The Beach Club

7 The Eight Weeks of August

August 1

Dear Bill,

Suffice it to say, I am someone who has made mistakes, and in buying the hotel, I am trying to remedy them. You may think I intend to raze the hotel and build trophy homes instead, or condominiums. Although that would be most lucrative, that’s not what I propose. I want to keep the hotel as it is.

From what I gather of recent developments, you’re going to have a real shake-up in personnel. I hate to capitalize on another man’s misfortune, but in this case, I can’t help myself. I raise my offer to 25 million, along with the promise that the Beach Club and Hotel will remain intact.

Don’t be daft, Bill. Take the money.

S.B.T .

NOTE SCRIBBLED IN FRONT DESK NOTEBOOK

(TINY’S HANDWRITING)

Beware the eight weeks of August!

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

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

“Can I try?” she asked.

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

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

Love brought up six clams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

Love invited Vance inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” Love said.

“Fine,” Vance said.

“The Downward Spiral” by Vance Robbins

There was little hope left for Jerome. His life was closing in on him like the walls of a cramped tunnel. Jerome needed to break out before the walls crushed him, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. He was filled with hate.

Jerome’s life of misery began when his mother, Lula, threw his father out of the house when Jerome was in kindergarten. His father had just lost his seventh job in a row. Lula herself had had the same job since before Jerome was born. She was a car mechanic. Fiats and MGs were her speciality.

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

“What do you think so far?” he asked.

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

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

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

Lula worked at Hal Duare’s Garage until six in the evening, and then she stopped at JD’s Lounge for a bloody Mary or two before she made her way home, smelling of motor oil and Tabasco sauce. Jerome was in charge of making dinner-bologna sandwiches mostly-and he fell asleep in front of the TV. Some mornings he woke up still in his clothes, his back stiff from the floorboards. Jerome always brought home A’s from school, but Lula wasn’t impressed. She glanced at his papers briefly before letting them waft into the trash can.

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

“Tell me about it,” Vance said.

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

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

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

“I never said that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Jerome grew older, he became attracted to women who reminded him of Lula. Women who worked hard and drank hard, women who mistreated him. First, there was Nan. Jerome met Nan when he was fourteen and she was twelve. She would tongue kiss him one minute and the next minute she would punch his thigh and call him a fag. It wasn’t long before Jerome was in love with Nan.

After Nan came Delilah, who, like the biblical Delilah, insisted Jerome cut his hair. Jerome was so crazy for Delilah, he not only cut his hair, he shaved his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything?”

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

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

“That was before I met you,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me finish your story,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This morning, I think,” Love said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell him,” Tracey said.

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

“You’re late,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel,” Love said.

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

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

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

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

Vance said nothing.

“Vance?” Love said.

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” Love said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about bowling?”

“No bowling.”

“Do you have any board games?”

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

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

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

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

“Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel,” Love said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re all signed out,” he said.

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

“Yes?” Love said.

“You’re out of coffee,” he said.

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

“That’s your job,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” the husband said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you two brothers?” Love asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever,” Love said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Front desk,” Love said.

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

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

“Please call an ambulance,” Audrey Cohn said.

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

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

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

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

“Now,” she said. “Who’s next?”

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

“Who’s hurt?” he said.

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

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

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

“What’s with the ambulance?” he said.

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

“Tell him you’re sorry,” Vance said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you go, sir,” Jem said.

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

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

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

“Jem Crandall.”

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

Jem shook his hand. “Likewise.”

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

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

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

“Do you smoke, Jem?” Neil asked.

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

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

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

“But you do drink?” Neil asked.

“Yes.”

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

“I don’t think so.”

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

“No,” Jem said.

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

“Okay,” Jem said. “I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I have glasses?” Neil asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you making money?” Neil asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Jem asked.

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

Jem finished his drink. Neil said, “Do you want another?”

Jem shrugged. “Are you going to quit making fun of me?”

“Ooooh,” Neil said. “I hurt his feelings. I’m sorry.” He disappeared into the room, leaving Jem to stare at the water. Then he reappeared with fresh drinks. “You know what I was doing when I was your age? I was backpacking through Southeast Asia. Kathmandu, Bangkok, Koh Samui, Singapore, two months on Bali. I spent a penny a night in the teahouses in the Himalayas. Four bucks a night for a room in Thailand plus all the paad thai I could eat. I didn’t shower for a month and when I finally saw a mirror I barely recognized myself. And guess what? I was the happiest I’ve ever been. Now look at me. I assume you know how much I’m paying for this room-more than I spent on my entire trip through Asia! And I’m no fucking happier than I was watching the sun go down on Kuta Beach, drinking Bintang beer. That’s the truth.”

Jem chewed on a piece of ice. “I’ve worked hard for my money this summer,” he said. “I’m not going to waste it traveling.”

“Waste it!” Neil said. “You wouldn’t be wasting it, my friend. You’d be giving yourself something you can take to the grave. And I’m not feeding you a sales pitch. You couldn’t afford my tours and you wouldn’t enjoy them. I’m saying you should go on your own, while you’re young. See the Taj Mahal, the Nile River, the Raffles Hotel.”

“My parents are going to be upset enough about California,” Jem said. “Never mind Timbuktu.”

Neil looked at Jem over his glasses. “Surely you don’t still listen to your parents.”

“I don’t want to piss them off,” Jem said. “Probably sounds childish to you, but that’s how I feel.” Jem watched the sun sink behind a bank of clouds. “I should go,” he said.

“He should go, he says. Yes, by all means, go home. Get away from the old geezer who’s putting ideas in your head.”

The next morning, Jem was standing outside watering the roses when Maribel jogged over, her body glistening with sweat.

“Hit me with the hose,” she said.

Jem sprayed a light mist in her direction.

“I’m hot, Jem,” she said. “I mean it. Get me wet.”

“Okay,” Jem said. He pulled the trigger of the hose and the water hit her chest, her bare stomach, her legs. She turned around and he hosed off her shoulders, her back, her ass, until she was soaked and Jem had an erection.

“What if I wanted to take you on a trip through Southeast Asia?” he said. “Would you go with me? We could stay at the Raffles Hotel.”

Water dripped off the end of Maribel’s ponytail. “You’re sweet,” she said. “Thanks for the shower.” She jogged away. Maribel probably didn’t mean to tease him, but each time he saw her inspired hope, and then the hope was shot down. It was just like his sister, Gwennie. She ate a meal, and helped Jem’s mother with the dishes, drying the plates with a tea towel and nesting them away. But then she retreated to the upstairs bathroom, turning on the noisy exhaust fan. “Putting on my makeup,” she’d say. When she emerged, ten, fifteen minutes later, the bathroom smelled too piney, freshener fresh.

Jem gathered up the hose and went into the lobby. Love said, “You have a message. I can’t believe this. There’s finally a handsome, single man staying in the hotel alone, and he’s after you.” She handed Jem a pink message slip that said:“Happy hour? NR.” “And since you’re going over there, you might as well tell him he has two messages. I put his blinker on a long time ago but he hasn’t responded.”

“He doesn’t want any messages,” Jem said. “But, whatever, I’ll take them.”

Love handed two message slips to Jem, and he shoved them in his pants pocket. Then he popped out the side door and read them. It was like reading someone’s mail, but Jem wanted to know a little more about the guy before he had drinks with him again. The first message said, “Your girlfriend called. 11:05 A.M.” and the box that said “Please call” was checked. The second message was from a Dr. Kenton. Dr. Kenton was probably his psychiatrist. Since coming to Nantucket, Jem learned that everyone in New York saw a psychiatrist. Or Dr. Kenton could be a client who wanted Neil to set up a golf vacation in Tahiti. Jem crumpled both messages and put them back in his pocket.

After work, Jem knocked on the door of room 5. This time Neil was awake, smoking a joint.

“You wanna smoke?” Neil asked.

“Sure,” Jem said. First, though, he sat in the leather chair. He’d stripped this room at least twenty times, and every time he wanted to sink into the chair. It felt like a giant hand. He pinched the joint between his thumb and index finger and inhaled. He held the smoke for as long as he could, and then he passed the joint back.

“Have you given any more thought to traveling?” Neil asked. “Because I was thinking about it after you left yesterday. If you’re set on Cali, that’s fine, but you should travel first.”

“What do you care?” Jem said. “I mean, not to be rude, but what difference does it make to you if I go or not? You said I couldn’t afford your tours and I’m sure you’re right.”

“I care as a fellow human being,” Neil said. “When I look at you I see a young person with his whole life ahead of him, and I say to myself, ‘Man, if I had it to do over, I’d go back. That trip is one thing I don’t regret.’”

“So because you don’t regret it, I have to go?” Jem said.

Neil smoked the joint down. “If you went, I promise you’d thank me. Guaranteed.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Jem said. He went over to the dresser, which had become a makeshift bar, and poured himself a Ketel One.

“Go right ahead,” Neil said.

“Why did you come on vacation alone? Obviously it’s not to be by yourself otherwise you wouldn’t keep inviting me here.”

“Why did I come alone? Why do I keep inviting you here?” Neil threw his hands over his head, fell back onto the bed and addressed the rafters. “I have problems. A few small ones and a big one and I came here to think them through. Now, sometimes you want to think things through alone, but sometimes you want another input. An impartial input. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. You don’t have to sit here and drink with me, but you’ve agreed to. Maybe that’s because you want another hundred-dollar tip. Maybe you’re doing this out of altruism. I don’t know the reason why you’re here. I asked you here because I need a disinterested third party. Do you know the difference between disinterested and uninterested?”

Jem shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m interested.”

“He’s interested, he says. Okay, fine. Do you think I’m married?”

“No,” Jem said. He remembered the crumpled message slip in his pocket. Your girlfriend. Now would be the time to pull the message out and show it to Neil, but he didn’t.

“Why not?”

“You don’t strike me as the marrying type,” Jem said. “You seem too free-wheeling.”

“I’m not married,” Neil said. “I live with a woman in New York. Her name is Desirée. Desirée, desire, that whole thing. If my life were a play, it’d be called ‘A Girlfriend Named Desire.’ Whoa!” He wobbled a little as he stood to fix himself a drink. “We have a baby together, a little girl.”

“That’s nice,” Jem said. He laughed, although nothing was funny.

“Desirée isn’t Jewish and she doesn’t want to convert. This means my daughter, my only child, won’t be raised Jewish.”

“Is that the big problem?” Jem asked.

“That’s a little problem,” Neil said. “Another little problem is whether or not I should marry Desirée. I desire her, yes, but do I love her? Do I love her enough to make her my wife? Or, do I get married for my daughter’s sake?”

Jem was receiving hazy messages, mixed-up messages that weren’t making it from his brain to his tongue. He couldn’t speak. He remembered Maribel that afternoon, You’re sweet. And then he realized that she came into the parking lot and left without seeing Mack. “I love a woman named Maribel,” Jem said. “I love her like crazy. But she’s engaged to someone else. She’s engaged to my fucking boss.”

“You love her?” Neil said. “When you wake up she’s the first thing on your mind?”

“She’s before the first thing,” Jem said. “I dated her for two weeks. I kissed her and held her hand, and I’ve seen her breasts.” He leaned his head back against the chair. “This woman infiltrated.”

“I’m going to roll another joint,” Neil said. He found a station with jazz music on the clock radio. “The first thing on my mind when I wake up is an image of my favorite place-Pangboche, Nepal-in the Himalayas. That place defines peace, man. That’s what I expect heaven to look like.” Neil rolled the joint, licked it, lit it. Jem couldn’t smoke anything else. He waved the joint away. Neil took a drag and talked in a pinched voice while he held his breath. “Second thing on my mind is my little girl, Zoe.” He exhaled. “There’s nothing better than having a woman-child. I’m forty-two years old and I’ve had my problems with women just like everybody else. And then I find myself the father of a woman-child. Finally, a woman who loves me unconditionally. It’s a grand feeling.” Neil took another hit off the joint; Jem’s head reeled just watching him. “Third or fourth thing on my mind is maybe Desirée, if I’m lucky. If you’ve found a woman who’s your first thing, man, you should go after her.”

“I’ve tried,” Jem said.

“Have you tried ignoring her?” Neil asked. “That works like a dream.”

“I can’t ignore her,” Jem said. “It would be impossible.”

“You must do it!” Neil said. “If you want her, you must shun her.”

“She wants me to shun her,” Jem said. “Because she’s engaged to someone else. She has a diamond ring.”

“Engagements get broken every day,” Neil said. “Rings get returned.”

“It’ll never happen,” Jem said.

“You have to ignore her,” Neil said. “Starting right now.” He gently pressed the joint into the sole of his flip-flop. “Let’s go.”

They walked the mile into town, and Neil devised a simple plan: they would start drinking at the bars closest to the harbor and work their way up Main Street. And so they went: a beer at Rope Walk, a goombay smash at Straight Wharf, a Cap’n Cooler at the Bamboo Bar, vodka cranberries at the Club Car. Neil brought his disposable camera, and at each bar, he took a picture of himself and Jem by holding the camera out and pushing the button. Jem wished he wasn’t wearing his clownish uniform; he didn’t exactly want to be remembered as looking like he worked on the Love Boat.

When they stepped out of the Club Car, it was dark. Jem had told Neil about his fuck-up with Mr. G and he told the Mr. Feeney toilet story. He was bone-dry on funny stories, except for the Mrs. Worley story, which only now, after five drinks, seemed even remotely funny. They walked over to the Boarding House for martinis and Jem told Neil about Mrs. Worley, about the moment of shock and horror when he opened the door and found her there, shorts sagging around her ankles, the desperate expression on her face as she reached for the door. They laughed until they were bent over on their barstools, hiccuping.

“We need food,” Neil said.

At Languedoc, they ordered steaks, and by the time Jem’s food arrived, he realized he’d barely thought of Maribel all night.

“Here’s what I think you should do about Desirée,” Jem said. He was so drunk he didn’t know what he was going to say next. It sounded like he was about to give Neil Rosenblum advice about his woman problem, something he was ridiculously unqualified to do. “I think you should ask her to raise Zoe Jewish-ask her nicely-and if she refuses, then I think you should raise Zoe Jewish yourself.”

“I can’t do it,” Neil said. “The mother has to be Jewish. That’s how it works.”

“Oh,” Jem said. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Neil said. “I’d really like to resolve this. You want to know your kids are going to be okay.” He got a serious look on his face, and Jem sensed the evening about to cave in, as though all the drinking and smoking might wash over them in an unpleasant way. But then Neil rebounded. He smiled. “Let’s go dancing,” he said.

They caught a cab on Water Street and went to the Muse, a dark, smoky club bar with live music. As soon as they stepped in the door, Jem spotted a group of women his age. Neil nudged him. “Here we go,” he said. “Good-bye, Maribel.”

The girls were all looking at Jem. He picked out the prettiest one-a brunette who was wearing a baseball hat backward, a man’s plain white T-shirt, jeans, and Birkenstocks. Jem approached her. “I need a glass of water,” he said. “How about you? Can I buy you a glass of water?”

“I’m drinking Rolling Rock,” she said, holding her bottle up.

“I need a glass of water,” he said. “The inside of my mouth feels like a fur coat.”

The girl smiled wanly, took a swig of her beer, and mouthed something to one of her girlfriends. Probably, Help me! Neil talked to two blondes, both wearing black dresses. Or maybe Jem was seeing double. Neil leaned across the bar waving a twenty, then he picked up three beers and handed one to each of the blondes. Definitely two girls there. Jem suddenly felt alone. He put his hand on the brunette’s shoulder.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Dee Dee.”

“I’m Jem. Do you want to dance?”

“No, I want to sit and talk.”

Jem stared at his shoes. They were covered with bar sludge. He wondered what people would think at work tomorrow.

Dee Dee put her beer down. “I’m only kidding,” she said. “I want to dance.”

They threaded their way through the crowd. The band was loud, funky-it was music without words. That was fine; Jem was suffering from sensory overload as it was. All these people! He wedged in close to Dee Dee and started to move his arms and legs. He was dancing, he thought. Soon Neil was dancing next to him with the blondes and he snapped a picture of Jem and Dee Dee with his disposable camera.

Good-bye, Maribel, Jem thought. He wanted worse than anything to be out of this bar and at Maribel’s house. He just wanted to look at her.

He shouted into Dee Dee’s ear, “I have to go.” He stumbled off the dance floor and out into the parking lot, where throngs of people slouched and smoked, slurred their words. A police officer waited in a car across the street.

Don’t do anything stupid, Jem told himself. He found ten bucks in the pocket of his Nantucket red shorts: another tip success. That would be enough to get him to Maribel’s house or to his own, but not both.

A driver for Atlantic Cab idled in front of the bar, smoking a cigarette, reading the Inquirer & Mirror.

“I’m going to see her no matter what you say,” Jem told the driver. “Ninety-five Pheasant.”

“Hey, man, I won’t stop you,” the driver said. “Hop in.” He nuzzled his radio. “I’m at the Muse, headed for Ninety-five Pheasant. One passenger.”

“Two passengers.”

Jem turned around. Neil was standing next to him.

“Two passengers,” the driver said. “Let’s go.”

They climbed in and the cab pulled out of the parking lot.

“What was wrong with the young lady in the baseball hat?” Neil asked.

Jem slumped against the cab seat. “I’m going to see Maribel. I have to see her, man.”

“No, you’re not,” Neil said. He handed some money to the cab driver. “Take us to the Nantucket Beach Club, please.”

“We’re going to see Maribel,” Jem said. He was going to be sick. He raised his voice. “Driver, can you pull over?”

He must have had the sound of vomit in his voice, because the cab driver responded right away. “Pulling over.”

Jem puked onto the side of the road. Gravel, a little grass, his chunky vomit.

“Are you okay, buddy?” Neil asked, patting him on the back.

“Happens every night,” the cab driver said. “Believe me when I say, this is better than some. Had a chick last week blow chow into the back of my head.”

Neil pulled Jem back into the cab. “You can’t see Maribel tonight, my friend. You’re a mess. I’m going to take you back to the Club. You need a swim. You need to cool off.”

“Okay,” Jem said. Sour mouth, pasty mouth. Water sounded good.

Jem stripped to his boxers and waded into the cool water of Nantucket Sound. Water he couldn’t drink. What was that rhyme? Rub-a-dub-dub? He plunged all the way in, and the water lit up around him, a pale, glowing green. It was like magic; he had an aura, a body halo.

“Phosphorescence,” Neil said. He waded in behind Jem and dove into the shallow water. The water lit up around him like a force field. Neil surfaced. “There are living organisms in the water, and when we disturb them, they glow. There’s great phosphorescence off the coast of Puerto Rico. I send hundreds of people to see it every year.”

Jem floated on his back and looked up at the sky, the stars, the moon. His stomach relaxed, his shoulders loosened. Everything was going to be okay, he told himself. He pictured himself pounding on Maribel’s door until he woke up both her and Mack. Jem would have said something stupid and sappy to Maribel and he would have punched Mack in the face, thereby losing his job. And for my finale, lady and gentleman-vomit all over the step.

Jem found his feet and stood on the sandy bottom. Neil was off about twenty yards, waving his hands through the water like fins, watching them glow.

“Thanks for bringing me back here,” Jem said. “You kept me from embarrassing myself.”

“I don’t know about that,” Neil said. He went under and surfaced closer to Jem. He looked like a different person with his hair wet, and without his glasses. “You stranded a pretty girl on the dance floor of the Muse, and you hurled all over Prospect Street.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let me see Maribel. Thank you.”

“You love her,” Neil said. “Your dead-drunk behavior proves it. You love her. True love always wins. That sounds like total bullshit, but I happen to believe it. You’ll get her.”

“You’ve smoked too much dope,” Jem said.

Neil kicked up his feet and floated on his back. “When I told you the man who gave me the weed is a professional, I meant it,” he said. “He’s a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Jem said.

“I have pancreatic cancer,” Neil said. “I’m dying.” He said this the way one might announce he’s a vegetarian, or a conscientious objector; he said it as though he wholeheartedly believed in it.

The water grew cold, and Jem started to shake. He swam to shore on one breath. He crawled onto the sand and cut his toe on something sharp. He flipped onto his ass and inspected the damage in the moonlight. There was a gash just below his toenail. He was bleeding.

“I cut myself,” he said softly. Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt amazingly sad, and thirsty. He needed water. He wiped a drop of blood from his toe and tasted it-ringing, metallic, sweet. Was that disgusting, tasting your own blood? He gazed out at the water; Neil floated on his back. “Hey, fuck you!” Jem said. “Fuck you for messing with me like that.” He was shouting but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he woke up the whole hotel. “Fuck you for kidding around like that.”

Jem heard a splash and seconds later, Neil was sitting next to him on the beach. He was kind of thin, now that Jem noticed, but he didn’t look sick; he didn’t look like a dying person.

“I’m not messing with you,” Neil said. “I’m not kidding around.”

Jem wiped at his tears angrily. Why the fuck was he crying? He’d only met Neil yesterday, for God’s sake. He barely knew the guy. So he was dying, so what? They were all going to die, every single person, no one would escape it. Jem was going to die, Maribel, Mack, the girl Jem left at the Muse, the cab driver, Jem’s parents, Gwennie, Mr. G, Mrs. Worley. Everyone. So why the tears? Maybe because life felt good-even though Jem was miserable about Maribel, it felt good to hurt, to yearn, to want. It felt good to drink twelve drinks in one night, it felt good to empty his stomach on the side of the road, it felt good to submerge his body in the cool water and watch it shine and sparkle around him.

“This is the big problem, then?” Jem asked. “It better be, because if you have one bigger than this, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“This is it.”

“Okay,” Jem said. He dug his wounded toe into the sand, and reached for his white shirt, pulled it over his head. It smelled like smoke. He looked around for his shorts, and when he found them, he said, “You had two messages, and I didn’t give them to you because you said you didn’t want them. But one was from Dr. Kenton. I should have told you.”

“No, you obeyed my wishes. Dr. Kenton was calling to tell me I’m not getting better.”

“You don’t know that,” Jem said.

“I do,” Neil said. “Who was the other message from?”

“Desirée.”

“My girlfriend full of desire. I guess she’ll be the next one to find out.”

“Man, don’t tell me I’m the only person who knows.”

“You and Dr. Kenton.”

Jem needed a tall glass of water, with ice. “Why me?”

“Have you told anyone else how you feel about Maribel?”

“I told Maribel. But that’s it,” Jem said.

“Well, then, why me?” Neil asked.

“Because you were there,” Jem said.

“Exactly,” Neil said.

Jem sat quietly for a little while, watching the water lap onto the beach. He turned around; every light in the hotel was off. Tiny had gone home long ago. He tried to picture Neil dead, closed up in a box, buried in a hole in the ground, or burned into ashes. It was impossible. After Neil left the hotel, Jem would never see him again-but that was true of all the guests who stayed at the hotel. Jem knew them for a time, and then they left, and if and when they returned next summer, Jem would be gone. That was the depressing thing about working at a hotel. No one ever stayed. How did Mack and Vance do it year after year, getting to know people and then having them leave, sometimes never to be seen again?

“I think you should marry Desirée,” Jem said. “For your daughter’s sake. Maybe when she finds out you’re…you know, sick, she’ll convert to Judaism.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Neil said. “I’ll know soon enough.”

Soon enough. Jem wondered what kind of time Neil was looking at. Months? Weeks? More tears fell, and Jem let them go.

“You really think I can get Maribel?” Jem asked.

“No,” Neil said. “Yes. I don’t know.”

Jem fell back into the sand; he could go to sleep right there. “I should get home,” he said. He felt bad abandoning Neil, but he had to make it back to his tiny rented room. He had to drink some water. He managed to stand up and Neil stood as well and they looked at each other through the darkness. Then, as though they were meeting for the first time, Neil stuck out his hand, and Jem shook it.

Walking to work the next day, Jem thought, I am alive. He could move his feet, swing his arms, hear the sound of his own voice, Hello. I’m alive. He’d put some Mycitracin and a Band-Aid on his toe, and it throbbed as he walked. I’m alive.

Jem half expected Neil to be gone when he got to the hotel. Or maybe that’s what Jem hoped for-that Neil had disappeared in the night. Jem looked for him at breakfast, but he didn’t show. Then Jem got caught up in his daily duties-stripping the rooms, sweeping up shells in the parking lot, trying to clean the bar sludge from his shoes. He bought two bottles of Gatorade from the soda machine and drank them straight down, thinking it would help his hangover. He ate a bagel with cream cheese left over from breakfast, and then he asked Love, “Has Neil Rosenblum checked out?”

“No,” Love said. She consulted her notebook in that authoritative way she had, as though she were consulting the Bible. “He checks out tomorrow. You should know that, he’s your friend. Did you two have fun last night?”

“Yeah,” Jem said. “We did.”

At noon, Jem knocked on Neil’s door, but there was no answer. Jem scanned the beach: No Neil. Maybe he went to town, or maybe he was still asleep. Jem went back to the front desk.

“Are you sure Neil Rosenblum hasn’t checked out?” he asked Love. “Did the chambermaids clean his room? Did they say his stuff was still there?”

“He’s here,” she said. “I just saw him out in the parking lot.”

Jem hurried through the lobby and peered out the front doors. Sure enough, there was Neil standing between a Mercedes and a Range Rover, talking to a blonde. One of the girls from the Muse. Jem strolled over, and much to his horror realized the blonde was Maribel. Jem hesitated; he wanted to run away, but Maribel saw him and waved. Slowly, Jem approached. Neil could be telling Maribel anything-what did he care if he fiddled with Jem’s relationship? He probably thought that dying gave him license to say or do whatever he pleased.

“Here’s our boy now,” Maribel said. Jem smiled weakly. “Mr. Rosenblum was just telling me how he was going to invest in your business in California. He says he’s never seen anyone with more promise.”

Neil fingered his glasses thoughtfully.

“I can’t believe how lucky everyone is this summer,” Maribel said. “First, Mack gets a job with the Texas Rangers, and now you’re starting your own business in California. Aren’t you excited, Jem?”

Neil pounded Jem on the back. “Of course he’s excited. We’re both excited. This is the kind of guy you run across once in a lifetime.”

Maribel turned pink and nodded emphatically. “I agree.”

“Whoever lands this fellow is lucky. Lucky!” Neil looked at Maribel. “You should have seen the women after him last night at the bars.”

Jem glared at the pavement; he kicked a hermit crab shell into the tire of the Rover. “There weren’t any women after me.”

“I’ll bet there were,” Maribel said. Jem raised his eyes and let himself feast on her for just a few seconds. She was wearing crisp linen pants and a white tank sweater. Her toenails were painted silver; they glinted like chips of mica.

“Did you come from work?” he asked her.

“Actually,” she said, “I came down to see if you wanted to go to lunch.”

“Me?” Jem said. “What about Mack?”

“It’s August,” Maribel said. “He’s busy. Do you want to go?”

“We already have lunch plans,” Neil said. “Two of those women I was talking about are waiting for us in town.”

Jem narrowed his eyes at Neil. Shut up! She’s asking me to lunch!

Maribel’s smiled drooped. “You’re meeting women for lunch?”

“No, we’re not,” Jem said. “At least, I’m not.”

“You are,” Neil said. “These women aren’t interested in me. I’m old enough to be their grandfather. They’re after you, buddy. They’ll be crushed if you don’t come.”

“You’d better go then,” Maribel said. She caught Jem’s eye and he almost melted in a puddle on the pavement. I love you, Maribel! He called out silently. I really love you! Maribel turned to go. “See you later, Jem. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rosenblum.”

“It was nice meeting you, Maribel,” Neil said. He put his arm around Jem and wheeled him toward the lobby. “I know this hurts, buddy, but it’s for your own good. Did you see how crestfallen she was when she heard you already had a date? I know a jealous woman, and believe me, she was jealous.”

“You’re an ass,” Jem said. “I could be at lunch with Maribel right now.”

“But you’re here with me,” Neil said. “And your time with me is limited. You have the rest of your life to spend with Maribel.”

“And what was that about you investing in my business,” Jem said. “That was a lie.”

“Absolutely,” Neil said. “I was trying to help.”

“Stop trying, please.”

“Do you want to come to my room for a drink?” Neil asked.

Jem plucked his shirt away from his body. “I’m working, as you can see.”

“Come on,” Neil said. “Take a lunch break.”

“I could’ve taken a lunch break with Maribel,” Jem said. “But you ruined it.”

“I hope I’m still alive when it’s time for you to thank me,” Neil said.

That evening, Neil called Desirée and proposed. He did it while Jem sat on the deck, and Jem could hear the happy screams coming all the way from New York City. Neil held the phone away from his ear. “She says yes,” he whispered. Jem couldn’t help but feel sorry for Desirée, for the moment when her joy became shock and horror. It seemed unfair that Jem should know what was in store for her, when she didn’t even know herself.

Jem didn’t have the heart to drink much, and neither did Neil. He smoked his joint. It turned his pain into background music. Without the dope, he said, the pain was like someone banging on the front door with a brick.

They ordered lobsters for dinner, and baked potatoes and corn and coleslaw and biscuits. It was Jem’s first-and probably only-lobster of the summer, but he couldn’t help thinking of death row and how a prisoner chose his last meal. They ate on Neil’s deck and watched the sun go down. It was so nice out and so delicious, it seemed like just that, an ending.

“Tomorrow I get back into the suit,” Neil said. “I’ll get married, set up a trust fund for my daughter, fly to Nepal and die.”

“Fly to Nepal?”

“Once things get really bad, I’m going to Pangboche. I’m going to stay in one of the teahouses until the end. The Nepalese will cremate me right away and scatter me in the mountains.”

Jem tore the claws off his lobster. “You know what pisses me off?”

“What?” Neil poked a fork into his baked potato. “They didn’t give us any sour cream.”

“You’re giving up. And that sucks. You don’t care about anyone else, do you? You don’t care about your daughter, or Desirée, or me. If you cared, you wouldn’t give in.”

Neil didn’t look up from his dinner, but his voice was low and serious. “I have cancer, Jem. It’s all through me. I don’t have a choice here, buddy boy.”

Jem stood suddenly, and drawn butter dripped down his leg. “You’re not upset enough. You’ve accepted the fact that you’re going to die and that’s fine with you. But what if it’s not fine with the rest of us?”

“Sit down and enjoy your lobster,” Neil said. “And let’s have another drink. I am getting married, you know. Let’s have a toast.”

Jem stormed into Neil’s room. The garment bag had been opened and Neil’s suit was laid neatly out on the bed. It was spooky almost, prescient, the empty suit. Jem picked up the bottle of vodka and drank from it straight. He gasped for air. Horrible burning, a big fat mistake. I’m not giving up, Jem thought. I will fight for Maribel until the end. He slumped in the leather chair.

After a while, Neil came in, pushed the suit aside, and sat on the bed. He removed his glasses, breathed on them, wiped them on his shirt, and put them back on. His face had changed; it was stripped of all confidence. It was a human face, a scared face.

“What would you have me do?” Neil asked.

“Stay alive,” Jem said.

“Stay alive,” Neil said, as though he had never considered it before. “Stay alive.”

Jem almost called in sick the next day. He woke up with his hand on his erection, thinking of Maribel. Then he remembered Neil, and his insides filled with a heavy sadness. He could barely get out of bed. Neil’s flight left at nine, and Jem knew he had to get down to the hotel on time to say good-bye.

Jem put on his red shorts, his last clean white shirt, his messed-up shoes, and left the house. Normally he liked the walk down North Liberty Street-it was shady, the houses were kept-after, he passed blackberry bushes, and now that the berries were finally ripe, he picked a handful and ate them. He started down Cobblestone Road. Usually, this was where he considered his day: would anything interesting happen? What would be left after breakfast? Would he see Maribel? Today he thought about Neil, and how after only three days, Neil had become his friend.

Just before Jem turned onto North Beach Road and walked the last hundred yards to the Beach Club, he heard a car horn. Jem saw Neil, wearing a suit, sticking his whole torso out the window of a cab, but the cab didn’t slow down. Neil was leaving.

“Hold on!” Jem said. “Wait!”

Neil cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “I’m on my way, buddy!” Neil’s tie waved good-bye in the breeze, and the cab disappeared around the bend. Just like that.

Jem stopped. He listened to the gulls. North Beach Road was sunny and still. Okay, Jem thought, so it’s over. He’s gone. Jem expected the devastation to hit him any second; he took tiny steps forward, waiting for it. He thought about taking a cab out to the airport, or even asking Mack if he could borrow the Jeep and drive out there himself to say good-bye. But the road was still and sunny, the gulls cried out. Neil was gone, and for a second, Jem felt something he thought might be peace.

There was an envelope at the front desk with his name on it.

“That man was so handsome,” Love said. “Especially in his suit. He was single, right?”

“Engaged,” Jem said. He held the envelope up to the light of the window. Definitely not cash in there. It was probably a letter. Jem thought of Neil dressed in his suit, heading back to New York to get married and settle matters for his daughter-it made Jem happy. He didn’t want to read any letter that might ruin this feeling.

Jem ate two mixed-berry muffins and a chocolate doughnut and then he threw the envelope into the trash and covered it with dirty napkins and banana peels and half-eaten pieces of wheat toast, just to be sure he wasn’t tempted to pull it back out. It was a very manly thing to do, he decided, throwing the letter away. A woman would never throw away an envelope unopened.

Jem saw Maribel right before quitting time. She was in her yellow bikini top and her jean shorts-the exact outfit she wore on their first date to Miacomet Beach. Jem watered Therese’s plants on the lobby porch and Maribel slogged up the three steps in her flip-flops, her damp beach towel slung over her shoulder.

“Too much of a good thing today,” she said. “The sun in August. How was your lunch date yesterday?”

Jem was on the verge of saying, “I didn’t go. It was all made-up.” But he didn’t want to be disloyal to Neil. “It was fun,” he said.

“Yeah?” Maribel said. Jem studied her. Did she seem jealous? “Mr. Rosenblum was so nice. Is he still around?”

“Left today.”

“He really seemed to like you,” Maribel said. “He seemed to believe in you.”

Jem stopped watering and looked at Maribel. “He did like me. He did believe in me.”

“Jem, what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look strange,” she said. “You look upset. Are you all right?”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, “I’m not sure.” He put down the watering can, walked past Maribel, through the lobby and into the galley kitchen. He held his breath and dug around in the trash until he pulled out the envelope. It was stained with coffee, smeared with strawberry jam.

Inside was a check for fifteen thousand dollars and two one-way tickets from Nantucket to Los Angeles, courtesy of Rosenblum Travel. The note attached said: “Get her. NR.”