“Do you know what your problem is, Lena?”
“Please tell me, Miss Ficollo,” said Lena, as she bounced the ball on her racket.
“You judge too quickly. Maybe he only seems like a troublemaker when you first meet him. Some boys, you have to look a little deeper to find the true beauty.”
“Such as young Mr. Elore?” Lena pointed her racket past the tennis courts to the entrance, where Franklyn Elore and his mother were just arriving.
“Oh, Franklyn…” As Isabella caught sight of him, her perky demeanor melted like taffy in the sun. “He looks even dreamier than last summer, don’t you think?”
“If by dreamy, you mean with his head in the clouds.”
Franklyn reminded Lena of one of those Romantic-era poets like Byron or Shelley. He had soulful eyes, eternally rumpled clothes, and an air of wistful innocence combined with a complete lack of awareness regarding what was actually happening around him. She watched now as he struggled to steer a handcart stacked with books along the sidewalk without allowing it to veer into the gardens. His hair and glasses were both askew, and his shoelaces were untied.
Lena supposed he couldn’t be blamed too much, however, since his mother was little better. Dr. Elore followed behind him, e-book reader in hand, somehow managing to just barely not run into things as she read. Her hair also was askew, her clothes equally rumpled. But where Franklyn was reminiscent of a Romantic poet, his mother looked more like a stuffy Ivy League professor who rarely saw the light of day, which was exactly what she was. Every year, Mr. Elore sent his wife and son to Hotel del Arte for the summer, and Lena didn’t blame him for staying behind.
“Franklyn, dear,” said Dr. Elore, her eyes not leaving her e-reader. “Given the superior pedigree of Caesar’s Gallic Commentaries, I see no reason for you to focus your Summer Latin curriculum on sentimental drivel like Virgil.”
“Because, Mother,” said Franklyn, still trying to negotiate his handcart past their tennis court, “I’m more interested in the soul of the language than its politics.”
“Ready for my serve, Miss Ficollo?” Lena asked pointedly.
Isabella shook herself and, with supreme effort, gathered her melty taffy bits back into the shape of an attractive heiress. “Yes, of course. Ready when you are.”
But at the precise moment Lena served the ball, Franklyn’s handcart tipped forward, spilling books across the sidewalk like a stack of thick Latin playing cards. “Oh, dear!” Franklyn’s soft voice turned Isabella’s gaze just as the tennis ball arrived. Instead of connecting with her racket, the ball connected with her head, and she dropped to the court with a very unperky flop.
“Isabella!” Lena leaped over the net and ran to her side.
Franklyn turned at the name. “Miss Ficollo!” He stumbled over his books, nearly losing his footing on a copy of the Aeneid before catching himself and making his way hastily to Isabella’s side.
Lena helped her into a sitting position and examined the red mark on her forehead. It was entirely possible that Lena, somewhat irritated by Isabella’s endless infatuation with Franklyn, had served the ball just a little too hard. A tiny bruise was already forming.
Franklyn stood over her awkwardly, wringing his hands. “Miss Ficollo! Are you all right?”
Isabella’s eyes fluttered open. A gentle smile formed on her pink lips as she said, “Please, Franklyn. Call me Isabella.”
“Is-a-bell-a.” He took apart each syllable as if he were examining an orchestral piece, one section at a time, to see how it all fit together to make such a beautiful sound. “Isabella…”
“Yes, Franklyn?” she asked breathlessly.
“I’m glad you’re okay.” Then he fled.
Isabella sighed. “Perhaps he doesn’t like me after all.”
She was so used to everyone being demonstratively affectionate to her that she’d never needed to develop the skill of detecting its subtler clues.
“I don’t think that’s it,” said Lena.
Isabella frowned, and even slightly concussed and frowning, she remained perky, which goes to show what years of training and commitment can do. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
Lena looked down at Isabella’s bruised forehead and felt a prickle of guilt. “I tell you what. To make up for braining you with a tennis ball, would you like me to find out?”
* * *
“It’s all in the wrist,” said Brice, as he demonstrated the proper way to skim dead and dying bugs from the surface of the pool. He held the long metal pole loosely in his hands and dipped the square-framed net into the bright blue, chlorinated water. “You submerge sideways so as not to create wake, and then come up under it.”
“Got it.” Arlo attempted to shift his tight staff shorts into a position that gave a bit more relief.
“I don’t want to overwhelm you. Maybe we should cover using the pool vacuum for the bottom tomorrow.”
“Ooh, really? I’d hate to let it go that long,” Arlo said blithely.
Brice nodded. “Yes, maybe you’re right. Let’s do it now.”
Arlo winced. One of these days, he’d learn to keep his big mouth shut. Now he needed a diversion. “Hey, that tanned muscly dude is totally checking you out.”
Brice flushed from his forehead to his neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. That is the son of Ms. Nalone, one of our most valued guests.”
“So?”
“So, even if he was checking me out, which he probably isn’t—”
“Go ahead and look. He’s still doing it. Pretty blatantly, I’d say.”
“I will not look, and anyway, it doesn’t matter, because we are strictly forbidden from … getting involved with guests.”
“Huh.” Arlo watched his boss fiddle with the long metal skimmer pole. “That a firm rule, is it?”
Brice’s face went so red it was nearly purple.
“Just wondering how hard you plan to enforce it,” continued Arlo.
“I, uh, look at the time.” Brice made a show of looking at his watch. “Dr. Elore and her son should have arrived by now. I’d better make sure they have everything they need.” He shoved the metal pole at Arlo. “You, uh, continue with the skimming.” Then he hurried toward the hotel.
Arlo smiled. Vacuuming successfully deferred until another day. His big mouth just as often got him out of trouble, which was likely why he had never learned his lesson.
“I nearly forgot.” Brice reappeared and said in a hushed tone, “If you see Dr. Elore, whatever you do, keep her and Ms. Nalone apart. I promised Mr. Ficollo there would be no need to call the police or an ambulance this year.”
“Understood,” said Arlo, although he didn’t really. He figured it would become obvious when it needed to be.
Once Brice was gone, Arlo surveyed the pool area. There wasn’t much to it. The pool itself was L-shaped, its long part dedicated to lap swimming. There was also a hot tub, a wet bar, and a shed where the pool supplies were kept. The entire deck was ringed with lounge chairs. There were a few lap swimmers moving slowly back and forth, and several people lying on deck chairs, among them valued guest Ms. Nalone and son.
So this was his summer. It was definitely better than a warehouse, but Arlo considered how it might be improved. The most obvious way would be to have his boss relax. And the most expedient way he knew to do that was getting him laid.
Arlo skimmed the pool, working his way slowly towards the Nalones. He didn’t have a plan yet, but thought eavesdropping might offer some clues.
“You’re being impossible, Vito.” Ms. Nalone’s face was half covered by enormous sunglasses. She looked like a Barbie who had been dropped into a deep fryer. “It’s not like I expect you to ask out an ugly heiress.”