“What do your parents think of all this?” Lacey asked.
A piece of cracker stuck in Jeremy’s throat and he coughed. Perhaps she had stumbled upon Jeremy’s sore spot. Perhaps the bulimic sister was a much safer topic than his parents.
“They don’t know about California,” he said. “My parents want me close to home, especially with my sister all messed up. They want me to find an internship in D.C. or something. So they don’t know about California yet. Do you think that’s bad?”
“To be honest, I’ve never understood why children feel they need their parents’ approval,” Lacey said. “I believe the earlier you stop hoping for that, the happier you’ll be. Look at me-my father went to all kinds of trouble to send me to Radcliffe, but then he sniffed when I pursued a career. But I didn’t let that stop me. I had a career that I adored and a husband, too.”
Jeremy’s face brightened. “Yeah, I figure they might not like the idea at first but once I make it, they’ll be fine with the whole thing.”
“You might be better off not worrying what your parents think at all. Ever.”
“They are my parents,” Jeremy said. “They did raise me.”
“All a parent can do is hope for the best,” Lacey said. This was the philosophy she always believed she would have followed with a child. Raise them as well as you can and then let them go. Jeremy looked at her strangely. Maybe he didn’t understand how much eighty-eight years of life could teach a person. She was relieved when he stood up.
“I should be going,” he said. He leaned over and kissed Lacey’s cheek, another point in his favor. “Thanks for the drink and the cheese and stuff.”
“You’re welcome, my dear,” she said. “Come again.”
Jeremy left the cottage, closing the screen door quietly behind him. Lacey stayed in her chair. She could reach for the remote control and turn on Dan Rather, or she could stand up and retrieve the swordfish potpie from the freezer. But for a moment she did neither. She was paralyzed with loneliness, and anger about that loneliness. She kicked the coffee table and the picture of Maximilian fell over with a clatter. This pleased her for an instant and then she felt irritated. Surely there were better days to get angrier than hell at her dear, departed Maximilian than this, Memorial Day.
3 The Gold Coast
June 5
Dear Bill,
I don’t know why you insist on torturing yourself by continuing to run the hotel. Just imagine-with the money I’m offering you, you could buy a huge home here on Nantucket-right next door!-and a house in Aspen as well-and enjoy life for a change. I have no evil intentions in buying the hotel; I am only trying to right the wrongs I’ve done in my life.
I’ve caught a glimpse or two of you over the past three weeks and I must say, you look harried. Carrying that heavy book with you everywhere! What is that book, anyway, Bill, the Bible? Don’t turn to religion, Bill-turn to me. My offer stands.
S.B.T.
Love couldn’t be certain, but she thought Mr. Beebe, in room 8, was interested in her. He and his wife arrived on Nantucket in their own plane. This wasn’t a big deal-Love knew people in Aspen who owned jets, and some of them were just regular people that she saw in line at all-you-can-eat taco night at La Cocina. But Mr. Beebe called from his jet. To Love, this indicated a blatant disregard for the value of money. She felt the same way about people who used the phones on regular planes. It seemed ludicrous to pay so much money for something so transient. So while Love didn’t begrudge Mr. Beebe his jet, a part of her was annoyed by the phone call.
Mr. Beebe’s question: Would there be a car at the airport to pick him up?
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, loudly (the reception was poor.) “You’ll have to take a taxi. There’s a taxi stand in front of the terminal, and always plenty of taxis waiting.”
“I’m arriving in my own plane,” Mr. Beebe said.
Love agreed with the Beach Club’s policy. All of the guests were important, but no one was important enough to get picked up at the airport. Not Michael Jackson, not George Bush, and not this man, Mr. Beebe.
“Yes, sir, I understand,” she said. “We look forward to your arrival.”
Mr. Beebe was a very handsome man. He stood well over six feet tall and had wonderfully broad shoulders, and his dark hair was going gray in the front. He wore white slacks, a crisp blue Façonnable shirt, a navy blazer, Gucci loafers. Mrs. Beebe was frosted blond and already deeply tanned. She wore a hot pink linen dress and about thirty gold bangle bracelets that jingled as she walked. They were a stunning couple.
Mr. Beebe smiled broadly as he approached the desk.
“Are you the young lady I spoke to on the phone?” he asked.
Love fought off the desire to snarl at him. She was hardly a young lady. The wealthy often assumed that anyone not as rich as they were was also inferior in other ways-younger, shorter, less intelligent. It drove Love nuts. “Yes, I am,” she said. “My name is Love O’Donnell.”
“Love,” Mr. Beebe said. “What a beautiful name. Love.”
“You’re the Beebes?” Love asked. She pronounced the name like the gun. “You’re in room eight, on the Gold Coast.”
“The Gold Coast,” Mr. Beebe said. “That’s us.”
Mrs. Beebe gave a shrill laugh. Love looked at her, startled.
“My wife’s nervous,” Mr. Beebe said. “In general, but now specifically. New place and everything.”
Love called the laundry room, where she knew Vance would be sitting on one of the dryers, reading. “Check-in,” she said.
Mrs. Beebe laughed again. Her laugh was almost inhuman; it sounded like the mating call of some exotic bird. Then she spoke. “That plane really did me in.”
“Will you be needing dinner reservations?” Love asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Beebe said. “I’ll come back a little later and we’ll talk. Right now I need to get my wife to the beach.”
Vance appeared and took the Beebes’ bags. When Mrs. Beebe saw Vance, she erupted again in laughter, and it sent shivers through Love. Was Mrs. Beebe laughing at Vance because he was black? Because of his shaved head? Oh, she hoped not.
A few minutes later, Vance returned to the desk, and said, “That lady was drunk in case you were wondering. Well, drunk or high. Rich people have access to drugs we can only dream about. Anyway, mister gave me a fifty and he said he’ll talk with you in an hour or so.”
Exactly an hour later, Mr. Beebe appeared again at the desk. He’d shed his blazer, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He came into the lobby without shoes. His feet were pale and vulnerable looking.
He leaned on the desk with his arms crossed in a surprisingly casual and intimate way. “My wife is happily ensconced on the beach,” he said.
“Good,” Love said. In the hour he was gone, she’d looked through the files for a copy of his confirmation letter. There was no address on the letter, only a fax number in area code 212: Manhattan. A copy of Mr. Beebe’s personal check was stapled to the letter, but that showed no address either, only the name-Arthur Beebe. Arthur. Love wondered if he went by Art or Artie. “Did you want to discuss dinner reservations?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “We’re here for six nights.”
“Twenty-one Federal is a must. And American Seasons. You’ll want to eat out in ’Sconset one night, perhaps at the Chanticleer. Do you like classic French?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t.” He leaned forward. “How trustworthy are you, Love?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Love said quickly. How trustworthy was she? She hoped to God he wasn’t about to confide something in her. Mr. Beebe’s eyes were an intense green, and she wondered if maybe he were drunk or high also. Maybe he and his wife had indulged in a little cocaine on the plane. And who cared if they did? It certainly wasn’t Love’s place to judge, just as long as Mr. Beebe didn’t disclose where he got the drugs-or worse, tell her some private information about his wife. “I’d say I’m pretty trustworthy.”