Book Club

That fateful summer I had found a job at an ancient hotel on the rocky coast of Maine. I was young and just out of hotel school, but the work required only a necktie and decent social graces. I qualified, barely.

The place was open only four months a year and never made a profit, even though it was located in an area of old wealth. It owed its continued existence to the local tycoons, who supported it as a convenient place to stash their excess guests. I was hired to be the Assistant Manager. The Manager, Mr. Royce, was a kindly, elderly gentleman, and the owners and clientele could afford to be gracious too. The relaxed atmosphere was important to me, because it let me occasionally find time to help my dad on his lobster boat. He was getting older, and the work was hard and unrewarding.

Unfortunately, not many other working folks could afford to live locally, so it wasn't easy to find friends. I spent most of my time off either hiking, for stimulation, or working on my rotten short stories, for depression. Stringing the words together was fun, but character and plot were elusive. I sometimes wrote at the town library, for inspiration.

The charming little library occupied the shell of a former white clapboard church. Today, the big arched windows were letting in a lot of sun, and the sounds and smells of mown grass, gulls, and the boundless ocean were wafting in on a cool sea breeze. The air was so fresh it made your skin tingle.

The Saturday volunteer librarian, Katherine, was a breath of fresh air, too. She was a nice-looking young summer resident who always wore ankle-length skirts and high-necked, long-sleeved blouses. I usually kidded around with her on my way in and out. She was fun. I had decided she should be my muse. Today, though, she was spending a lot of time talking with a preppy-looking young fellow wearing a little bow tie, of all things. He was sitting a few tables in front of me, so I was able to watch from under my eyebrows as they argued in whispers. Katherine was calm, but as the discussion went on the guy grew visibly upset and whispered louder and louder. Finally Katherine turned on her heel and marched away. He slammed his book shut, packed up and left. Given this immense breach of decorum, everyone watched him stalk out.

Only the rhythmic roar of the waves on the shore -- hey, that wasn't bad! - was left to inspire me. I had to know what happened. I made a point of looking Katherine's way as she roamed the aisles, re-shelving books and answering questions. I finally caught her eye.

She came over. "Can I help you?"

"I need inspiration."

She gave me her patience-it's-only-a-child smile. "You might read some other fiction. There are lots of good examples."

"They've already been written, though!" I whined.

She looked around for other, more mature patrons who might need help, but finding none, settled into the chair across from me. "Goodness, didn't your parents ever tell you not to show emotion?"

She was smiling, but I knew she was serious. Stiff upper lip. Never let them see you sweat. Class is grace under pressure. Katherine, like most summer residents here, was old New England aristocracy, descended from a long line of impeccably-bred Brahmins. One of the "Lowells speak only to Cabots, and Cabots speak only to God" crowd.

"Besides," she continued, "if I inspire you, you'll have to credit me as a co-author. If it's bad, of course, I'll just lurk in the acknowledgments."

"Oh, don't worry," I said. "It'll bad. My prose reads like exposition and my dialog sounds like a legal brief. This one needs some good characters. You look interesting. Tell me all your secrets?" Did I mention that on top of being annoyingly rich and smart she was hot, in a thin, WASPy kind of way? She had actual breasts large enough to stretch a blouse even when she slouched, silky long brown hair, a lovely smile, and hot wrists and ankles.

"My private life is none of your business, of course, Dave."

"That guy with the tie looked unhappy. Was a book mis-shelved?"

She sighed. "He wanted me to get him into a club. Can you imagine actually asking?"

"Aha!" I cried, very softly of course. "Conflict! Meaningful social dynamics! I could write about it!"

"Shhhhh, keep it down!" I could barely hear her. She smiled again, though. "He's not going in your story!"

"Is he an ex? What happened? How could he walk out on such a pretty librarian?" I squelched the 'fucking gorgeous.' I'd been absorbing the culture at the hotel for months now.

She looked around for patrons within earshot and whispered, "He's never been a boyfriend. Just stop it!"

"Maybe you need a boyfriend, then?" I asked hopefully. As the son of a lobstah fisherman, I knew I was NOCD, so I wasn't really serious. Still, she looked at me appraisingly before walking off.

That was interesting. I had a hard time focusing on my draft for a while.

She studiously ignored me all afternoon, so at closing time I waited until she was at the front desk before walking up. "Can I check something out?" I asked.

"And that would be?"

"I'd like to check out a librarian," I clarified as flirtatiously as possible.

"Haven't you been doing that all afternoon?" She paused, and then resumed work. "Do you even have a library card? Or do you just sit here swilling our coffee and stalking our personnel?"

"What's the loan period on librarians, two weeks? And, can I renew? You're a serious distraction from my Great American Short Story, just gliding around here looking all hot." Whoops.

"Well, . . . we're here to serve our patrons. Be at the hotel in a few minutes and we can discuss it. I drink Sauvignon Blanc," she said, carting away a bunch of returns.

****

The hotel was at the head of the charming little harbor. Sunlight sparkled off the ripples and sailboats slipped silently by as we sat on the deck and sipped. Time passed easily. Eventually her third $17 half-glass of wine was nearly empty and we were both feeling expansive and philosophical.

"People here are generally nice. Polite. Courtly. Generous, even," she observed. "And that's great. No one ever misbehaves publicly or talks about money or sex or politics. That would be rude. But some of the young people here think it can get a little dull. Maybe you agree. I see you're reduced to flirting with librarians in your free time."

"I can see how it might be a little slow. No one's on Tinder; it might get around. An orgy would mean too many thank-you notes."

"Right. And then Daddy would leave all my money in trust for me just like Uncle Harry did. Except for that, we'd be having this discussion on my yacht in the Med."

"So what do you do for excitement? Can't you just be stealthy?"

"Discreet is the word you're looking for. Daddy's always watching, so I have to be super careful. If I misbehave . . . do not pass go, do not collect four hundred million dollars."

Oh.

"Of course it would be less after taxes," she added modestly.

"Well, . . . . so anyway, what do you do for fun that's discreet? I need some material for my next story."

She gave me another one of those long looks. "You could apply for our book club. It's a young group. Usually it's all summer people, but maybe we could make an exception. Let me see if we have an opening. I'll let you know. But no stories!"

That certainly sounded exciting.

****

Drinks had gone a lot better than I expected. Katherine was nice, in a reserved, upper-crust, patrician sort of way, and it didn't hurt that her visible parts were pretty hot. I went to the library again the next Saturday and stopped at the desk on my way in.

Katherine came right over. "Sorry I never got back to you about the Club," she said. "We do have an opening, though, for a male member. Frankly, you're not in our usual demographic, but I'd like you to meet some of the other members anyway. I think it could work, and you're going to need a seconder and two supporters to get in, so you should get to know some people."

By usual demographic, I guessed she meant idle rich. "Sounds very exclusive."

"It is. And very private, too, by the way. Just don't talk about the Club at all and you'll be fine."

"Does this involve espionage? Are you with the Mossad? Because I'd need to write a whole book about that."

"No! I told you, no stories! You'll understand, if you can just keep quiet long enough."

Now the Book Club sounded more intriguing. Also, Katherine didn't seem to think I was an Untouchable, despite my modest origins. I took a chance and invited her to go for a hike. To my surprise, she accepted.

****

We decided to climb a long granite ridge that had views of the ocean. Katherine showed up in an almost normal outfit -- expensive white polo, fashionably ripped cut-offs, and ragged sneakers. We started in pine forest, but this being Maine we broke into open air after only a few hundred feet.

It was more of a chat than a hike. Clearly, her world was different. There was nothing she ever really needed to do -- not working, not chores, certainly not budgeting -- and that bothered her. She wished she had more purpose but couldn't even begin to move the needle on her finances. She had to behave, but she wasn't ready to become a domestic goddess and bake cookies. She did volunteering, but locally it seemed like high-society make-work, and she wasn't brave enough to do Ebola nursing in Africa. She felt trapped. First world problems, I thought. It was hard to be sympathetic.

As we strolled higher the world opened up around us. Coastal hills ringed us to the North, and pine-covered islands and the dark blue ocean stretched endlessly to the South. The breeze grew stronger as we climbed, and Katherine put her long brown hair in a ponytail. Blueberries were growing wild in the cracks in the granite. We marveled at how nice Maine can be, for four months a year.

There was a flat spot near the very top, at the edge of a steep drop-off. Katherine raced up onto it first, forgetting to tell me it was a race until she was halfway there. I climbed up and stood behind her. We took in the view. Gulls wheeled below us. Tiny lobster boats plied the waters. There was a cool, whistling breeze, and I put my hands on her elbows to steady her. She had a lovely, graceful neck that I suddenly wanted to kiss. We were so close that when we swayed, an important part of me embarrassingly brushed a projecting part of her. She looked over her shoulder at me and then backed into me, parking herself firmly against me. The signal was breathtakingly clear.

We pretended to be admiring the view.

". . . . Is this a date?" she asked finally.

"Apparently."

There was more silence. I assumed she was considering the implications of slumming around with an assistant manager. I hoped she was going to be modern about it, but I supposed her family might not be. I held my breath.

"Good." She leaned back against my chest. I tried to calm my breathing. All around us, the raucous cheers of gulls filled the deep blue sky.

****

Katherine had set up cocktails with some other Book Club members on the hotel deck. They were waiting for me at the table with Katherine. All were attractive. Victoria was a rapier-thin, aristocratic looking bottle blond who was loaded down with expensive jewelry. Shiny money, then -- second generation wealth at best. "Not Vicky!" she announced sternly as she gave me a limp handshake. Another, Becky, looked friendlier. She was plumper, but most of the extra weight was up front. Her breasts were almost as big as her head, and her custom-tailored sundress conformed perfectly to their curves. The third, Jacqueline, was at least half Black, with long eyelashes, improbable blue eyes, and a face that belonged in ads for extravagant diamond necklaces. She was pushed back from the table to accommodate her legs, which were long, toned, and occasionally tensing like a sprinter's in the blocks. She reminded me of a hot sports car at idle. "Jackie," she said, pronouncing it with a French 'J.'

"So this is your project, then," said Not Vicky to Katherine, not smiling.

Becky said, "Hey, Vicky! Chill! He looks nice!" Not Vicky frowned.

We had a short discussion over expensive drinks about my background and credentials. Katherine recited my CV and summarized, "Dave grew up in Maine and went to a good hospitality management school. He has a lot of authority here at the hotel." Not Vicky suddenly looked more interested. Katherine continued, "I think he might fit in. He's a good age. He hikes a lot and wishes he could write short stories, and he's socially acceptable when he's not showing off his juvenile sense of humor." She smiled at me as she slid in the needle. I'd survive. Jackie laughed comfortably. Not Vicky smirked. Becky looked sympathetic.

Not Vicky's questions were all about what I could do at the hotel. Becky asked whether she could buy lobsters from my Dad. Jackie laughed at everything but said less than the others. I occasionally felt her staring at me.

Mercifully, Not Vicky said she had to leave after an hour. Katherine walked me back to my office. "Sorry about that," she said. "Victoria is Security Chair and pretty influential. I think she'll want you in the Club, but maybe not for your charming personality. Becky is our Secretary this year, which means she does nothing now but will be our next President. Everyone likes her, and her family owns half the hotel. Zhackie is Party Chair, and she's one of the hotel backers. I'll see what they thought and let you know. Are you free tomorrow at five? If they approve, we'll have some other points to cover." She patted my arm, smiled, and wheeled away.

On my way back to my cozy little room in the staff wing, my brain was running fast. Katherine was pretty cool for a million-heir, and she seemed intent on elevating my social standing, which certainly wouldn't hurt my prospects at the hotel. And I liked her more and more. She was smart and funny, and we enjoyed kidding each other. The question was, why did a Book Club need a Security Chair?

****

At 5 o'clock I commandeered the best table for two on the deck and pre-ordered a glass of Katherine's usual wine. She acted grateful, even though it was a trivial gesture that saved her exactly zero percent of her net worth, to ten decimals. We talked, this time about me, my family, lobstering, and living hand to mouth. I explained how my Dad and I had put me through school with scholarships, loans and lousy jobs.

Clearly most of this perfectly ordinary experience was totally foreign to her. She acted impressed. "Dave, that sounds great and awful, too. I can hardly imagine doing anything like that myself. You must have a real sense of accomplishment."

"I dunno," I said. "I never thought about it like that. Dad always says there are some things we owe our future selves."

"He sounds like my Dad," she said.

We chatted on but eventually she looked at her watch. "Hey," she exclaimed, "we have to talk about the Club before this goes any further." I wondered what might be going further, so I just nodded. "I want your agreement that tonight will be strictly confidential," she continued. "This is important. A lot of these Book Club people support the hotel. They could affect your employment. Understand?"

I frowned as though I might actually be deciding something, then gestured for her to proceed.

She drew a deep breath. "OK . . . first, I have to fill you in on the Club. It started almost 100 years ago as a way for some of the women here to occupy their idle summer evenings, pre-TV, but now it's more of a social club. For you, it would be a great introduction to the summer families who own and support the hotel. A serious member-vetting process is how we keep it interesting, and we don't want outsiders to know who's a member for fear of jealousy and hard feelings, among other things. So there's an oath of silence about the Club and who belongs. If it does come up, it's just a book group. OK so far?"

"Sounds easy enough."

"It's not. Inevitably, after all these years of secrecy, there are rumors. The Club has become kind of an urban legend. Some people think it's elitist, and they resent it. Some people probably think we run a prostitution ring or sacrifice children to Satan. If it gets out that you're a member, it could affect your reputation. Or people may suspect you're a member and ask you to get them in, which can be awkward."

"Like that guy in the bow tie the other day?"

"Exactly. Now, by charter, the Club is still run by women. I'm one of them. In fact, I'm the Membership chair."

"So bow-tie guy was on to something."

"Yes, but the Club never, ever puts anything in writing, especially electronically, so I was sure he could never prove it."

"So if you don't mind my asking, what's the big draw? Now that there's TV and Tinder and a bar scene and all, do you really need a cure for dull summers up here?"

"I'm just getting to that: Over the years, the Club has dropped the book discussions. It's morphed into a social club for dating. It's sort of an off-line dating app, actually. That's very useful in our group. We come and go a lot, we need to be very discreet, and we don't have much time to find friends like ourselves while we're here. It's convenient because members are carefully pre-selected, everyone has to prove they're healthy and protected, and most importantly, it's totally confidential. Everything is done face-to-face, so there are no potentially embarrassing written or electronic traces. You have to agree to that.

"The other unique thing is that women have always run the Club, and our longstanding rule is that women always do the asking. That's hardly new. It's just kind of a permanent Sadie Hawkins day, or like that app where women go first.

"Now, of course guys are free to decline an invitation, but in practice people don't like it and it's almost never done. If you refuse too often, or if you're unenthusiastic, you'll be gently asked to resign. Usually people only resign if they leave the area or get into an exclusive relationship, but you should be aware that sometimes people are just asked to go. Those are the rules. OK?"

"I guess . . . ."

"Great! Now . . . you have the whole evening, I hope?"

We walked to her tiny rental car and drove along the coast of the harbor. The low sun was glinting off the dark blue water and filtering through the ancient pines along the shore. The coastal hills were casting long shadows. It was beautiful, like Katherine. She rolled her window down and grinned at me as she steered with her knees and put her hair in a ponytail again. I liked ponytail Katherine. She reached over and squeezed my hand.

We entered the marina. All you could see was boats, boats, boats in their cradles, but Katherine expertly wended her way through them and parked by the top of a long gangplank. She entered the combination for the locked gate and we walked down onto an enormous floating dock. At the end was a gigantic, looming motor yacht with ultra-modern, Miami-Vice lines. Katherine saw me gaping at it. "That's not ours," she said. Of course; silly me. That was first-gen money. Katherine took my hand again and we continued down the dock until I saw what I should have expected: a yacht with classic, elegant, upright lines. It was immaculate, gleaming in the final rays of the evening sun. It was big but not preposterous. It was perfect. Like Katherine. She led me up the gangplank, pulling me by the hand.

I half expected to find other Club members aboard, but we were alone. Katherine led me through a luxurious, professionally decorated salon and into the galley. She pried opened the door of a huge wine cooler, selected a bottle, and handed it to me. Then she located a couple of crystal wine glasses, a corkscrew and a box of crackers. We went out and sat on the afterdeck, overlooking the harbor channel. I poured us each a glass, and we clinked. She opened the crackers and we each grabbed a handful. The sun was setting. Yachts were returning to their moorings for the night. It was lovely. She was lovely. It was a dream. There was only one problem: I was wondering what the hell I, the son of an impoverished lobster fisherman, could possibly be doing here, hobnobbing with American royalty on the family superyacht.