Summer Days and Summer Nights (31 page)

*   *   *

Ms. Patricia Nalone lounged poolside. Her doctor had told her, more than once, that at her age she should not be sunbathing. That it was practically an invitation to skin cancer. But without a deep copper tan, Ms. Nalone would no more feel herself than if she allowed her blond hair to devolve into its natural gray. So she lay on a chaise longue, her leathery skin gleaming with lotion, a glass of iced wine in her hand, though it was not quite noon.

“Really, Vito,” she said to her son, in a voice that had once been sultry but was now ravaged from a half century of smoke and drink. “I don't know what's wrong with you.”

“Nothing is wrong with me, Mother,” said Vito Nalone absently. The majority of his focus was on his form as he curled a dumbbell. Weight training wasn't just about how much you could lift. Flinging a heavy dumbbell around wouldn't do you any good if your form wasn't perfected to maximize both definition and size.

In some ways, Vito was a lot like his mother. Suntan lotion gleamed on his bronze skin, too, though the skin was smooth and taut over his young, well-cared-for physique. He didn't dye his dark hair completely, but he had indulged in a few blond highlights.

“Then why won't you ask out Isabella Ficollo?” His mother would have frowned, but the recent Botox treatment prevented it.

Vito shrugged his muscular shoulders. “I'm just not interested in her.”

“How can you not be interested in the sole heir to billions of dollars?”

Vito put his dumbbell down on the pool deck and leaned back into his chair. He watched the staff manager, Brice Ghello, walk quickly past, brow furrowed as he examined his clipboard. There was something sincere to the point of fussy about Brice that Vito found extremely charming. He sighed. “I don't know, Mother. I'm just not into her.”

*   *   *

The Hotel del Arte staff convened on the basketball court at precisely noon. It was a large gathering of mostly high school and college students. Arlo looked up at the hoops longingly. He wondered if staff were ever allowed to use them. Not that a rule against it would prevent him, but it would certainly factor into his plans.

A younger boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen came and stood beside him. He was also staring up at the hoop.

“What do you think?” asked Arlo. “Maybe they'll let us play at night?”

The boy put his hands together as if praying or begging.

“This is Zeke Zanni,” Lena said, nearby.

“Hey, Zeke.” Arlo held out his hand.

Zeke shook his hand and smiled, but said nothing.

“Zeke doesn't talk,” said Lena.

“Why not?” asked Arlo.

Lena shrugged. “He never said.” She pointed to the front of the crowd. “Brice is about to start.”

Brice Ghello looked to be a little older than Arlo, perhaps twenty. “Hello, everyone, I'd like to get started, please.” He examined his clipboard as he waited for conversation to stop. “As the manager here at Hotel del Arte, I want to welcome you to the first day of summer and the beginning of our peak season. Some of our guests have already arrived. Many will be arriving soon. For the few of you who are new this year, come see me after orientation to receive your uniform and assignment. You are expected to wear your uniform at all times while on duty so that guests know who they can approach for assistance.”

Arlo eyed the white polo and the tight—and what seemed to him excessively short—shorts. He whispered to Lena, “Do all the shorts fit like that?”

She gave him a wolfish grin. “It's one of my favorite things about working here.”

“I thought you didn't want a boyfriend.”

“There's a wide spectrum between appreciating the sight of cute boys in tight shorts and having a boyfriend.”

“And where do I fall on your spectrum?”

Lena leaned back and examined his backside. “If you don't prove to be a complete imbecile, there might be some room for advancement.”

Zeke nudged Arlo with his elbow and gave him an encouraging look.

“Is that her version of a compliment?” asked Arlo.

Zeke nodded.

“I want it completely understood,” Brice was saying, “that even though you have your individual responsibilities, the happiness of our guests comes first. Whatever you are doing, if a guest asks for
anything
, you do it. Got it? Okay, newbies up here to see me, everyone else to your stations.”

The crowd dispersed, and Lena nudged Arlo. “Let's see what he gives you. Brice has an uncanny talent for giving a person just the right job.”

They walked against the flow of people to Brice. Arlo noticed Zeke following behind.

“What's your job, Zeke?” asked Arlo. He wasn't sure how Zeke would answer, but he felt rude asking Lena a question meant for him.

Zeke held his hands together like he was holding an invisible golf club, then took a swing, shading his eyes as he watched the pretend ball fly through the air.

“Caddy? Not a bad gig. Maybe I'll get something like that.”

“Hey, Brice.” Lena jerked her thumb at Arlo. “New guy. Hasn't proved to be a complete idiot yet.”

“Okay.” Brice tugged at his chin and narrowed his eyes as he contemplated Arlo.

“What, no Sorting Hat?” asked Arlo.

“Pool boy,” said Brice.

“Are you serious?” Arlo ignored Lena and Zeke, who were both silently chuckling.

“Absolutely,” said Brice earnestly. “The pool is one of the most popular stations in the resort. I need someone good looking but also smart enough to handle himself and others on the deck. You can swim, can't you?”

“Well, yeah—”

“Excellent,” said Brice. “It's an important position. In fact, it's probably best I train you myself.”

Arlo assessed the sincere expression on his new boss's face and forced a smile. “Perfect.”

“Oh, Lena!” called a perky voice from the other side of basketball court. A girl around Arlo's age, wearing a pink polo shirt and white skirt, waved a tennis racket. The sunlight framed her, so Arlo had to squint when he looked at her. It gave her an almost eerily angelic quality. “Are you free to play yet?”

Lena smiled warmly. “Of course, Miss Ficollo. I'll be right over.” She turned back to them. “Well, boys. Duty calls.” Arlo watched her jog away, realizing that the tight uniform shorts worked both ways. He let out a quiet sigh.

Brice followed Arlo's gaze to Lena. “That's never going to happen.”

“I consider myself an optimist,” said Arlo.

“Good luck with that.” He took Arlo by the shoulders and turned him in the direction of the pool. “I think you'll find the role of pool boy to be incredibly rewarding in other ways. Why,
I
was pool boy my first year here. You'll be amazed at how interesting it can be.”

“Can't wait,” said Arlo. As Brice steered him toward the water, Arlo looked over his shoulder at Zeke and mouthed, “B-ball after work?”

Zeke gave him two thumbs up.

“Now,” said Brice, his eyes sparkling with delight. “The two most important responsibilities of being a pool boy are making sure the chemicals are always in balance, and skimming the surface of the water so it always looks pristine!”

*   *   *

“Was that the new staff member I saw you and Brice talking to?” asked Isabella, as she served the tennis ball with an artful perkiness that had taken years to perfect.

“Yeah. The new pool boy,” said Lena, as she returned the ball.

“Are you trying to pretend that you don't know his name?” Isabella hit the ball back. “You, Lena Cole, who knows everyone?”

Lena missed the return. She calmly retrieved the ball by the fence. “His name is Arlo Kean.”

“He's cute,” said Isabella.

“He's trouble.” If compelled, Lena would have admitted that she found him attractive. And the way he so easily communicated with Zeke was another trait she found appealing. But there was something about Arlo Kean that made her ever so slightly unsure of herself. And
that
was a feeling she didn't like at all.

“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.”