To start her rounds, Cecily had to walk past Kevin and Bruce, the beach boys.

“Hey, sexy!” Bruce called out. Bruce was skinny with pimples and glasses, and he thought he was a hot shit because he was going to Yale in the fall.

Cecily gave him the finger. Kevin never said anything. He just sat next to Bruce and giggled. The beach boys were exactly that-boys. They set up the umbrellas in the morning and then plunked themselves in the sand like a couple of ugly frogs, and when a member needed help with chairs or towels, the boys reluctantly got to their feet. They had an even cushier job than her own.

Cecily walked by Mr. and Mrs. Spoonacre, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, and stopped at the kelly green umbrella closest to the water where Major Crawley sat Always the same spot closest to the water, always a kelly green umbrella, and always alone-because Mrs. Crawley was allergic to the beach. Major Crawley had retired from the army before Cecily was born, but he still looked like a major. He wore army green trunks, aviator sunglasses, and his gray-silver hair was clipped in a crew cut.

“Hello there, lady friend,” the major said.

Cecily crouched in the sand next to the major’s Sleepy Hollow chair. They had a short conversation every day. Cecily’s father told her the major deserved extra attention. He’d been a Beach Club member for almost fifty years. “Hello, Major. Happy Fourth of July.”

“Let me tell you a little something,” the major said.

Major Crawley loved to tell Cecily stories about her grandfather. Sometimes, if Cecily was lucky, he would talk instead about his days on the last mounted cavalry in Germany, riding through the forest, looking for runaway Nazis.

“Your grandfather, Big Bill Elliott-and we all called him Big Bill-asked me for advice when he bought this Beach Club. You know what I told him?”

“Complimentary towels,” Cecily said.

“That’s right. Do you know why?”

“It’s the small courtesies that make a place stand out,” she said.

“Someday all this is going to be yours, and you’re going to have to see that the place is run with integrity. I might not be around to prod you.”

Cecily had heard the same speech dozens of times. She wanted to tell the major that she had no intention of running the Beach Club, because deeper, more exotic voices called her name. Other countries, other cultures. “Tell me about Germany again.”

“Germany?” the major said. “My time in the hills, you mean? Riding Liebchen? That was a good horse. A mare. Mares don’t frighten easily, and that’s why we all rode mares. Because we were looking at some scary stuff there in the hills.”

“Nazis,” Cecily said. “The murderers.”

“Had one of them Nazis hold a gun to my head,” the major said. “Thought I was dead. Only eighteen years old. And do you know what I was thinking about, right at that second?”

“Mrs. Crawley?”

The major’s aviator sunglasses slid to the end of his nose. “Hadn’t met Mrs. Crawley yet. She came later.”

“Your parents?”

“Nope.” He poked at his sunglasses. “Thought about cigarettes and beer. Those were the two most important things in my life. All I wanted to do was smoke Luckies and drink Miller High-Life. And I thought how sad it was that all my smoking and drinking potential was about to fall facedown in the mud with a bullet shot through it.”

“So then what happened?”

“The slimy German had the gun to my temple, pressed right into my brain and I could smell him. He stank like a pig. He had me on my knees and my eyes were level with his crotch and then I saw that the stinking bastard was wetting himself, he was so afraid. I knocked the gun out of his hand and that kid ran off. Someone in my company found him later and shot him dead.” Major Crawley took off his sunglasses and lay back in his Sleepy Hollow chair. “I often wonder if maybe that weren’t such a bad kid. Anyway, we killed him. Couldn’t have mercy on someone who agreed to stand behind all that murdering of the Jews.”

“There was a kid at my school who’s a Nazi,” Cecily said.

The major shook his head. “No, lady friend, not possible. We got them all.” The major’s words grew low and grumbly. “Today’s the Fourth of July and I’m happy to say you’re in a safe place. No Nazis here.” He nodded off to sleep in his chair. Cecily pulled his complimentary beach towel over his legs, so they wouldn’t burn.

Cecily threaded her way between the umbrellas in the front row, past Mrs. Minella, the Papales, and the Hayeses, the only African American Beach Club members. She heard someone call to her.

“Miss! Miss!” A man under one of the canary yellow umbrellas gestured to her. Cecily walked slowly toward him and his wife, skimming her eyes over the list. These were new members this year-the Curtains? The Kershners? The man was balding but made up for it with a perfectly trimmed goatee. The woman had red hair like Cecily, only she had millions of freckles, whereas Cecily tanned.

Cecily smiled. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“We need you to settle an argument,” the man said.

“Douglas!” the woman said. She folded her arms across the sheer top of her Chanel bathing suit.

Douglas and Mary Beth Kershner. Cecily found their names on the list.

“What you need to understand is that my wife is a giving person,” Douglas Kershner said. “Charity woman supreme.”

“Douglas,” Mrs. Kershner snapped.

“And under the guise of the Church, she has planted a garden for the poor, so that the less fortunate citizens of Groton, Connecticut, can enjoy fresh produce,” Douglas Kershner said.

There were tiny wrinkles in the corners of Mrs. Kershner’s mouth.

“I didn’t know there were any poor people in Groton,” Cecily said. She’d only been to Groton once, for a field hockey game.

“There are poor people everywhere,” Mrs. Kershner said.

“But now, in Groton, Connecticut, the poor can enjoy arugula, raddichio, and tarragon,” Mr. Kershner said. “Tarragon for the poor!” He raised his hands above his head in a gesture of mock political triumph, giving Cecily a view of his hairy armpits. “Have you ever heard of anything so absurd?”

“Douglas!” Mrs. Kershner said.

“Why don’t you plant corn?” Cecily asked. “Or tomatoes?”

“Or potatoes,” Mr. Kershner added. “Something of substance.”

Mrs. Kershner sniffled. Behind her black cat’s-eye sunglasses, she was crying.

“You don’t respect me, Douglas,” she said. “You ridicule everything I even attempt. And you drag in complete strangers to throw rocks at my spirit.”

Cecily took a step back. She hadn’t meant to throw rocks at anyone’s spirit. Gardens for the poor was a good idea. She thought about tending a plot of land, harvesting tomatoes and corn and shiny green peppers. Putting the produce in a basket and distributing it around Nantucket’s public housing development, to the single mothers who drove a taxi or worked at the Stop & Shop. She wondered what her father would think about this. Cecily drifted away from the Kershners, but she couldn’t help herself from turning around to look at them one last time. Mrs. Kershner packed her things to leave the beach, while Mr. Kershner continued speaking, waving his arms at the water.

At the very edge of the property Cecily found Maribel asleep facedown with the straps of her bathing suit untied. Her blond hair was caught up in a messy bun and her back was brown and slick with oil. Cecily sat carefully next to Maribel’s towel and looked to her left at all the umbrellas neatly lined up in rows and columns. It was like an obstacle course she had to complete in order to get to this safe place, this good place, next to Maribel. With Maribel, Cecily could be herself; with Maribel, Cecily could talk about love.

Cecily had been in love for almost a year with Gabriel da Silva, a Brazilian who lived in the dorm across the quad from Cecily at school. Gabriel was a year older than the other boys, and taller, more muscular, more sophisticated. He spoke three languages-English, Spanish, and the beautiful Carioca Portuguese-and unlike the other boys, Gabriel had a soul. He told Cecily about the favelas in Rio, where children starved. Gabriel had adopted a family in the favelas-a mother and three sons. He gave them money and he watched the little boys while the mother, Magrite, sold coconut ice cream at a stand on Copacabana Beach. Gabriel would like the idea of a garden for the poor. Cecily pictured Gabriel without a shirt, standing under the brilliant Brazilian sun, his dark skin tanning to the color of tree bark, as he shoveled the rich, black earth-a garden in the favelas.

Thinking about Gabriel made Cecily impatient. She traced her pinky finger down Maribel’s spine. If Cecily weren’t in love with Gabriel, she would probably be in love with Maribel.

Maribel woke with a shiver and lifted her head. Her cheek was dusted with sand.

“Geez, Cecily,” Maribel said. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, lady friend,” Cecily said. “I’m surprised to see you here. Have you talked to Mack?”

“I don’t want to talk to Mack.”

“You do so,” Cecily said. “Otherwise you’d be at the beach somewhere else.”

“It’s the Fourth,” Maribel said. “The other beaches are too crowded.”

“Do you miss him?” Cecily asked.

“Of course I miss him,” Maribel said.

“I miss Gabriel,” Cecily said. They had made love exactly ten times the week before school let out, (discovered once, by the school’s cleaning lady). By the time Cecily’s parents showed up for graduation, the insides of her thighs were rubbed raw.

“It’s not the same thing,” Maribel said. “You and Gabriel are still together.”

“I know,” Cecily said. Cecily didn’t know what was going on between Mack and Maribel. Some stupid, fucked-up thing that made them both miserable. “I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me Andrea Krane has checked out,” Maribel said. “Tell me she’s gone home.”

“Next week,” Cecily said. “But don’t worry, Mack is sleeping at Lacey’s.”

Maribel hid her face in her hands. “I don’t even want to think about where Mack’s sleeping. It makes me sick.”

“What I have to tell you is…” Cecily waited until she had Maribel’s full attention, or as much of her full attention as she could hope to get with Mack lurking around. “What I have to tell you is that I’m not going to college in September.”

Maribel groaned. “Yes, you are, Cecily.”

“No,” Cecily said. “I’m not. I’m deferring a year. I’ve already signed the form saying I’m deferring. I’m eighteen, I can do that.”

“And next you’re going to tell me that you’re flying to Brazil.”

“And Argentina, and Ecuador and Venezuela. I’m traveling with Gabriel.”

Maribel regathered her bun so that it stuck off the top of her head like a knob. “Everyone’s lost their mind,” she said. “Have you told your parents this?”

“No,” Cecily said. “But I’ve been saving my money. It’s ridiculous how much I make doing this stupid job.” She knew she had to tell her parents soon, although she indulged a fantasy of boarding the plane for Charlottesville and simply continuing south, without telling them at all. If she called regularly, her parents might never know the difference. “They’ll probably disown me. But that would be good for you. The club could go to Mack.”

“What do I care now?” Maribel said. “It’s over with Mack, I told you.”

“You’ll get back together,” Cecily said. Then she heard someone calling her name.

“Miss Elliott.” The voice was low and rich. “Excuse me, Miss Elliott.”

Mrs. John Higgens stood on the pavilion with her cane out in front of her. She was wearing a blue one-piece bathing suit with a tissue tucked into her bosom. Cecily stood up, wiped off her hands, and jogged over.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Higgens?” Cecily asked. Sometimes older women needed an arm to hold on to in order to make it through the sand.

“Yes, my dear, I hope so.” Mrs. Higgens was another person, like Major Crawley, who had belonged to the Beach Club for a hundred million years. “I certainly hope so. Stand with me here if you will and look at the beach. Do you see what’s wrong?”

The edges of the umbrellas fluttered in the wind. Mr. Conroy, in his patriotic trunks, inched his way toward the water.

“No, Mrs. Higgens, I don’t.” It could be anything: children throwing sand, the return of Joe Cadillac, the wrong colored umbrella. “What’s wrong?”

“There are two black people on the beach, my dear,” Mrs. Higgens said. “That’s what’s wrong.”

Cecily’s bowels twisted. Not the wrong color umbrella, then, but the wrong color person. She watched Mr. Hayes step out of the ocean. Mrs. Hayes handed him a complimentary beach towel and he dried his face and arms.

“Yes, Mrs. Higgens. Those are the Hayeses,” Cecily said. “They’ve been members since 1995.” The Hayeses were quiet, normal people who respected one another. Mr. Hayes owned an office furniture business in New Jersey and Mrs. Hayes was an admissions officer at Princeton. They had three grown sons.

“I’ve seen the black young man who works here, what’s his name? Vance? He puts up my umbrella, and that’s fine. But working here and belonging here are two different things,” Mrs. Higgens said. “Don’t forget, young lady, I knew your grandfather. There were no black members when he was in charge.”

Cecily wondered what would happen if she gave old Mrs. Higgens the shock of her lifetime. For your information, Mrs. Higgens, my boyfriend is black. I make love with a black man and it is the kind of wonderful I’m sure you have never felt.

“We want you to be happy, Mrs. Higgens,” Cecily said. This was her father talking, the exact words he would say if she sent Mrs. Higgens into the office, which was what she should probably do: let him deal with it. But if she was going to start her life as an adult, she was going to have to be brave. “However, if you’re not comfortable with people of other races on the beach, then I guess you’ll have to find another beach club.”

Cecily heard a pained gasp, as though she had stepped on Mrs. Higgens’s foot with a heavy shoe, but Cecily didn’t look back. She marched through the sand the way she imagined Major Crawley marched through Germany looking for Nazis-proudly, and with something to believe in. We got them all. She sat back down next to Maribel’s towel.

“What did the old lady want?” Maribel asked.

“Nothing,” Cecily said. She stared out at the cool blue water. Her face burned. “I’ll tell my parents tonight. But right now, let’s talk about love.”

Love, it was all so complicated. That was probably why you didn’t get to the good kind of love until you were a teenager. Cecily’s love for Maribel was the best shade of blue sky and blue water. Her love for Gabriel was a herd of wild horses galloping out of control. And her love for her parents was a nagging toothache, impossible to ignore and forget.

“You did absolutely the right thing, sweetie,” Therese said, her mouth full of tomato sandwich. “I hope we never see the woman again.”

“It’s five thousand dollars down the tubes,” Bill said. He cleared his throat. “But of course when you get to my age, you understand that you can’t put a price on human decency.”

“The woman is a racist pig,” Cecily said. “Who knows how many more of the members are like that deep down?”

“Hopefully none,” Therese said. “But if we hear anyone else making comments like that, we’ll set them straight.”

Cecily looked at her dinner: a tomato sandwich on white bread, and some blue corn chips. A red, white, and blue dinner for the Fourth of July, had her mother’s idea of funny. Cecily couldn’t bring herself to eat. She told her parents what happened with Mrs. Higgens, thinking they would be angry at the way she handled it. Then it would be easy for Cecily to be indignant, and to tell them she was leaving. But her parents, much to her dismay, were being supportive; they were being cool.

“You don’t remember what this country went through in the sixties,” Therese said. “But it was quite something. Mrs. Higgens is right about one thing, there weren’t any black Beach Club members back then, were there, Bill?”

“I’m embarrassed to say, the Hayeses are the first black Beach Club members ever. Wait, that’s not true. The Krupinskis, they were black.”

“Well, she was black, he was Polish, remember?” Therese said. “They belonged to the club in, what, ’83 and ’84? They had that gorgeous café au lait child, the daughter.”

“For God’s sake,” Cecily said. “Café au lait? You’re talking about them like they’re something exotic off the menu. You’re as bad as Mrs. Higgens.”

Therese gave her a strange look. “It’s an expression, darling. Okay? My, you’re touchy. And why aren’t you eating?”

“This whole situation has got me really upset, okay?” Cecily said.

Bill frowned. “You’re still so young,” he said. “You have no idea how rotten people can be, but you’ll learn.”

“Bill, that’s depressing,” Therese said.

Cecily walked into the living room, to the bay window that overlooked the Beach Club. It was getting dark and the hotel guests emerged from their rooms to sit on the beach so they could watch the fireworks. Every year, Cecily and her parents watched the fireworks from the widow’s walk. It was amazing to watch from that high up, with nothing separating you and the sky. Cecily turned around. Her parents were eating their sandwiches, munching on the chips.

“I have some news,” Cecily said.

“More news?” Therese said. “More news aside from the Mrs. John Higgens news?”

“We’re proud of the job you’ve been doing, by the way,” Bill said, his voice getting dangerously sappy. “You handled this Mrs. Higgens situation with aplomb.”

“Thanks,” Cecily said flatly. Wishing her parents would stop being so nice. “Okay-here goes-bombs away. My news, you’re ready?”

She was terrified: like jumping off the high dive at the indoor pool at school, like the first time Gabriel unwrapped a condom. She prayed to God, and to her dead brother, W.T., and to Gabriel. Please let them understand.

“I’ve decided to defer a year before I go to college, because I want to do some traveling. So I’m not going to UVA in September. I’m flying to Rio instead.”

Cecily shifted her attention to the parking lot: two BMWs, one Rover, one Jag. Mack’s Jeep. Lacey’s Buick. The thousand scattered pieces of broken shell, the million grains of sand. When she felt confident enough to turn back around, her parents were both staring at her. Her mother had mayonnaise in the corner of her mouth. “Honey, I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re telling us.”

“I’ve sent a slip to the admissions office at the University of Virginia, telling them I’m deferring a year. I’m traveling through South America with Gabriel instead. Which part don’t you understand?”

Therese turned to Bill. “Bill?” Tears in her voice.

Bill took Therese’s hand. “Cecily, wait a minute. Can you just wait a minute, please? Why are you telling us this? Are you trying to hurt us?”

“It’s not about you guys,” Cecily said. “It’s about me. I need to break away.”

“But you have college,” Therese said. “That’s what Middlesex was for. That’s what prep school means-college preparatory.”

“What about you, Mom? You never finished college.” Cecily’s mouth had an acidic tomato taste. “You never graduated from Hunter.”

“I’m ashamed of that,” Therese said. “I didn’t have the smarts for school that you do.”

“Don’t pick on your mother, Cecily,” Bill said. “That won’t help you.”

“Lots of people take a year off,” Cecily said. “Why do you think UVA even has such a thing as a deferral form? Because it happens all the time. Everyone does it.”

“Everyone does not do it,” Bill said. “You know I hate hyperbole.”

“Well, you know I hate it when you use words like hyperbole,” Cecily said.

“If you want to go to South America, we can take you over Christmas break,” Therese said. “It’ll be fun!” She tittered. “I’ve always wanted to go to Iguazu Falls.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet the girl from Ipanema,” Bill said.

“I’m going with Gabriel,” Cecily said. “He’s a very nice person. You have no way of knowing that because he wasn’t at graduation. He had to fly back early. But trust me, he’s nice. We love each other. We’ve been in love for a while now.”

“You can’t go away with some boy, some foreign boy we’ve never met. You’re a child, Cecily. So you can forget that idea right now,” Therese said. She lifted her dinner plate, and Cecily’s untouched plate of food. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m counting on you taking over the hotel, Cecily,” Bill said. “Your mother and I haven’t told you everything that’s been going on, but I need to retire soon. You can’t just go running off to another continent. Being a part of this family comes with responsibility.”

“I don’t want the hotel,” Cecily said. “I’m sorry to say it, Daddy, but I’m not interested.”

“That’s absurd. You can’t be not interested. It was Grandpa Bill’s, it’s mine, it’s going to be yours.”

“Give it to Mack,” Cecily said. “He wants it, I don’t.”

“It doesn’t work like that. I can’t give it to Mack.”

“Why not?” Cecily asked. “He’d do a better job than me. Besides, when Grandpa Bill died, you wanted the club, you wanted to build hotel rooms. I don’t want that. You can’t make me want that.”

Bill put his hand over his heart. “Oh, God.”

Therese stood behind him. “Your father is sick, Cecily. We didn’t want you to worry, but he’s sick. You can’t tell him things like this or he’s going to have a heart attack.”

Cecily rolled her eyes. “You guys are too much. Giving me a guilt trip, telling me Daddy’s sick? You should have had more children. You should have had more than just me.”

Therese winced. “How can you say that? You know about W.T.! For years we tried to have children, for ten years, and finally there was you. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but some of us are not as fortunate as you, my dear, picking and choosing the way we’d like our lives to go. Most of us just have to take what life deals us, but I am not going to stand here and deal with you telling your father you don’t want to be a part of the family tradition that has sustained you and given you a good life. I am not going to listen to you tell me where you are going with what strange boy.” Therese wound her white streak of hair around her finger. A Mom trick, to make Cecily feel guilty. “Have you slept with this boy?”

Cecily laughed, looked back out the window. She remembered the startled expression on the cleaning lady’s face. “Mother.”

“Mother, what? Was I supposed to assume my fifteen-year-old was away at school having sex?”

“I’m eighteen, Mother, okay? Can we establish that fact?”

“You’re not going to Brazil,” Bill said.

Cecily held out her arms. “Put handcuffs on me, then,” she said. “Put handcuffs on and lock me in the house, because that’s what it’s going to take to keep me here.”

Therese started to cry. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to us,” she said. “I can’t believe that after what I had to endure before, I now have to endure this.”

“It’s not like I’m dying,” Cecily said. She calculated in her head: if she had to leave tonight, could she do it? She’d cashed all her graduation checks plus two paychecks so far from her father. But it still wasn’t enough. She’d have to stay a while longer. “I’m just going away for a year, okay. How about that? A year abroad. I’ll be back next summer.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bill said. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Suddenly, there was a noise, a tremendous boom, so loud it rattled the window. Cecily looked outside in time to see the first fireworks, a brilliant spray of red and yellow and white. Then there was another boom-silver sparkles.

“Happy Independence Day,” she said. She stomped down the stairs and left the house, slamming the door behind her.

Jem Crandall watched the fireworks from Jetties Beach with thousands of other people. Kids waved sparklers, parents nodded off to sleep in beach chairs, a group of college students sat in a circle singing the theme song from the Partridge Family. There was no reason for Jem to be amidst all this chaos when he could be down at the Beach Club enjoying peace and quiet, except that here, at Jetties, he was with Maribel. She sat beside him on a beach towel wearing a Nantucket red miniskirt, a white T-shirt, a navy blue cardigan sweater, her blond hair in a ponytail, her tan legs tucked neatly beneath her.

“Are you okay?” Jem asked her. She was quietly picking onions out of her sub sandwich, and tossing them into the sand. (When he called to suggest a picnic, he hoped she would cook, but she told him that now that Mack had left, she would never cook again, hence the sandwiches, and he ordered hers, stupidly, with onions.)

Maribel bit into her sandwich. He put his hand on her knee.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. But, of course, he knew what was wrong: it had been a week since Mack moved out. At first, when Jem saw that Mack had moved into Lacey’s, he thought Mack had found out about his date with Maribel. Jem asked Vance-carefully, casually-did he know what happened?

“Lover boy blew it with his babe,” Vance said. “Screwed around with her on room eighteen.”

Jem called Maribel immediately and she confirmed this. Mack was having some kind of relationship with Mrs. Krane, in room 18.

“I don’t want to see you, Jem,” Maribel said. “I’m a wreck. My life is a disaster area. I’m just sifting through the rubble.”

She didn’t want to see him but Jem called every day-sometimes she just cried into the phone and Jem held the receiver, helpless. Only with his sister, Gwennie, and her bulimia had he ever felt this helpless. But finally, Maribel agreed to see him-tonight, the Fourth of July, but only if they came to this beach and hid amongst all these people. She didn’t want Mack to see them together.

Maribel turned to him. “The past six Fourth of Julys Mack kissed me when the fireworks started.” Her eyes were glassy; she pulled a tissue from her skirt pocket. “I’ve lost a part of my life, Jem.”

“I know,” Jem said.

“Do you know?” she asked. “Have you ever been hurt like this? Have you ever experienced loss like this?”

“No,” he admitted. He had never been in love. He’d never cared about someone more than himself. Jem did have real feelings for Maribel, though, scary feelings, lurking in a dark, unexplored place inside of him. He could feel them gathering strength. He wanted Maribel to be happy she was sitting with him this Fourth of July, but she treated him like the runner-up, the silver medallist, a stand-in.

A thunderclap, and the sky lit up with color. There was a collective “Oooooh, aaaaah!” Some clapping. A burning smell. The fireworks had begun. Jem looked at Maribel: even crying, she was still so pretty. He moved his face closer to hers. Her hand shot up, as if she might slap him.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please.”

“I just want to hold your hand,” he said. He wiped a tear from under her eye with his thumb. “Can I do that?”

Maribel surrendered. Jem held her hand all through the fireworks. Her lifeless, clammy hand that was clearly not excited about being held by Jem’s hand. He was a mannequin, a crash-test dummy, a Band-Aid. But he didn’t care.

Love got stuck working the front desk because Tiny wanted the night free. Free for what? Love wondered. Tiny didn’t strike Love as a patriotic person.

“Are you going to watch the fireworks?” Love asked.

“No.”

“What are you going to do?” Love said. She spent fifteen minutes every day with Tiny during their shift change, and yet Love knew absolutely nothing about her; nor, it seemed, did anyone else.

“That sounds like a personal question,” Tiny said. “And I don’t answer personal questions. But since you’re so curious, I’ll tell you that I’m avoiding the fireworks. I don’t want anything to do with them.”

By seven-thirty Love understood why. The fireworks were being set off from Jetties Beach down the way, but stragglers wandered into the lobby.

“Do you have a bathroom my daughter can use? She swears she’s going to whiz herself. Hey…these are pretty quilts. This is a nice place. Where are we?”

At first Love was solicitous-she let fourteen people use the bathroom and then she locked not only the bathroom door but the door to the lobby as well. No one else was coming in! But then the Beach Club members arrived, knocking, waving, mouthing “It’s me, it’s me.” They wanted their umbrellas set up, they wanted Sleepy Hollow chairs.

“I paid five thousand dollars for my membership,” Mr. Cavendish said. “I will sit in comfort and watch the fireworks.”

Mack materialized out of nowhere. That was one good thing about his breakup with Maribel-now he was always around.

“We can do chairs,” Mack said. “I’ll meet you out at the beach.”

Love put Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture on the stereo for mood. Vance walked into the office.

“The fireworks are about to start,” he said. “I came to show you how to get to the roof.”

“The roof?”

“You want to see the fireworks, don’t you?” Vance asked. “Come on, follow me.”

“I can’t leave the desk,” Love said. “What if somebody needs something? What if somebody calls?”

Vance reached around Love and busied out the phones. His hand grazed Love’s waist and she flinched.

“Relax,” Vance said. He wheeled her through Mack’s office and into the utility closet, his arm around her. The utility closet was dark and Vance reached for the string to the light, but he couldn’t find it.

“What are we doing in the closet?” Love asked. She laughed nervously. This reminded her of stupid kissing games she had played at parties twenty-five years ago. Go into the closet with a boy and stay there until something happens.

“This is the way to get to the roof,” Vance said. “There’s an escape hatch, and I have a ladder. We climb up and pop out.”

“Won’t someone see us?” Love asked.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” Vance said. “Do you trust me?” His voice was closer than Love expected.

“Yes,” Love said.

“We just need to find the light is all,” Vance said. He stumbled over something. “I should have brought my flashlight. Wait, here it is.” Vance clicked on the light. They were standing among vacuum cleaners, mops, pails, extension cords, and huge boxes of toilet paper. “Before we go up, I want to show you something.” Vance opened a toolbox and brought out some crinkled papers. “It’s a short story I wrote that got published in Slam! Have you ever heard of Slam!?”

“No,” Love said.

“I always see you reading so I thought you might want to take a look at it.”

“Sure,” Love said. The story was entitled “The Downward Spiral.” Exactly the kind of gloomy title she expected from Vance. Still, she was touched he showed it to her. The paper was mildewed at the edges; it had obviously been sitting in that box a long time. “I’d be happy to read it. A published story! I’m impressed. I didn’t know you were a writer.”

Vance shrugged. “I thought since you used to work at a magazine…just read it and tell me what you think.”

He set up the ladder. “You go first,” he said. “I’ll follow behind you.”

Love climbed the ladder and Vance followed. She felt his breath on the backs of her knees, and she worried he could see up her skirt.

“Look above you,” Vance said. “See the hatch?”

Planted in the dusty boards of the ceiling was a metal door, sealed with rubber like a refrigerator. It made a sucking noise as Love opened it to the night sky. She hoisted herself out onto the roof and Vance popped up beside her.

Love raised her arms to the cool air of the dark blue sky. “Much better than being stuck in the lobby.” Below, hotel guests and Beach Club members arranged their chairs and blankets. Love could see all the way down to the mob of people at Jetties.

“Be careful,” Vance said. He sat on the sloping roof. “Come here.”

“But the ocean!” Love said. The water was a shimmering blue, one shade lighter than the sky. A ferry floated toward the island. “This is gorgeous. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I’d feel better if you sat down,” Vance said.

“What’s wrong, am I making you nervous?” She edged down to the lip of the sloping roof. It was just like skiing a double fault line.

“Love,” Vance said. “Please come here.”

She pretended she was at the Hadwen House, dancing under the stars. Love waltzed across the shingles to where Vance sat. He pulled her down so close to him that their shoulders brushed. And then, suddenly, Vance put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Love stiffened. What was he doing? He kissed her mouth. Love wasn’t sure what she expected from a kiss from Vance, but she certainly didn’t expect it to be so soft, so warm, so tender.

There was a pop, like a giant balloon exploding, and then a shower of red, gold, white. Fireworks. Love closed her eyes and Vance kissed her again. Then she pulled away.

“Vance,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Vance’s profile was cool as a coin.

“I like you,” he said.

“You like me?” She stared across the roof of the hotel. There it was: a giant L, for Like.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do. Is that some kind of crime?”

“No,” Love said. “I’m just surprised.” It was so odd-he was so odd, so sullen and grouchy, always lurking in the shadows, badmouthing Mack, peeling out of the parking lot in his Datsun. He seemed better suited for someone like…well, like Tiny. In fact, Love suspected from the beginning that Vance and Tiny were conducting a little romance. But no, Vance liked Love. She couldn’t help but feel flattered.

“I’m much older than you,” she said. “Do you know that?”

“Not that much older.”

“Ten years older,” she said. “You’re thirty, right?”

Vance picked up her hand and held it. “I don’t care how old you are. I think you look great,” he said. “I think you look hot.” He kissed her again.

He was a terrific kisser, that was for damn sure. He had a strong, fit body, and he might have a handsome face if he ever smiled. Love shuffled her expectations, rearranged her plans. Could this work? Could she have a fling with Vance?

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “What do you think about children?”

Vance raised his eyebrows. “Children? What do you mean?”

“Do you want children?”

“Children?” Vance said. “Children? Hell, no. I just want to kiss you, Love.”

Love felt if she walked to the edge of the roof she could pluck a star out of the sky and take a bite. Her dream getting closer: a child that would be hers, and hers alone.

“So kiss me,” she said.

For Mack, the Fourth of July was the busiest day of the season. Still, each of the past six years, he sneaked away five minutes before the fireworks started to watch them with Maribel. Tonight, Maribel didn’t show. It had been a week since he told her about Andrea. He’d returned to the basement apartment only once-in the middle of the day when he knew Maribel would be at work-to get some clothes and his toothbrush. Everything was where it belonged, and Mack didn’t take too much. On his way back to the hotel he drove by the house on Sunset Hill, their Palace. They were so happy in the Palace. Mack idled his Jeep out front until another car pulled up behind him. He didn’t know what to do.

This year, for the first time, he watched the fireworks with Andrea and James. They sat on the steps of their deck, Andrea drinking a glass of red wine.

“Mind if I join you?” Mack said. He sat between them. “How’re you doing, James?”

“He has cotton in his ears,” Andrea said. “The fireworks scare him. Too loud.”

“Really?” Mack said.

“Of course, you’d have to be his mother to know that.”

“Well, now I know and I’m not his mother,” Mack said.

“You’re not his father either,” Andrea said.

Mack looked at her. He’d stopped by to help James shave again that morning, but Andrea was reading and barely looked up when he walked into the room. Now her honey-colored hair was wet and pulled severely into a bun. She slugged back her wine. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “Are you angry with me?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Andrea said.

“Why not? James can’t hear us.”

“He’ll intuit something is wrong.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh, Mack,” she said. “I don’t know why you told Maribel.”

“I had to tell her.”

“You didn’t have to tell her. The last six summers it wasn’t a problem. You and I had our friendship and then you went home to Maribel. And James and I went home to Baltimore. But now it’s ruined, my dear. The bubble’s burst. The spell is broken. It’s not fantasy anymore, it’s reality, and someone got hurt. You’re sleeping in an old woman’s cottage, and I’m scared to death you’re going to show up on our doorstep this winter.”

“You made it clear you don’t want that,” Mack said.

“I don’t want it and you don’t want it either,” Andrea said. She set down her wineglass and took his hand. “You’re confused. You have to make a decision about your father’s farm and your job here at the Beach Club, but you did not have to choose between me and Maribel. There was no decision to make.”

“Because you don’t love me,” he said.

“It’s not just me, it’s you. You love Maribel. It’s written all over you.”

“I know,” Mack said.

The sky crackled and caught on fire. James took Mack’s other hand.

“Red,” James said. “Silver. Purple. Green and purple.”

“Here we go,” Andrea said. “The Recitation of the Colors.”

“Blue and gold. Silver only. Pink, purple, green.”

Andrea sighed. “All I want is for him to grow up knowing I loved him. That I put him first. Do you think he’ll ever know that?”

“Pink and gold. White squiggles.”

Mack squeezed James’s hand. “Of course he’ll know you love him. He knows it now, he counts on it, he lives for it. I am jealous of James. He’s cornered the market on your love. None left for anybody else.”

“That’s not fair,” Andrea said.

“None left for me, then,” Mack said.

“Silver and green,” James said. “Blue and purple.”

“Will you still help James shave?” Andrea asked. “Will you still wave good-bye to us when we pull out of the parking lot?”

“You know damn well I’ll do whatever you ask me,” Mack said.

“I want you to get back together with Maribel,” Andrea said. “Please? I won’t be able to leave until you patch this up.”

“It’s not that easy,” Mack said. “I didn’t leave Maribel, she kicked me out. I’m not sure she wants me back.”

“Of course she wants you back,” Andrea said. “You’re Mack Petersen. Everybody wants a piece of you.”

“Red and blue and white. Red, white, and blue, Mom!” James exclaimed.

“Everybody wants a piece of me except for you.”

“Now you sound pitiful,” Andrea said.

“When you leave, will that be the last time I ever see you?” Mack said. “Are you coming back next year?”

“I don’t know,” Andrea said. The fireworks lit up her face, and then it darkened again. “Are you?”

At seven-thirty the next morning, Mack knocked on the Elliotts’ front door, something he’d never done before. If he had business at Bill and Therese’s house, which was rare, he always just let himself in. But today, he knocked.

Therese opened the door. Her eyes were puffy. “Mack,” she said. “What’s wrong? I can’t hear about a hotel emergency today. I just can’t. I want to pretend the hotel doesn’t exist. I was going to have Elizabeth check the rooms.”

“Yeah?” Mack said. Something was wrong, but Therese was funny about telling other people her problems. “I came to talk to Bill.”

Therese swung the door open. “He’s upstairs. Go on up. He needs cheering.”

“Okay,” Mack said. His hands were numb. I should leave, he thought. Now isn’t the right time. But Maribel would never take him back if he didn’t at least ask. This is going to go well, he thought. This is going to be the answer to the chaos in my head.

He climbed the stairs and saw Bill sitting at the kitchen table with his book of Frost poems open in front of him. “Hey, boss,” Mack said.

Bill looked up. “Mack,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I need to talk to you about something. But if now’s a bad time…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bill said. His face was pale and the translucent skin under his eyes was mapped with tiny red and blue lines. “Do you want coffee?”

“Maybe, yeah,” Mack said. He took a mug of coffee from Bill and sat down at the table. He looked at the upside-down book of poems, and wondered if there were any clues in that book about how to live.

“What is it?” Bill said. “Is it about Maribel?”

“No,” Mack said. “I want to explore a possibility with you.”

Bill was quiet.

“You know, I’ve worked here twelve seasons, and I’d like to…well, I’d like to stay.” Mack blew on his coffee but when he tasted it, it was lukewarm. “I was wondering if you’d be open to profit-sharing with me.”

“Profit-sharing?”

Therese came into the kitchen. “You want what?”

Mack spun in his chair. “It was just an idea I had.”

“What was?” Bill asked.

“Profit-sharing. You know, me getting paid based on how well the hotel does. Taking thirty percent or whatever.”

“Thirty percent.” Bill’s face was expressionless.

“Does that sound outrageous?” Mack asked. “Maybe it is, but I do a fair amount of work around here. And you see, what’s happened is my parents’ lawyer has called and I have to make up my mind about the farm, do I want to live there, or do I want to sell it.”

“So you’re telling me you’re leaving?” Bill said.

“No,” Mack said. “I’m just exploring my options. It seems like this is a good time to discuss my future. And I’d like to profit-share.”

Therese laughed, not happily. “Are we wearing bull’s-eyes painted over our hearts, Bill? Is that what’s happening? Everyone we love feels free to take a shot at us?”

“I’m not taking a shot at you,” Mack said. “I just need to think about my future. You guys are like my…my family. You know Maribel and I are having problems. I need to do something to make her happy.” He could feel Therese’s instant disapproval. Why had he brought up Maribel? Was it easier to make it sound like this was her idea? “But it’s for me, too. I have to decide about my family’s farm. Either I sell it, which I don’t want to do, or I go out there and run it, which I don’t want to do. It’s an impossible decision.”

“Are you telling us that if we don’t agree to profit-share, you’ll leave?” Bill asked.

“I don’t know,” Mack said. “If you agree to profit-share, it’ll be easier to decide.”

Bill looked at his open book. “I see the difficulty of your position,” he said. He traced his finger along the lines of the page, as though he were reading aloud. “You’re a young man who has to make a choice. I can remember myself at your age. Should I take a risk and build the hotel rooms? But I was lucky. I had a wife who supported me.”

“We can’t profit-share,” Therese said. She sat down at the table. Her orange hair hung in strings around her face and her white streak was tinged with gray, like dirty snow. “We can’t profit-share, because of Cecily.”

“I’m not asking to own a part of the hotel, Therese. I’m only asking for part of the profits.”

Therese lowered her voice. “Cecily has threatened to leave,” she said. “She informed us last night that she wants to travel through South America with the boyfriend.”

Mack remembered Cecily on the phone in the middle of the night. “I’m dying of love for you.” “Really?” he said.

“She wants us to give you the hotel,” Therese said. “She said it herself. If we profit-share, she’ll be relieved. She’ll think, ‘Okay, I’m free to go. Mack’s in charge.’ She’ll think we’ve given up.” Therese tapped the counter with her fingernail. “I’m not giving up. I already lost one child. I’m not about to lose number two. She might not go if she thinks we need her. I stayed up all night thinking it through. Cecily’s weak spot is that she loves us. But if she knows we have some new, official arrangement with you, she’ll leave.”

“You don’t know that,” Mack said.

“Therese is right,” Bill said. “I’m sorry, Mack. Under other circumstances I would consider it…but no, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry: Maribel was sorry but she had to kick him out; Andrea was sorry but she didn’t love him; Bill and Therese were sorry but they wouldn’t profit-share. Sorry, Mack, but there’s no room for you. The summer was turning into a big cauldron of sorry stew.

Therese said, “You could always marry Cecily.”

Mack was too angry and hurt for any words except the most mundane. “I have to get the doughnuts.”

Bill dropped his elbows onto the table, folded his hands, and bowed his head. “Does this mean you’re going to leave us, Mack?”

Mack shrugged. “We’ll have to see.”