“And I guess I’ll have another champagne,” Love said. She peeked over at the Beebes, and accidentally locked eyes with Arthur. Love raised her eyebrows and Arthur winked. The wink nearly knocked her off her barstool.
Vance turned around. “I see the druggies are here,” he said.
“Who?” Love said.
“You know, the people who checked into room eight this afternoon. The woman with the horrible laugh.”
Love sipped her Champagne. “My roommate works here,” she said. She swung around on her stool, still reeling from the wink, and searched for Alison. Alison was standing at the hostess station; she pointed to Vance and gave the thumbs-up.
Love rolled her eyes. Even Alison thought Vance was her date! How was it she only knew a handful of people on this island and they all converged here?
Vance leaned in close, and said, “There’s something I want to know.”
Love backed up. “Me too. Why are you wearing those sunglasses?”
“Traveling incognito,” Vance said, pushing them up his nose. “Guests are crawling all over this place. I don’t want them to recognize me.”
The first thing someone would notice about Vance was that he was a large African American man with a shaved head, and no pair of sunglasses could hide that. “Why not?” she asked.
“Mixing business and pleasure makes me uneasy,” he said.
“Oh,” Love said. “Well, what did you want to know?”
“I want to know what you think of Mack.”
“If you don’t like mixing work and pleasure, then why are you asking about Mack?”
“Forget about work,” Vance said. “What do you think about Mack as a person?”
“I don’t really know him as a person,” Love said. “He seems fine. He has that great Midwestern, apple-pie personality. He’s a good boss. He has a pretty girlfriend. I guess you could say I like him as a person.”
Vance shook his head. “So you’ve been taken in too.”
“Taken in by what?”
“By the facade that is Mack,” Vance said. “No one in the world is that happy all the time. That fucking pleasant. His whole attitude of not having an attitude. I’m surprised you don’t see past that.”
“I’m sorry,” Love said. “I don’t.” Across the room, the Beebes got their check, and then a few minutes later, they stood up. Arthur Beebe took his wife’s arm and left the restaurant. He didn’t look her way once. Love experienced familiar pain. Really, this was absurd! How could Arthur Beebe, whom she had just met that day, matter to her enough to cause this crazy longing?
The portobellos arrived and thankfully, Vance seemed less interested in talking and more interested in eating. Love took a bite of her mushroom. It was delicious. At least there was that.
The breakfast hour was the busiest part of Love’s day. By the time she reached work, Jem had set up the buffet table: the coffee and hot water thermoses, the carafes of orange and cranberry juice sitting in a tub of ice, the glass canisters of granola, Cheerios and All-Bran, the milk, sugar, butter, cream cheese, silverware, plates, bowls, napkins. Then at eight-thirty, Mack entered with the day’s doughnuts, the bagels, the muffins and five loaves of Something Natural bread. A few people loitered while Jem set up; these were the people who needed their coffee. Mack’s arrival indicated the Official Start of Breakfast, and the lobby filled with guests pretending to wait patiently for their choice of doughnut. It never ceased to amaze Love what waiting to eat did to people. They became completely irrational.
Arthur Beebe balanced three doughnuts on his plate and poured himself a glass of orange juice. Mrs. Beebe only drank coffee. They moved with their food to one of the wicker sofas. Some guests liked to take their food out onto the pavilion, and some liked to eat in their rooms. But thankfully, Arthur Beebe was a lobby eater. He set his plate and glass down on the carpet and then went in search of a desirable section of the newspaper.
The newspaper frenzy followed directly after the doughnut frenzy. The hotel provided complimentary editions of The New York Times, the Boston Globe, the Wall Street Journal, and USA Today. But everyone wanted The New York Times, and of course, being from Manhattan, Arthur Beebe was a Times reader. Love watched him as he read. She wanted him to look at her! She’d worn her sexiest dress-a short, flowered sundress with spaghetti straps. Then, finally, she got her wish. Mrs. Beebe finished her third cup of coffee, said in her shrill voice, “I’m going to bathe, Arthur,” and left the lobby. A few seconds later, Arthur Beebe put down the paper and cha-chaed his way to the desk.
“The funniest thing just happened,” he said.
Love surveyed the lobby. There were still a few stragglers refilling their coffee cups, but for the most part the guests had returned to their rooms.
“What’s that?” she said.
“This morning I wanted a coconut doughnut. And I noticed only one coconut doughnut on the buffet table. So I reached for it. But another man snapped it up first.”
“That’s been known to happen,” Love said.
“So I give this guy a dirty look to let him know he’s taken my doughnut. Then I pick up the Times and who do you think is on the front page of the business section? The very same guy.” Arthur Beebe held up the paper. Love squinted at the picture. The grainy photograph was of Mr. Songttha, room 17.
“You’re right,” Love said. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, that man’s not even staying on the Gold Coast. He’s only in a side deck room.”
As soon as she said this, a human noise came from the back office: Mack clearing his throat. Love hadn’t realized he was sitting back there. Giving out information about other guests was prohibited. Especially when Love was insinuating that Mr. Songttha hadn’t paid as much for his room as Mr. Beebe. Love bounced on the balls of her feet nervously. What kind of effect was Arthur Beebe having on her? Her good judgment had totally vanished. She was so busy chastising herself that she didn’t catch what Arthur Beebe said next.
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked if you had a good time last night at the restaurant.”
“I stopped by for a drink and I bumped into a co-worker,” Love said. This was her rehearsed line-getting across that she and Vance were co-workers, and that they hadn’t planned to meet-but it didn’t exactly answer his question. “How about you and Mrs. Beebe? Did you like your meal?”
“It was marvelous,” he said. He put his hand over Love’s. For an instant they were holding hands. Then Mr. Beebe gave her the wink. “Keep up the good work.”
Love watched him leave the lobby. She took a few deep breaths, scribbled a note on a piece of paper, and wandered back into the office where Mack sat at his messy desk.
“I made a mistake out there,” Love said. “I’m sorry.”
“At least you recognized it yourself,” Mack said. “It’s important to be discreet. Don’t discuss the guests at all, especially not with other guests.”
Love thought of what Vance had said the night before. Was Mack a phony? Now that Love thought about it, it was a bit disconcerting to have him behind her, listening in like Big Brother.
“I need to make a request,” she said.
“What’s that?” Mack asked.
“More coconut doughnuts,” she said. She handed him the slip of paper; it was amazing how doing this one small thing for Arthur Beebe delighted her. “Here, I’ve written it down.”
Arthur Beebe walked into the lobby that afternoon, wearing swimming trunks and a crisp white polo shirt. Love was perched on her high stool, reading The Prince of Tides.