The Beach Club by Elin Hilderbrand Page A

thirty-one years old. I had a career, you see, and many people, my father included, thought that was like hammering the final pegs into the coffin of my spinsterhood. But Maximilian married me anyway.”
    “So you were married for forty-five years,” Jeremy said. “How many children do you have?”
    Lacey wondered if there were a formula for determining how many questions a person would ask before finding the exact wrong question, the question that brought a second too long of silence, the question that caused the voice of heartache to answer. Jeremy had found it early on; Lacey hated to answer this question.
    “No children,” she said. “As I told you, we married late.”
    Jeremy fixed himself another cracker. “You said you were thirty-one. That’s not too old to have children.”
    “It was for us,” Lacey said. She had always blamed her barrenness on her advanced age—thirty-four by the time Maximilian returned from the war—although now she was programs on TV about childless couples and she realized it could have been the result of any number of complications. The fact was, she hadn’t gotten pregnant and she’d wanted to adopt. But Maximilian refused—it was the only time in forty-five years they had argued. They would not adopt! He was so stubborn about this, Lacey could hardly believe he was the same man she had married. By way of explanation, Maximilian told her he once had a chum who adopted a baby, and it turned out the baby was one-quarter Japanese. Who cared if the baby were one-quarter Japanese—or full-blooded Japanese for that matter? Lacey asked. She hadn’t been in the war, Maximilian said. True, this was true; Lacey hadn’t been in the war. But that had little to do with the matter at hand. Lacey had simply wanted a baby.
    She looked at the photograph of Maximilian, which Jeremy returned to its upright position. She and Maximilian had a good life—a rich and varied life filled with work, travel, erudite people. But Maximilian didn’t stick it out with her the way he promised. He died in his sleep. He wasn’t even sick; it was as though he were just too tired to keep on living. Too tired! They fell asleep together, holding hands, but Lacey woke up alone. Clearly, when Maximilian made his decision about adoption he hadn’t realized how alone she would be.
    “Would you like another drink?” Lacey asked.
    “I can fix them,” Jeremy said.
    “Good,” she said, settling into her chair. “Because I’m getting comfortable.”
    Jeremy made the drinks and when he handed Lacey hers, she tasted it. “Very nice. Now tell me, Jeremy, about your career plans. I hear Nantucket is merely a resting stop for you, on your way to Hollywood.”
    Jeremy nodded. “That’s right. I’m headed west in the fall. I want to be an agent.”
    Agent, Lacey thought, like the FBI? No, that couldn’t be right. There was that old term, agency man; what had that meant? Or maybe not agent but aged, like hereself.
    “Agent?” she said.
    “I used to think I wanted to act,” Jem said. “I tried in college and it didn’t work out so well. But I like business, so I figure I’ll go out to L.A. and help people who can act. Represent them. Make them money. Be their friend.”
    The world had surely deteriorated if one now got paid for being a friend. “That sounds lovely,” Lacey said.
    Jeremy fixed himself yet another cracker. Well, he’d worked all day—it was understandable the boy would be hungry. Lacey was going to heat up a swordfish potpie for her dinner. She contemplated asking Jeremy to stay, but that seemed like too much.
    “What do your parents think of all this?” Lacey asked.
    A piece of cracker stuck in Jeremy’s throat and he coughed. Perhaps she had stumbled upon Jeremy’s sore spot. Perhaps the bulimic sister was a much safer topic than his parents.
    “They don’t know about California,” he said. “My parents want me close to home, especially with my sister all messed up. They want me