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 parlor 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
