“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.”