“How can you tell?”
“You haven’t changed into your tourist costume. You’re still wearing a tie.”
He laughed. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He gestured toward the bartender nearest them. “Vodka and soda with a twist,” she said.
“Actually, you’re right. I just did check in. Haven’t had time to learn the rituals.”
“There are only two of any consequence. The first one is to eat until you’re stuffed.”
“And the second?”
“Use your imagination.”
He laughed. “I’m Nick Martin.”
“I’m thirsty,” she said. Nick watched her sip her drink, her lips sucking suggestively on the straw.
“I was under the impression most women in the Catskills were shy and withdrawn.”
“Most are. See those four girls sitting by themselves at those tables?” She pointed to the far end of the bar. “They’ll be sitting like that all weekend.”
“But not you.”
“Especially not me. It would be such a waste, don’t you think?” She turned so her breast brushed briefly against his arm.
“I’ll drink to that.” They lifted their glasses in a toast. “But that doesn’t tell me your name. How should I go about calling you?”
“Very softly.” She brought her face closer to his. He stared into her flashing green eyes.
“All right, Very Softly, you’ve figured out this is my first trip here. It obviously isn’t yours. So tell me, what’s good and what’s bad?”
“I’m good and everything else is bad,” she said. “Why not let me prove it?”
“How do you know I’m alone?”
“You’ve got a certain air that says ‘I’m available.’”
“Could be.” She ran her eyes slowly up and down his body.
“My name’s Melinda Kaplan.” She extended her hand.
“Hi, Melinda.” He enveloped it in his.
“Well, now that we’ve gotten that over with, when do we make love?”
He signed the tab and they walked out in the direction of the elevators.
“Oh, excuse me,” Jonathan said. He had just opened the door to Ellen’s office. A tall dark man was lounging on the couch. Seated beside him, her fingers intertwined with his, was the most breathtaking young woman Jonathan had ever seen. She was dressed in a simple, but obviously expensive, yellow-striped shirtwaist. A thin gold chain, stunning in its understatement, dangled from her neck. A five-year-old boy sat quietly on the carpet in front of them while his older sister, her hair as golden as her mother’s, stood examining the plaques and pictures on the wall. The man rose to his feet immediately.
“That’s all right. We were just about to leave.”
“Come in, Jonathan,” Ellen said. “This is Jack Feigen and his wife, Toby. Toby, Jack, Jonathan Lawrence our general manager.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Toby said. Jonathan tried to remember the last time he had met such an exquisite female. There was something absolutely magnificent about her expression … so open, so honest. He was almost sure he had seen that face somewhere before. It was only a few seconds later that he realized she hardly looked Jewish at all.
“Jack and Toby are old friends of Phil’s … and of mine,” she added quickly.
Feigen extended his hand as Jonathan approached. “How do you do?”
“Get up, Larry,” Toby said, kneeling down to pick up her son. “Say hello to Mr. Lawrence.”
“Hello there,” Jonathan said. Usually he despised inane introductions to little children but in this case …
“And this is Barbara.”
“Hi,” she mumbled, looking over her shoulder but obviously more impressed with the photos of the celebrities.
“We didn’t get up until today,” Toby said.
“Well,” Jack said, filling the silence quickly, “we’d better leave these executives alone. Ellen’s been telling us about some of your problems and I must say, the hotel business is much more complicated than I ever imagined.”
“Most things are,” Toby added, taking her little boy by the hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Lawrence. I hope we’ll see you again before the weekend’s over.”
“I’ll make it a point,” he said. It was the first time he had ever said that to a guest and meant it.
“See you later,” Ellen waved.
“Jack was an old friend of Phil’s,” she explained to Jonathan as he pulled a chair over to her desk. “They went to college together. For years he was trying to get them to come up and then when they finally decide to…” She stared sadly at the closed door.
Jonathan cleared his throat. He hated sentimentality. “I was on my way down to tell you about the Foxes.”
“The Foxes?” She snapped back to reality. “What happened?”
“They canceled. The whole party, in-laws, children, grandchildren, the works.”
“Why?”
“They asked if we had built the indoor tennis courts we promised last year. Seems the entire family wants to be able to play at any time. They also complained about the dietary laws, said they were under the impression we were going to relax them somewhat and serve bacon and shellfish like some of the other hotels have been doing.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think Phil ever meant to give anyone that impression. If he was going to do something as drastic as that, I’m sure he would have discussed it with me first.”
“Maybe he just didn’t get around to it. You know how busy he was the last couple of months. But during that time, Ellen, he and I had a number of discussions about changes that are going to have to be made. It’s not just the Foxes,” he went on, “it’s a lot of people. We’ve got to expand our athletic facilities, add nine more holes to the golf course, build some more tennis courts, if we want to attract more men, and there’s been a lot of grumbling, especially during the past year, about the strictness of our kitchen. The whole world doesn’t keep kosher, for one thing, and not everyone who goes on vacation is Jewish. If we’re going to survive—”
“You may be right,” Ellen said, “but now’s not the time to talk about it. Maybe next week.”
“You can’t keep putting it off,” he said. “There are certain financial commitments.”
“Not today. Please. And that wasn’t my reason for asking you to drop by. What I want now is an explanation for what’s been happening with the coffee shop.”
“Happening?”
“Moe Sandman tells me you forced some cuts in the staff. Isn’t that a bit unusual right before a major weekend?”
“Oh, that. Not really. The receipts just didn’t warrant the number of people we have on salary there. The motel chains have done a detailed study of the employee requirements for their coffee shops. It’s a scientific analysis based on a year’s research and they’ve come up with an excellent formula for staff/customer ratios.”
“But the Congress is not a motel,” Ellen interrupted.
“No matter. The same considerations are involved.”
“I don’t think so, Jonathan.” She was beginning to feel confident in what she was saying. “Our clientele is accustomed to warm, personalized, individual attention. They want to be pampered and made to feel special. That’s why they come here and don’t go to a motel in the first place. Ask Magda. She’d be the first to tell you.”
“But Magda isn’t working with our assets and liabilities on a day-to-day basis.”
“Nevertheless, our service is one of our biggest selling points. I must insist you build up the coffee shop staff again. Besides, it’s too much for Moe and …”
He nodded. Give in on this, he told himself. Pick your battles carefully. Let her think she’s boss.
“Okay, Ellen. It’s no big deal. If you feel we should, we will.” Ellen relaxed.
“She’s a very beautiful girl, isn’t she?”
“She?”
“Toby Feigen.”
“Oh yes, yes.” He had not meant his interest to be that obvious.
“She used to be a model. Did the Noxema commercial on television.”
“So that’s where I saw her. I thought she looked familiar.”
“She gave it all up for marriage and a family. They’re one of the most devoted couples I know.” Jonathan didn’t have to look at her to know she was thinking of Phil again.
“I’ve got to get back to the accountant,” he said. “Some figures I have to go over.”
“Sure. I’ll talk to you later on.”
He nodded and started out of the office. God, she could be so depressing. It was like dealing with a child. How much longer would he have to put up with her?
“Mr. Lawrence,” the receptionist called as he stepped out to the lobby. “Your secretary just called. There’s a Nick Martin asking to see you. He just checked into the hotel.”
“Fine. Have him paged and sent to my office.” Perfect timing, he thought.
Sandi Golden put her hands gently under her barely visible breasts in the hope of creating the suggestion of a cleavage. It didn’t work to her satisfaction and she flopped back over the bed in frustration. It seemed so unfair. I bet Margret Thomas wasn’t this flat chested when she was my age, she thought, recalling the love scene she had witnessed with the maid the night before.
She turned over and looked at one of the photos of Bobby Grant taped over her dressing table mirror. The band singer had scribbled his autograph too widely, the “Y” covering a part of his beautiful right cheek, a cheek she’d give anything to kiss just once.
If only mom was a bigger-breasted woman, she thought. I’d probably develop faster. She had heard that was the way it worked—it was in the genes. Sammy, a busboy from Queens College, once told her Jewish girls have bigger breasts because of all the heavy kosher food they eat. “It’s a biological fact,” he said. That was the week she ate ten knishes at once and got sick. It was all bullshit, she thought. The only way Jewish food would help her figure was for her to stuff matzo balls in her bra.
She reached back under the pillow and took out her copy of the year’s bestseller,
Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
She had finished it weeks ago, something her mother didn’t know, but kept it around to reread certain pages. She was especially excited by the descriptions on pages 195 through 197. Each time she read them, she tried picturing herself in similar situations with Bobby. If only she had breasts that swung like that, she thought. One time she actually took a position on the bed to simulate the action in the book … but nothing happened.
Reading the pages made her flush, almost as much as she had when she’d seen the real thing. She felt a warmth come into her vagina, making the insides of her thighs tingle with goose bumps. Her nipples got so hard she was afraid they might get stuck that way for good and everyone would know exactly what she was thinking. Changes had come over her body so quickly the past year. Sometimes they made her ache so badly she’d sit on the couch and hug a pillow to herself, pressing it hard against her body in an attempt to satisfy those urgent needs she didn’t quite fully understand.
She had just finished the last paragraph when the telephone rang. It was her best friend, Alison Samuelson, who had come up with her family for the holiday.
“Hi there,” Alison said, “we just got settled and I can’t wait to see you. Can we meet at the pool in a half hour? That way we can catch up and grab some lunch at the same time.”
“Sounds good,” Sandi said, wondering if Alison, who was a year older, knew anything more about sex than she did. “See you soon, and listen, I’ve got some terrific things for us to do this weekend.” She smiled at the thought of showing Alison what really went on at the maid’s quarters. Maybe they’d even meet some boys and try some stuff out themselves. She hung up and went in to brush her teeth.
∗ ∗ ∗
The head salad chef and half a dozen members of the dining-room staff worked frantically around the long tables set up at the head of the pool. Busboys, in single file, carried out trays of meats and large bowls of salads, assorted fruits and Jell-Os. At the end of the long tables, they set up platters of small pastries and urns of coffee. The chef snapped orders at the busboys and waved a long wooden spoon in their direction. Guests in bathing suits hovered nearby, eyeing the delicacies.
Off to the right the two bartenders at the small cocktail bar moved at a leisurely pace, one mixing drinks for the cocktail waiters who brought orders from the guests on the lounges, the other filling orders for the half dozen guests who milled around the bar. The four-piece band on the immediate left played lively dance music that kept a number of couples, mostly women, busy doing the cha-cha and mambo on the tiled area by the showers.
The music, the conversation, the sounds of preparation, all combined with the squeals of laughter from the children in the kiddy pool to create a soundtrack of summer delight. The air was permeated with the odor of coconut oil, baby oil, and assorted suntan creams, creating a sweetness that lingered about bare backs, and red legs and arms. Everywhere there was an abundance of naked flesh. Men with soft stomachs sucked in and held their breaths as they paraded past women in sunglasses with inscrutable eyes. Young women postured on the lounges, unfastening the tops of their bathing suits, but just so far. Dangling straps tempted the imaginations of men who stared through the glare.
The water in the Olympic-size pool was a cool aqua blue. It jetted in through the mouths of two stone lion faces, creating a refreshingly clear white foam. The lifeguard sat on his high chair looking important, but stoic, as he observed the action from his seemingly aloof position. He was statuesque, the “god of sunfun,” with his bleached blond hair and enviable tan. His muscles glistened when he occasionally blew his whistle and gestured at teenagers who were getting too wild in the pool.
Sandi and Alison paraded between the rows of chaise lounges as they approached the main section. Sandi wore a long terrycloth robe and wide sunglasses. Her thongs slapped the tile as she sauntered along. Alison trailed behind her, wearing a conservative one-piece that pulled her bosom so tightly against her it diminished the size of her breasts but exaggerated the plumpness in her rear end. She carried her beach towel over her shoulder and, without the benefit of sunglasses, squinted her eyes practically closed. Suddenly Sandi stopped and turned slowly to the left, gazing out over the crowd.
“I don’t see him, damn it.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Grant. He usually sits in the section closest to the band. Sometimes they ask him to sing. I wanted you to see how gorgeous he is in a bathing suit.”