Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brittany had been at the beach club for almost a week now, long enough to know how it all worked.
Mornings started slow. Members trickling in, claiming their usual spots, ordering the same drinks they'd ordered every day since June began.
The lunch rush hit around noon and lasted until two.
Then the lull, when the families with young kids packed up and the serious tanners settled in for the afternoon, and the pool deck went quiet except for the splash of someone diving in and the low murmur of conversation.
She'd gotten the hang of it. The rhythms of the desk, the names of the regulars, the smile that came automatically now when someone approached.
The beach club paid well and tipped better, and most of the members were fine.
Some were even nice. The ones who remembered her name, who asked how her summer was going, who said please and thank you without making it sound like a chore.
And then there were the others.
Mrs. Campbell arrived at eleven-thirty, which was earlier than usual. Brittany saw her coming from across the deck. Designer sunglasses, oversized hat, the stride of someone who expected the path to clear itself.
"Good morning," Brittany said as she approached. "How can I help you?"
"My cabana." Mrs. Campbell removed her sunglasses. "It's occupied."
Brittany checked the tablet. "I have you down for Cabana 4, starting at noon."
"I reserved it for eleven."
"The system shows noon. Let me just—"
"I specifically requested eleven. I spoke with someone on the phone yesterday. Whoever it was clearly made an error." She sighed loudly, glancing around like she was looking for anyone more competent. "Is this your first week?"
"I've been here almost a week, yes, but—"
"That explains it."
Brittany scanned the notes. Nothing about an eleven o'clock request. Cabana 4 had been booked from ten to twelve by another member, the Hardings, who were currently using it, their children's sand toys scattered across the deck.
"I apologize for the mix-up," Brittany said, keeping her voice even. "It looks like there may have been a miscommunication. Cabana 4 is currently in use, but it should be available at noon as scheduled. Can I offer you a chair on the deck while you wait, or perhaps—"
"I don't want a chair on the deck." Mrs. Campbell's voice had risen. People were looking. "I want my cabana. The one I reserved. At eleven. This is ridiculous."
"I understand, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, the Hardings have the cabana until noon. I can check if any other cabanas are available—"
"I don't want another cabana. I want Cabana 4. It's the only one with adequate shade at this hour, which is why I specifically requested it for eleven." She looked Brittany up and down. "I need to speak with someone who can actually help me."
The Harding children were staring now. So was the couple at the bar. So was Ryan, who'd paused mid-pour to watch the exchange.
Brittany felt the heat rising to her face. "Let me get the manager—"
"Yes. Do that."
The manager appeared before Brittany could move. It was Pam, who'd been hovering near the pool and had probably heard the whole thing. She cut across the deck without hurrying, the way someone moves when they've done this before.
"Mrs. Campbell, always lovely to see you. What seems to be the issue?"
Mrs. Campbell repeated her complaint, this time with additional details about her phone call, her specific requests, her long-standing membership, her expectations of service.
Pam nodded along, making sympathetic sounds, occasionally glancing at Brittany with an expression that was impossible to read.
"I completely understand," Pam said when she'd finished.
"This is clearly our mistake, and I'm so sorry for the confusion.
Brittany, could you ask the Hardings if they'd be willing to relocate to Cabana 7?
It has excellent afternoon shade, and we can offer them complimentary drinks for the inconvenience. "
Brittany stared at her. The Hardings had done nothing wrong. They'd booked their cabana through the proper channels and arrived on time. And now she was supposed to ask them to move because someone else had thrown a fit?
"Of course," she said, because what else could she say?
She walked to Cabana 4. Mrs. Harding looked up from her magazine, already resigned.
"I'm so sorry," Brittany said quietly. "There's been a scheduling error with the reservations. Would you mind relocating to Cabana 7? We'll comp your drinks for the afternoon."
Mrs. Harding glanced toward the desk, where Mrs. Campbell was gathering her things with an air of vindication. Then she turned back to Brittany.
"It's fine," she said, though it clearly wasn't. "Kids, pack up. We're moving."
The Harding children complained. Mrs. Harding shushed them. Brittany helped carry the sand toys to the new cabana, face burning, stomach in a knot.
When she returned to the front desk, Pam pulled her aside.
"A word?"
They stepped into the small office behind the check-in area. Pam closed the door.
"You handled that well," she said, "but I need you to be more proactive about managing expectations. When a member says they made a specific request, we accommodate. Even if the system doesn't reflect it."
"But the system—"
"The system isn't the point. Member satisfaction is the point." Pam's voice dropped. "Mrs. Campbell is on the board. Her husband's family has been members here for thirty years. It's not about who's right. It's about who's here."
Brittany nodded. Said the things she was supposed to say. Left the office feeling like she'd swallowed something sharp.
The deck had gone back to normal. Mrs. Campbell had installed herself in Cabana 4, drink in hand, triumphant. The Hardings were in Cabana 7, their children splashing in the shallow end of the pool.
Brittany returned to her station. Pulled up the tablet. Checked in the next member with a brightness she didn't feel.
At three o'clock, she took her break.
The staff break area was a small patio behind the main building, hidden from member view by a hedge and a fence. A few plastic chairs, a table with an ashtray nobody used anymore, a view of the service entrance and the dumpsters.
Brittany sat down and put her head in her hands.
"Rough day?"
She looked up. Ryan had appeared with two glasses of water, condensation beading on the sides. He handed her one and dropped into the chair across from her.
"You could say that."
"The Campbell thing?" He shook his head. "I watched the whole exchange. You were way more professional than she deserved."
"Didn't help much."
"It never does." He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out.
"How do you deal with it?" Brittany asked, turning the glass in her hands.
"Remind myself it's temporary. They don't actually know me, so what they think doesn't mean anything." He took a sip of water. "And I focus on what I'm working toward. What this is all leading to."
"What's that?"
"College. Environmental engineering, maybe. Something that keeps me near the water but isn't about serving drinks to people who don't see me."
Brittany looked at him differently then. She'd assumed he was just another summer worker, putting in hours, killing time. She was revising that.
"That sounds like a real plan."
"More like a goal. We'll see if I get there." He shrugged. "You?"
"I don't have one yet. I'm a college sophomore. Everyone keeps asking what I want to do with my life like I'm supposed to have an answer."
"You don't need an answer yet. Just keep asking the question."
They sat together in silence for a minute. The hedge rustled in the breeze. A radio played from inside, nineties rock, a song her parents would know.
"There's a thing tonight," Ryan said. "Some people from work, some locals. Bonfire down by the jetty. Nothing fancy, just hanging out."
Brittany studied him. "A bonfire?"
"It's kind of a tradition. Every couple of weeks, when the weather's good. The summer people have their deck parties. We have this."
"And you're inviting me."
"You work here. That makes you one of us." He finished his water. "Come if you want. Don't come if you don't. No pressure."
He stood, collected both glasses, and headed back toward the bar.
Brittany stayed on the patio for another few minutes, watching the hedge sway.
The bonfire was down past the jetty, south of the main beach, in a stretch of sand that belonged to no particular street or address.
Brittany had told the moms she was meeting some people from work. The moms hadn't pried. Sophie had given her a look—she'd already drawn her own conclusions—and Brittany had ignored it.
She walked down the beach as the light faded, sneakers in hand, the sand still holding the day's heat. The town was settling into evening behind her, the boardwalk thinning out, the restaurants winding down from dinner, families heading home to shower off the salt and sun.
The bonfire glowed ahead, throwing shadows onto the jetty rocks.
They were spread out on blankets and towels, maybe fifteen people, maybe more. Someone had a cooler. Someone else had a speaker playing something mellow, acoustic guitar and a voice that blurred with the crash of the waves. A few faces she recognized from the club. Most she didn't.
Ryan was already on his feet, walking toward her. He moved loose and easy, like he had nowhere else to be, and it caught her off guard.
"You made it." He stopped in front of her, looking genuinely pleased.
"I almost talked myself out of it three times on the walk over."
"But you didn't."
"But I didn't."
He smiled. The fire caught his face at an angle, and she noticed his eyes were more gray than blue.