“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“He left that out of our ten-second conversation. I was walking to the tennis court. He passed by and introduced himself. I assumed he was heading to the Palace. It was after lunch.”
The Palace was the largest cabin on the property, but also the most run-down. It housed twenty boys, dormitory-style, and it was more like a barracks—with bunk beds, running water, toilets, showers, and sinks—than the typical Stern’s cabins, which were more like the hotel rooms Betty had seen in movies. The Castle was the almost-as-bare-bones dormitory for the female staff, and was separated from the Palace by the staff mess hall. The boys were forbidden from visiting the Castle, the girls banned from the Palace, but with the buildings out of sight from the main house (meaning Nannie) and set apart from the guest cabins, Betty suspected that was an unenforceable rule.
“So, we have a deal?”
“If it goes for all of us,” Georgia said.
“Of course! Let’s cross our hearts.” Betty drew an invisible X across her chest with her finger. They’d been crossing their hearts since grade school. It was the most serious promise they could make.
“Girls!” a voice yelled from across the lawn. It was Chef Gavin, who’d worked at Stern’s since as far back as Betty could remember. A tall man with broad shoulders, Chef Gavin boasted a belly that suggested he liked his own cooking. Nannie never trusted skinny cooks. Even Mabel, who worked in the kitchen (and helped Nannie with everything), was round like Mother Goose in Betty’s favorite childhood book. Chef Gavin traveled to South Haven each summer from the Miami Beach hotel he worked in during winter, while Mabel had grown up in South Haven like most of the kitchen and housekeeping staff. Nannie set the menu, including family favorites and recipes from well-loved cookbooks. She managed everything alongside Chef Gavin, but she also counted on him to add his Miami flair to her Michigan menu. Nannie claimed it set Stern’s far apart from—and above—the other resorts.
“What are you doing standing there? Hurry! I need your help!” Chef Gavin flailed his hands in the air.
The girls ran to the kitchen, Betty’s heart pounding. Had something happened to her grandmother?
“Come inside! It’s a disaster! Look!”
Betty held her breath and stepped into the kitchen’s prep area, a rectangular space lined with stainless-steel counters, which now were covered with dozens of silver trays filled with an impressive array of canapés. She glared at Chef Gavin. “You scared me! I thought my grandmother was dead on the floor!”
“We’ll all be dead if these canapés aren’t garnished in the next twenty-five minutes. Katherine and Hazel didn’t show up tonight. Get your aprons, girls.”
“Not tonight,” Betty said, stepping back. “We’re hostesses. That’s what my grandmother wants. She did not want us working in the kitchen. Look at our clothes!”
“You can do this stark naked for all I care; it just has to get done,” Chef Gavin said.
“There’s at least a thousand of them,” Georgia whispered.
Betty did not need to be reminded. She had spent several summers with carrot-stained fingers from peeling curls for gefilte-fish nuggets. Many times she’d stabbed herself with plastic mini swords meant for the garlic-stuffed olives or with multicolored toothpicks as she pierced hundreds of cocktail franks and sweet-and-sour meatballs, not to mention the skewers she’d poked through the cocktail lilies: slices of bologna wrapped in a cone shape with a pickle spear sticking out of the middle.
Tonight, Betty had thought she and the girls would be noshing and chatting, not stabbing and stuffing.
“I have brisket, carrot tzimmes, and baked mackerel to finish, and your grandmother will be here any minute. I will not be the one who disappoints her, Betty. Will you?”
Betty jolted from her daydream and slammed into her birthright.
“No,” she said.
Chef Gavin nodded once and walked to the far side of the kitchen.
Betty would never let Nannie down. If she had been there, Nannie would have been the first to pull on an apron over a fancy dress and decorate a thousand canapés. They all knew it.
Betty lifted three clean Stern Blue aprons from the hooks beside the door and handed one to each of her friends.
“I’ll never look at parsley the same way again,” Doris sighed. She squeezed onto the bench outside the kitchen and leaned on Betty. Then Georgia, on the other side of Betty, also leaned in. If one of them stood, the others would fall.
“We did a good job,” Doris said.
“Not too good, I hope,” Georgia said. “Remind me to stay the heck home next Tuesday.”
“I’m sorry,” Betty said. “You both look so pretty, and now our hands smell like garlic and we’re in here instead of out meeting boys.”
“Do you ever think about anything besides boys?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, you know I do. I have plans. But this summer, well, that is the plan. Oh, and to win Miss South Haven.” Betty laid her head atop Georgia’s, which rested on her shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Just don’t make it up to us with canapés,” Doris said.
An unfamiliar deep voice drifted out from the kitchen window. “Good job tonight, girls.”
They turned around, but no one was there. “Wouldn’t it be swell if that was Abe?” Doris whispered to Betty.
She crossed her fingers.
The next morning, when Betty heard Nannie’s light footsteps outside her bedroom door, she pulled the blanket over her head. The door opened.
“It’s time to get up.”
Betty nodded and knew the blanket around her wiggled enough for her grandmother to feel acknowledged. The door didn’t click closed, but Betty heard Nannie walk downstairs. Zaide’s voice permeated the soggy morning air.
After the front door closed, Betty sprang out of bed. She looked out the window and spotted Nannie and Zaide walking away from the house. All she really saw were umbrellas, two black circles, one slightly ahead of the other, because Nannie overcompensated for her stature by walking faster than Zaide, who never seemed to mind. He was proud of and delighted by his successful wife. Betty knew most men were not like Zaide.
Betty made up her bed, dressed, then darted downstairs. She dialed the operator. Betty’s and Georgia’s families were lucky not to use a party line. Betty could not have made this call if they had. South Haven was too small a town to have people knowing her business, or, rather, more of her business than they already knew. Georgia would be awake and ready to unpack new merchandise in her family’s store before heading to the resort to teach tennis, assuming it stopped raining.
The gray sky dampened more than the beach. It put Betty’s plans in check. She’d wanted to wait at the tennis court to “accidentally” officially meet Abe. Now she’d have to devise a new plan while contending with the varying foul-weather moods of the guests, which would range from delightfully carefree to downright cranky.
If it rained all day, Betty and the other girls would play go fish and war with the children, teach them cat’s cradle, organize games of pick-up sticks, and spark impromptu puppet shows—anything to keep the ankle biters out of their mothers’ hair and off their laps while the ladies played canasta, bingo, or mah-jongg, smoked cigarettes, and ate bridge mix faster than Mabel could pour it into crystal bowls.
The familiar brrinngg-brrinngg echoed through the receiver.
“Lemon residence,” Georgia said.
Betty waited until she heard the click of the operator cutting out of the call. “I need your help.”
“Where are you?” Georgia asked.
“I’m at home.”
“Your grandmother isn’t going to be happy you’re late for breakfast.”
“She’s not thinking about anything besides the weather. Rain changes the plan for the entire day, you know that. They’re too busy to care. She barely tried to wake me.”
“I don’t know why anyone fusses; it’s a day of parlo
r games and endless snacks for the guests. Plus, we keep the children out of their hair even more than usual.” Georgia never minced words. “What do you need? As if I have to ask.”
Betty spit out her words before she could change her mind. “I want you to introduce me to Abe before tonight’s bonfire. I want to meet him officially.”
“Just walk up and introduce yourself. You are his boss’s granddaughter.”
“Don’t remind me. I want it to be casual but planned. But it can’t look planned. Most of the staff will be in the main house during the rain, so it’ll be perfect. I don’t have to find a reason to wait on the tennis courts. Just keep your eye out . . .”
“Betty?”
“Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud, Georgia. Please.”
“It’s not me. Blame Mother Nature.”
Betty spun around. A giant sunbeam split the gray sky, revealing the blue above it. Rain no longer tap-danced on the windowsills or patio. Two children wearing shorts, shirts, and rubber boots jumped and splashed in puddles on the street. Betty turned away from the window and twisted herself in the telephone cord, disappointment stinging her eyes with the threat of tears. The telephone slid across the Parsons table, almost knocking off Nannie’s little Lenox bowl with the gold rim. Betty dropped the receiver, which boomeranged around her.
Untangled and undeterred, Betty lifted the receiver and nestled it between her shoulder and her ear. “Fine then,” she said. “I’ll have to do this myself.”
Betty skipped leftover puddles on her way to the dining room, then slowed her pace, maneuvered her wraparound navy dress into place, and smoothed her hair, which she’d already pulled into a ponytail.
She smiled as she sauntered past the guests. The warmth she felt reminded her they were more than visitors. These people had watched her grow up—not only watched her but participated in her childhood. She’d played, eaten, and cavorted with her peers, even once she started working through the summers. Sure, the husbands paid for their well-appointed cabins and days full of food and activities, but her grandparents showered them with time and attention in addition to activities and food. In turn, a genuine closeness draped the property, just as Nannie’s hand-embroidered tablecloth covered their elongated dining room table each Passover. It was something unique and special, and it belonged only to them.
Her chest tightened as a trio of wives walked by, heads together, tittering, smiling. One of the ladies pulled out a compact and reapplied her lipstick as she walked. Betty chuckled, knowing she’d have done the same thing. They reminded Betty of herself with Georgia and Doris, though she knew at least she and Georgia weren’t headed down the “lady of the house” path anytime soon. Still, she loved seeing these women together, a mirror to Betty and her friends’ future selves.
“Calisthenics on the veranda this morning, ladies,” Betty said. “The lawn’s too wet. See you later.”
They turned toward Betty and nodded, and then folded back into themselves.
As breakfast service neared its end, Nannie and Zaide would be chatting with the families who lingered over coffee. The guests would be filled with either bagels and lox, scrambled eggs, pancakes, coffee cake, or all of the above. Even the women who ordered cantaloupe and cottage cheese had likely stashed a Danish or two in their handbags. The busboys would begin removing the coffee-stained, butter-splattered white linen tablecloths, and the guests would send their children to the counselors for a morning of games, art projects, and sing-alongs before they were escorted to lunch with their families.
Betty walked toward the table where her grandfather was talking loudly and gesturing grandly. Zaide told boisterous stories about the local farmers, as he kvetched about the price of produce and bragged about the quality of the kosher food they purchased. He was also keen on telling stories about how he and Nannie built Stern’s “from the ground up.” Some of the longtime guests rolled their eyes, having heard it so many times, but always in a kindhearted way. Everyone listened because everyone loved Zaide. He remembered everyone and everything—from birthdays and anniversaries to pillow preferences and allergies. If someone preferred two sugars or three in their tea, Zaide knew. This was both a sideshow trick and a perk for Stern’s guests, though not always for his granddaughter. To the irritation of some, he also recalled invoice balances and intestinal problems.
Betty noticed someone standing at the table with Zaide. Tall and slim, hair combed back with a sheen, hands in his pockets. She knew that profile. She should have been happy to see a childhood summer playmate, but two years ago Marv Peck had been sweet on her, or that had been the gossip. She hadn’t been interested. Awkwardness hung in the air and eclipsed any remnants of hide-and-seek nostalgia.
Nannie smiled and waved her over.
“Good morning,” Betty said. She kissed Zaide on the cheek and then Nannie. “Hello, Mrs. Peck. It’s nice to have you back at Stern’s.”
“It’s nice to be back, Betty. I told Stanley, ‘I am not spending another summer shvitzing in Skokie.’ So my Marvin offered to come along to keep me company.” Mrs. Peck winked. Her makeup was a little heavy for morning, but that was probably because she had been known to indulge in pink squirrels (with extra maraschino cherries) from the bar at night.
“Hi, Marv. I thought you were working in your father’s shoe stores now.” Marv was twenty and had gone right into the family business without a college degree.
“Managing actually, but Father didn’t want Mother to be alone,” he said.
With a hundred guests at the peak of the summer, and half as many staff, Bertha Peck would never have been alone.
“In the fall I’ll start at our new Chicago store,” Marv went on.
“If everything goes well,” Mrs. Peck whispered.
Betty didn’t know if that was a warning or a wish. No matter. She and Marv had played together as children. He was a guest.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” Marv asked. “Your grandparents tell us you were admitted to Barnard.” He pulled back the empty chair to his right, but Betty patted Zaide’s shoulder and he looked up at her and held her hand. Her grandfather usually spent his summers distracted, so this gesture made her feel like she’d won a million bucks.
“I’m going to Barnard,” Betty said.
“Your grandparents are so generous. And modern,” Mrs. Peck said.
“That’s right,” Betty said. She hoped the offense that simmered inside her wasn’t coming out in her voice.
“Betty?” Marv had sat, his arm now around the back of the chair next to him, patting it. She wished she felt the wistfulness of nostalgia, but she did not. Betty wanted her summer romance with a college boy, not with Marv Peck. She had tried to like him that way two summers ago, she really had. It hadn’t worked.
“Thank you, but I can’t. Almost time for calisthenics. Have to get ready. Can’t be late.” Betty looked at her grandmother.
“Let’s go for a walk tonight, Betty.” Marv stood at his place, as if this made the offer more enticing.
Betty flinched and hoped no one noticed. “I was planning on going to the staff bonfire with the girls.”
“Great, we can join them and then take a walk on the beach.”
“It really is just for the staff.”
“Betty!”
She hated even a subtle scolding from Zaide. Give the guests what they want. That was his motto.
“I’ll meet you at nine then?” Betty looked at Zaide, who nodded.
“Isn’t that kind of late?” Mrs. Peck asked.
“I’d like to finish dinner with my grandparents first, escort some of the children to their evening activities, and go home to change clothes.”
“Always a good girl, my Betty,” Zaide said.
“That’s swell,” Marv said. “See you at nine.”
Swell.
Chapter 5
BETTY
Flames stretched and flickered in the night air. Orange-tipped sparks drifted upward toward the blue-black sky and disappear
ed as if they were shooting stars. Laughter swirled around Betty. She’d seen these bonfires from her bedroom window, she’d sat on her porch aching for inclusion, but never had she felt their pulse. At first she thought it was the music—Nat King Cole, Patti Page, Tony Bennett—wafting out of the portable radio set atop a red metal cooler. No, it was more like a collective heartbeat thumping with anticipation, flirtation, and carefree joy. Betty’s skin hummed.
The heat from the fire toasted the early-June air, which could still be brisk after dark. Betty removed her sweater and draped it over her arm. Marv stood next to her and stared at the fire. Did he regret coming along when no one paid him any attention? Betty looked from face to face. She didn’t see Abe. Maybe that was better. She could finish her walk with Marv and come back on her own. Surely Abe would be here later.
Couples were already wrapped together in beach blankets, facing the lake, some facing each other. Doris slow-danced with one of the waiters. Georgia stood in a circle with some of the other girls, chattering away, likely about the boys standing in a cluster nearby.
Marv placed his hand on Betty’s arm. “Let’s take a walk.”
Betty moved her arm. She wanted to stay there, bearing witness and savoring the thrill of everything around her. “I’d like to stay.”
“Your grandparents think you’re taking a walk with me.”
“You’re right.” The last thing Betty wanted was for Marv to tattle to his mother that she wasn’t a proper “date.” Betty lifted her hand to wave but no one was looking at her. She turned to the girl next to her. “This was fun.”
“It’ll get crazy later.” The girl bit her bottom lip and quickened her speech. “I don’t mean crazy, really. Just more fun. But, well . . .”
Of course she knew who Betty was, likely afraid she was part of the fun police, or her grandparents’ spy.
“It’s fab,” Betty said. “I’m not going to squeal.” She realized her grandparents must already know what went on at the beach. They didn’t just want the guests happy; they wanted the staff happy as well. “Happy help” was part of Zaide’s motto too.
The Last Bathing Beauty Page 6