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.”
“Isabella is very pretty,” agreed Vito without enthusiasm.
“She’s entirely boinkable,” said Ms. Nalone.
“Boinkable, Mother?”
“The kids don’t say that anymore?” Ms. Nalone shrugged. “Anyway, she looks fantastic. I wish I had such naturally perky tits.”
“Mother!”
“What? It would have saved me a fortune.” She took a large swallow of chardonnay, then turned to Arlo. “You! Pool boy!”
“Yes, ma’am?” asked Arlo.
Ms. Nalone frowned behind her massive sunglasses. “Are you new?”
“Yes, ma’am. My first day.”
“Really,” she said in a way that made Arlo a tad nervous. “What’s your name?”
“Arlo, ma’am.”
“After the folk singer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ms. Nalone made a quiet noise of disgust. “I hate folk music. I’ll just call you Pool Boy.”
“Whatever you like, ma’am,” said Arlo, remembering Brice’s emphasis on keeping the guests happy. He could play along with this. It was better than skimming the pool.
“Oh, I do like you.” Ms. Nalone licked her red, lipstick-caked lips.
“Mother,” chided Vito.
Ms. Nalone waved her hand at him as she continued to address Arlo. “Have you met Miss Ficollo, the owner’s daughter?”
“I saw her briefly from a distance, ma’am.”
“Good enough. Would you say she is boinkable?”
Arlo looked over at Vito, unsure how to respond.
Vito sighed. “You might as well humor her.”
Arlo turned back to Ms. Nalone. “Yes, ma’am.”
“How boinkable?” pressed Ms. Nalone.
“Exceedingly.”
“And do you have anything in particular,” asked Ms. Nalone, “against inheriting billions of dollars?”
“Not at all, ma’am.”
Ms. Nalone leaned back in her chair, a look of satisfaction on the lower half of her face. “See? Pool Boy has far more sense than you do, Vito.” She tilted her sunglasses down to give him the full impact of her glare. Vito squirmed, his eyes looking around for some means of escape.
Arlo felt bad for him. It was also very informative, regarding his plan to get Brice laid, though not particularly encouraging. The fact that Vito might not be out, at least to his mother, complicated the situation.
Vito broke into a smile. “Look, Mom. The Elores are here.”
Ms. Nalone sat up in her chair. “Really?”
She jumped to her feet and moved swiftly to the wet bar. There stood a woman dressed more for a safari than a pool, in tan shorts and matching short-sleeved button-down. She had thick glasses and an exceptionally large forehead.
“Is that Dr. Elore?” Arlo asked Vito.
“Sure is.”
“Huh.” Arlo watched the two women smile and hug each other. “My boss told me to keep them separated.”
“Yes, that comes later.” Vito stood and walked off toward the golf course. “It’s the first day, so … maybe as late as dinner?”
* * *
“Her lips are like … organically grown roses. Her hair, like … gluten-free pasta.”
Having a poetic mind did not necessarily guarantee that one could compose poetry. However, this was not the first bad poem Franklyn had composed about Isabella, and Zeke had developed a tolerance. He lay on a gentle hill and ran his fingers through the carefully manicured grass while Franklyn Elore slumped on a nearby bench, pen and notebook in hand. Both sets of golf clubs lay on the grass and would see no action today.
Franklyn frowned as he examined his writing. “Not pasta. That gets a bit clumpy. Isabella’s hair is never clumpy.” He groaned and rolled off the bench to lie beside Zeke, his arms and legs spread wide. “Don’t you think Isabella is the most beautiful girl who ever lived?”
Zeke smiled and nodded encouragingly.
Franklyn held up his notebook. “It’s no use, Zeke. There’s simply no way I could hope to capture such transcendent charm in mere words.”
Again, Zeke smiled and nodded.
Franklyn narrowed his eyes. “Are you humoring me?”
Zeke shrugged.
Franklyn sighed, letting his notebook drop. “You placate me like I was a sick invalid. Is that what love is? An affliction?”
Zeke patted his head sympathetically.
“I am sick with it. And sick of it.” Franklyn closed his eyes, the afternoon sun on his face. “I wish there was some way I could tell her…” He sighed again. “No, it’s impossible. I’m sure she’s not even interested in me. How could she be?”
The two boys lay on the golf course, their eyes closed. Gradually, they became aware of the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Well, well. With all that sighing and groaning in the air, I knew Franklyn Elore had to be here.”
Franklyn opened his eyes to see Vito grinning down at him. He lifted his hand. “Will you help me up?”
“Actually, I thought I might join you down there.” Vito flopped down on the other side of Zeke. “I take it you’ve already seen Isabella.”
“She’s even more lovely than last summer.”
“She’s certainly filled out. My mother is insanely jealous.”
“Does she still want you to ask her out?”
“Of course. She could swallow any amount of jealousy with a billion-dollar chaser.”
“What if you just … you know, told her the truth?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It would solve the problem,” said Franklyn defensively.
“I know. I’ve come close. Really close, but then…” He shook his head. “I just can’t.”
Zeke patted Vito sympathetically on the head.
Then Vito said, “You know, Franklyn, if you just asked Isabella out, that would help both of us.”
“Now you’re the one who’s joking.”
“It’s not so crazy,” said Vito defensively.
“She’s out of my league.”
“True,” admitted Vito.
“And, even if by some miracle she said yes, you know my mother would never approve.”
“Your mother’s GPA requirement is a little strict,” said Vito. “Not everyone can nail a three point seven five every quarter.”
“I actually talked her down from a four point oh, arguing that the occasional imperfect grade builds character.”
“Still, I hear Isabella gets a three point five, which is better than I ever got. She’s not exactly stupid.”
“Of course she isn’t. But trying to explain that to my mother…”
Now it was Franklyn’s turn to get a sympathetic pat from Zeke.
They lay there listening to the birdsong, the wind rustling the grass, and far in the distance, the sound of an actual golf club striking a golf ball.
“I saw Brice today, training the new pool boy,” said Vito. “He takes it all so seriously. It’s adorable.”
“You
should ask him out,” said Franklyn.
“Right after I tell my mom I’m gay?”
“You could do it in secret. In the old days, people did that all the time.”
“She would know,” said Vito. “Even if she didn’t, I’d hate lying about it. Besides, I don’t even think he’s interested in me.”
“With all your muscles and things?” Franklyn reached across Zeke and poked Vito’s large bicep.
“I know, right?” said Vito. “But he never even looks at me. So maybe he just … doesn’t like muscles.”
“Which would be so unfair.”
“Love is unfair,” said Vito.
“And hopeless,” said Franklyn.
Zeke patted them both on their heads at the same time.
“Sometimes I feel guilty that Vito and I always dump everything on you, Zeke,” said Franklyn.
“Oh, Zeke doesn’t mind, do you?” asked Vito.
Zeke smiled in a self-satisfied way. Dear reader, if you have ever had to tromp around on a hot golf course for hours, lugging someone else’s ungainly golf bag filled with long metal objects, then you too would most likely prefer lying in the shade, half-listening to rich boys complain, instead.
* * *
Lena and Isabella sat in their bathing suits in the sauna. Lena didn’t much care for any room designed specifically to make one uncomfortably hot. She was even less fond of jumping into the bracingly cold pool immediately after. But Dr. Elore had suggested it to Isabella the previous summer as being good for her complexion, and even though Lena pointed out that Dr. Elore’s PhD was in ancient history, not dermatology, it had become a daily late afternoon ritual.
“Why won’t you tell me anything about this new pool boy?” asked Isabella. The heat challenged even her perkiness. In the sauna, the best she could manage was vivaciousness.
“There isn’t much to tell,” said Lena dismissively. “I only just met him this morning.”
The thing about being vivacious was that it sometimes led one to poke at topics another person clearly wished to avoid talking about.
“Where’s he from? Where does he go to school? Is he single?”
“He’s from the city but moves around a lot. He goes to a different school every year, too. Honestly, looking at his résumé, I wouldn’t have hired him. But he’s somehow acquainted with one of your father’s friends.”
“So he has connections,” said Isabella. “How mysterious!”
Lena wiped the excessive sweat from her forehead. “Why do you keep pushing this?”
Isabella pouted. “Because it would be a lot more fun to pine over Franklyn if you had someone to pine over as well.”
“Let us say, for the sake of argument, that I found young Mr. Kean attractive. Even so, I am not the kind of girl who pines.”
Isabella rubbed her sweaty hands together. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to show him a little encouragement. He might be handy to have around this summer.”
“Use him, you mean?” asked Lena.
“Of course! What other purpose do boys serve? You can use them for all sorts of things—carrying, building, fixing, remembering. And some of them are quite nice to look at.”
“There are practical and aesthetic advantages to the idea of keeping one on hand,” admitted Lena.
“Just think about it. Are you ready to jump in the pool?”
The women’s sauna opened out to the locker rooms. Lena and Isabella walked past a cluster of elderly naked women and toward the pool. As they neared the entrance, they heard the distinct scratchy tones of Ms. Nalone.
“The reason your son is still single is because he’s a clumsy nerd who never takes his nose out of a book!”
“Well,” came the flat tone of Dr. Elore, “the reason your son is still single is because he’s a brutish lout who can hardly form a coherent sentence!”
“Is it that time already?” asked Lena.
“I hope they haven’t started throwing things yet,” said Isabella.
The two girls hurried out to the pool deck. Ms. Nalone and Dr. Elore stood glaring at each other. It appeared they hadn’t thrown anything yet, but that phase wasn’t far off. This was particularly unfortunate for Arlo, who stood between them, directly in the line of fire.
He held up his hands. “Now, ladies, please. Let’s just take a moment to calm down.”
“Eggheaded sow!” yelled Ms. Nalone.
“Withered bimbo!” yelled Dr. Elore.
“What is that boy doing?” muttered Lena.
“Being brave and heroic,” said Isabella, and gave her a nudge.
“Heroism is overrated, and bravery often accompanies stupidity,” said Lena. “Besides, he won’t be much use if he’s knocked unconscious with that bottle of wine.”
“I’ve always thought of a ninety-eight sauvignon blanc as rather light,” said Isabella.
“I’m afraid the bottle will hurt the same, regardless of the grape and vintage.”
With two hands, Ms. Nalone held the bottle of wine by the neck, ready to bring it down on Arlo’s head if he didn’t get out of the way. But he stood steadfastly between them. No, Lena corrected herself. “Steadfast” sounded far too appealing and complimentary. He stood obstinately. Yes, that sounded more disagreeable.
“Bimbo, am I?” Ms. Nalone snarled. “I’ll crack that egg head of yours wide open!”
“I doubt your withered arms even have the muscle mass to swing that bottle!” said Dr. Elore.
“Do something, Lena,” said Isabella. “We don’t want poor Arlo to get hurt.”
Lena sighed. “I suppose I must.”
“That’s it, you pompous, bloated tick,” shouted Ms. Nalone. “Let’s settle this once and for all!”
“Agreed!” Dr. Elore shouted back.
“Now, ladies.” Lena stepped coolly into the fray, beside Arlo. “This simply won’t do.”
“Don’t try to stop me!” said Ms. Nalone, hefting her wine bottle.
“Naturally not,” said Lena. “But if you’re going to settle this once and for all, as you suggest, then you should do it properly.”
Ms. Nalone’s bottle lowered slightly. “Properly?”
“A duel, of course,” said Lena. “I assume you’ll name your sons as your seconds. Shall I ask Arlo to fetch the pistols?” She looked first at Ms. Nalone, then at Dr. Elore, both of whom seemed nonplussed by the suggestion.
“Why … I…” spluttered Ms. Nalone. “I’ve never fired a pistol in my life!”
“That would be somewhat of a disadvantage,” agreed Lena. “Should I have him fetch the rapiers instead? It’s a bit old-fashioned, but far less likely to be fatal. Generally, duels with swords result in minor dismemberment at worst.”
“Dismemberment?” Dr. Elore’s large eyes widened further behind her glasses.
“I shouldn’t worry too much, doctor,” said Lena. “They have made astonishing strides in prosthetics these days.”
“But … I’ve never fought anyone with a sword, either,” said Ms. Nalone.
“I don’t see how that should make much difference,” said Lena. “After all, I doubt you’ve ever fought someone with a hundred-dollar bottle of wine. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that, regardless of the outcome of the duel, should the bottle break, it would be charged to your room.”
“A hundred dollars?” Ms. Nalone looked down at the bottle.
“Yes,” said Lena. “So it would be preferable if you selected a more appropriately durable weapon. What will it be, then? Spears? Bow and arrow? Knives?”
Ms. Nalone stared at her.
Lena turned to Dr. Elore. “It appears Ms. Nalone is deferring to your choice, doctor. Gallant, under the circumstances. What is your weapon preference? If you want to keep the bleeding to a minimum, may I suggest something blunt, such as billy clubs? Or perhaps baseball bats. It is baseball season.”
Dr. Elore looked pale.
“Well, if neither of you are willing to select a weapon, we will need to postpone the duel.�
��
“Yes…” said Ms. Nalone. “I suppose we must…”
“Agreed,” said Dr. Elore.
There was a long pause while everyone stared at one another. Nothing like this had ever happened before at the Hotel del Arte.
Brice appeared in the doorway. He looked around, noting the oddly subdued tone. “Is everything all right?”
“Perfectly,” said Lena.
“Great. Well, everyone, it’s time to dress for dinner.”
The entire pool deck took a collective breath.
“Thanks for the assist,” Arlo said to Lena, as the guests headed into the hotel to change into their evening wear.
“Assist?” asked Lena.
“Yeah. I mean, I had it under control, but I appreciate the help.”
Lena was about to inform Arlo that he’d had absolutely nothing under control. But as she looked into his smiling face, a lock of curly hair dangling over one eye, she recalled Isabella’s suggestion. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to expend some effort. So instead, she smiled. “It was courageous of you to step in like that on your first day. Dumb. But courageous.”
This scrap of encouragement worked on Arlo like a plant starved for water. He positively bloomed—his back straightened, his smile broadened, and his eyes brightened. Lena, who was generally not in the habit of lavishing praise, found it an interesting and potentially useful reaction.
“It was really smart how you talked them out of it, though,” said Arlo.
“I suppose,” said Lena, “we make a good team.”
Arlo’s chest puffed up with pride. “I agree.”
“Well, I must change and see to the Ficollos,” said Lena.
“I have to admit, I didn’t peg you for a girl who would wear a bikini,” said Arlo.
“Why not?” Lena turned and headed toward the door. “I happen to know I look fantastic in a bikini.”
“Another thing we agree on,” Arlo said quietly. Then louder, “Oh, hey, Zeke and I will be at the basketball courts after work. If you don’t have other plans, you could stop by.”
Lena stopped and considered the invitation. It was nicely done, she had to admit. Including Zeke gave it a cordial, no-pressure tone that eliminated the risk of those awkward professions of love she had so disliked having thrust upon her in the past. Also, there was something she needed to ask Zeke. “Perhaps I will.”
Summer Days and Summer Nights: Twelve Love Stories Page 24
