The Hotel Nantucket — Chapter no 11

11. The Blue Book

June 27, 2022

From: Xavier Darling ([email protected]) To: Employees of the Hotel Nantucket

Good morning, staff! I’m pleased to finally be able to announce a winner of the weekly bonus that I promised you all back on opening day. The winner for the week of June 20 was front-desk manager Alessandra Powell. Alessandra received a glowing review from one of our guests on TravelTattler for her outstanding customer service.

Congratulations, Alessandra! Keep up the good work!

XD

As they enter the final week of June, hotel operations lose their new- shoe stiffness and start to feel fluid and organic. (Speaking of shoes, Lizbet has traded in her stilettos for wedges, an idea she stole from Alessandra, and she’s far more comfortable.) There was one complaint on TravelTattler, about a missing Fendi scarf, that did some damage—a mystery that remains unsolved, according to Magda—but the rest of the reviews have been positive and Xavier finally relented and granted the first thousand-dollar bonus, to

Alessandra because some anonymous reviewer raved about her. (If Lizbet had to guess, she would say it was Mr. Brownlee from room 309; he made no secret of the fact that he found Alessandra to be the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.) Lizbet would rather have seen the bonus go to anyone else—Raoul, for example, the unsung hero of the evening bell desk, or Sweet Edie—but it went to Alessandra and no one has expressed any resentment. They’re probably intimidated.

Lizbet’s outlook has improved since Richie started working nights.

Lizbet now leaves the hotel at five thirty, fits in a run or a ride on her Peloton, makes herself some dinner (she’s so tired, she can usually only manage a tuna fish sandwich or ramen noodles), then takes her laptop to bed with the intention of catching up on current events or bingeing a show so that she has something to chat with the guests about, but most nights, she falls asleep within five minutes of getting in bed.

Lizbet hasn’t been out anywhere socially since she and JJ broke up, and now that she’s finally ready, invitations are lacking. She’d thought that she and Heidi Bick had semi-confirmed plans on the eighteenth, but when Lizbet texted to definitively confirm, Heidi canceled. She said she needed “couple time” with Michael. Being ditched for someone else’s couple time made Lizbet feel like a lonesome loser. Lizbet has other friends, but unfortunately, they’re all tethered in one way or another to the Deck, and Lizbet doesn’t feel she can reach out lest it seem like she’s poaching from JJ’s territory or, worse still, desperate. Again, she’s hurt that Goose and Wavy and Peyton all seem to have abandoned her or “chosen” JJ like they’re children in a divorce. Not only does Lizbet miss them but she

would like to know how things are going without her. Who has JJ put on the reservation book? Probably Peyton—she’s the most capable and would have been Lizbet’s choice if anyone had asked, which of course no one did.

It’s bright and early on the first of July—there’s something fresh and optimistic about the first of the month, and Lizbet has high hopes for occupancy at the hotel picking up. Edie pokes her head into Lizbet’s office and says, “There’s a woman out front who would like to speak with you.”

Lizbet jumps to her feet, ever mindful that Shelly Carpenter could appear at any moment. It’s the Fourth of July week, which is traditionally crazy busy, and it’s common knowledge that Shelly Carpenter tends to show up at hotels during stressful or extraordinary times.

But Lizbet’s spirits flag when she sees it’s Mrs. Amesbury. There is no universe where Mrs. Amesbury is actually Shelly Carpenter.

Mrs. Amesbury came to complain to Lizbet the day before because cute Mrs. Damiani was breastfeeding her infant son in the lobby and Mrs. Amesbury found it distasteful.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Amesbury?” Lizbet asks. It nearly hurts, but Lizbet manages to smile. Mr. Amesbury—he’s the kind of husband who carries his wife’s handbag—is standing behind Mrs.

Amesbury just as he was yesterday when Mrs. Amesbury complained about the breastfeeding.

Mrs. Amesbury holds out the Blue Book; it’s open to the restaurant section. “This has a glaring error.”

“Error?” Lizbet says, growing warm with panic. The Blue Book is her pet project. She double-checked all addresses, phone numbers,

hours of operation, websites, and other pertinent details such as dress code, price range, and reservation protocol. She’s very proud of the book and has actually considered submitting it to a mainstream publisher. The world needs a Nantucket guidebook written by an island insider. “What kind of error?”

“The Deck isn’t in here!” Mrs. Amesbury says. “It’s the most important and successful restaurant on the entire island and you forgot to include it!”

Lizbet blinks. She can’t pretend to feel surprised, because she knew this moment would come. Lizbet didn’t forget the Deck; she purposely left it out. It might seem like a startling omission, but Lizbet doesn’t care. There was no way she was putting JJ’s restaurant in the Blue Book.

Lizbet says, “I’m aware it’s not included, Mrs. Amesbury. I wanted to showcase the island’s other restaurants, ones you might not be familiar with. Have you ever eaten at Or, The Whale? What about Straight Wharf?”

“We’d like to eat at the Deck,” Mrs. Amesbury says. “On the evening of the Fourth.”

“Ah,” Lizbet says. The Deck is magical on the Fourth of July. Not only does JJ throw down a pig roast with family-style sides of baked beans, pickled chowchow, corn bread, and potato salad, but guests can enjoy a view of the fireworks across the harbor. Last year, Lizbet hired a bluegrass band and people danced until midnight. “The Deck probably sold out for that evening weeks ago.”

“I’d like you to check for me, please,” Mrs. Amesbury says.

“Have you ever eaten at the Tap Room?” Lizbet lowers her voice.

“They have a secret Big Mac that’s not on the menu.”

“I’ve never eaten a Big Mac in my life,” Mrs. Amesbury says.

“We’d like to go to the Deck.”

Lizbet nods robotically. “Their phone lines open at three. I’ll have Edie call.”

“I’d prefer you to call,” Mrs. Amesbury says. “You’re the general manager; you’ll have the most clout. If it’s as difficult to get a reservation as you claim, we’ll need every advantage.”

Ha-ha-ha-ha! Lizbet thinks. “I’d be happy to call myself, Mrs.

Amesbury. I’ll call at three o’clock on the nose.”

But at three o’clock on the nose, Lizbet is up on the fourth floor testing out the ladder that leads to the hotel’s widow’s walk. The walk is quite large, probably big enough to hold thirty people, and Lizbet is thinking of offering a viewing platform to guests for the fireworks.

Something to rival the Deck?

The ladder is rickety and steep. Lizbet manages to climb up, but not without effort. This won’t work for the Fourth, but even so, she unhooks the hatch door and pulls herself up so she can take in the dazzling panorama. Lizbet can see all the way down to the yellow, green, and blue umbrellas of the Beach Club; she can see Brant Point Light and the streets of town in a neat four-block grid.

“What are you doing?”

Lizbet gasps. Wanda, holding her notebook and pencil, is standing at the bottom of the ladder.

“What are you doing?” Lizbet asks. “I thought we made it clear this floor is off-limits.”

Wanda nods seriously. “I know. But this is where the ghost lives.”

Lizbet nearly snaps, There is no ghost, why isn’t your mother keeping a closer eye on you? This hotel isn’t your playhouse, but Wanda, with her white-blond hair and her thick glasses, is too adorable to scold. She’s wearing a red gingham dress with strawberries embroidered on the rickrack in front. Other eight-year- old girls, Lizbet suspects, are waltzing around in cutoffs and crop tops, checking their Instagram accounts.

Lizbet closes the trapdoor tight and takes Wanda by the hand.

“Let’s go.”

When they reach the desk, Mrs. Amesbury is waiting. “Did you secure my reservation at the Deck?”

Lizbet considers saying, Yes, I called at three and they’re booked solid. But she can’t bring herself to lie. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Amesbury, I completely spaced about it. I’ll call now.”

Mrs. Amesbury nods with her lips pressed tight, as though she expected this kind of dropped ball. “I’ll wait.”

What can Lizbet do but pick up the phone and call the Deck?

“Good afternoon, the Deck.” The female voice that answers is familiar, but it’s not Peyton. Lizbet runs through her former staff, trying to put a name to the voice. Or maybe JJ hired someone new?

“Good afternoon, this is Lizbet Keaton calling from the Hotel Nantucket?” She waits for a response but is met with silence. “We have a party of two here at the hotel who would like a reservation on Monday evening at”—Lizbet looks at Mrs. Amesbury, who holds up seven fingers—“seven o’clock.” There’s no way Mrs. Amesbury is

going to get seven. Five thirty or nine thirty maybe, maybe, if there’s been a last-minute cancellation.

“By Monday, you mean the Fourth?” the voice says.

“Yes, the Fourth of July. At seven o’clock. For two people.” Lizbet might as well be asking for the moon to be shot out of the sky or for the ocean to be dyed purple.

“Very good,” the voice says. “What’s the name?”

Lizbet is rendered temporarily speechless. Is it possible Mrs.

Amesbury will get a seven o’clock reservation on the Fourth of July?

Have things at the Deck gotten so bad that they have a table available? Lizbet isn’t sure how to feel about this. She wants to gloat —the restaurant is failing without her—but she also feels sad that the place she invested so much energy in has fallen like a sloppy Jenga tower.

“Amesbury,” she says. “And again, they’re staying with us here at the Hotel Nantucket.”

Mrs. Amesbury flashes Lizbet a smug smile. Lizbet can hear the words I told you so.

“Please let the Amesburys know they’re number fifty-seven on the wait list for that date and time. Should a table become available, we’ll let you know.”

“Ah,” Lizbet says. She’ll be able to volley the I told you so right back to Mrs. Amesbury, but she’s not happy about it. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed, I guess. Thank you so much.”

“Anything for you, Lizbet,” the voice says.

“I’m sorry, I know I recognize your voice, but I can’t quite place it,”

Lizbet says. “Who is this?”

There’s a beat of silence before the voice speaks again. “It’s Christina.”

Lizbet hangs up and somehow finds the ability to smile at Mrs.

Amesbury. “You’re number fifty-seven on the wait list,” she says.

“Shall we try the Tap Room?”

This is why nobody from the Deck has reached out, Lizbet thinks.

They didn’t want to tell her, or they assumed she already knew: Christina is managing the front of the house. Christina is the new Lizbet.

When Lizbet gets off work, she heads straight into the Blue Bar like a woman possessed. Service for the evening has just begun, so the place has the feel of a Broadway show before the curtain lifts. The copper dome lights over the bar gleam; the stools are perfectly aligned and set at an inviting angle: Come sit on me! The stereo is playing Tony Bennett singing “The Best Is Yet to Come.” Lizbet has wanted to stop in for a cocktail since day one, but she was too tired and too embarrassed about being alone. But tonight, she needs a drink and a chance to quietly process JJ’s newest betrayal.

The bartender appears, her blue button-down pressed, cuffs turned back neatly at the wrists. She grins. “Hey, Lizbet.”

“Hey, Petey,” Lizbet says. Patricia “Petey” Casstevens is a Nantucket superstar; for ten years, she lit up the front bar at Cru.

She’s in her fifties, weighs a hundred pounds with a pocketful of change, and she’s fiercely loyal to all Nantucket locals.

“I’ll have the Heartbroken, please,” Lizbet says.

Petey furrows her brow. “The…oh, you mean the Heartbreaker?

The drink Chef named for you?”

That’s right—Lizbet is the breaker, not the broken. This is as good an affirmation as any; she’ll write it in her phone. “He told you that?”

“It’s the best drink on the menu.” Petey goes about mixing the various juices like an alchemist and she includes an eye-popping pour of Belvedere vodka. “Strong drink for a strong woman,” she says. “Word on the cobblestones is the Deck’s not half as good without you there.” This is nice to hear, though Lizbet suspects Petey is fluffing her.

Lizbet revisits the last time she saw JJ, when he’d gotten down on one knee in the crushed shells of the parking lot and, unless she’s misremembering, proposed. Now, only three and a half weeks later, Christina is back, swirling her oaky chardonnays in JJ’s emotional life. JJ is such a skunk. Such a disingenuous jerk. Why doesn’t knowing this make the hurt go away? Why does finding out that Christina is now working—and, who is she kidding, sleeping—with JJ make him seem more desirable? It’s a false construct, Lizbet tells herself. We all want what we can’t have.

But this doesn’t make her feel any better.

Anything for you, Lizbet, Christina said while she stuck Mrs.

Amesbury in reservation Siberia.

Petey slides the Heartbreaker across the bar. Its deep red-orange color is even more mesmerizing than Lizbet remembers and she knows she should savor every sip—but she downs it in three long swallows. JJ and Christina are not only living rent-free in Lizbet’s head, they’ve moved in their new Crate and Barrel furniture. How does she evict them? With all the advances in medicine and

technology, why has someone not created a pill that cures heartbreak? Emotional penicillin. Why has someone not invented software that will sweep all traces of your ex out of your brain or an app that eliminates unrequited love?

“I’m going to tell Chef you’re here,” Petey says.

“Please don’t,” Lizbet says.

Petey clears the glass and winks. “He made me promise to tell him immediately if you ever came in. I’ll be back in a few seconds to make you another cocktail. I assume you’d like another?”

“You betcha,” Lizbet says.

Petey vanishes into the back for just an instant, then returns to shake up the second Heartbreaker. (Breaker, not broken! Lizbet thinks.) Tony Bennett is replaced by Elvis Costello singing “Alison.” I know this world is killing you. Lizbet focuses on being present. She is, finally, out. It’s a hurdle cleared. And not only is she out, but she’s at the Blue Bar! She runs her hands over the blue granite and admires how the late-afternoon sun catches the bright penny- sheathed wall; she looks for the ceiling panel that conceals the disco ball. The curved banquette upholstered in sapphire velvet would be a wonderful place to curl up and cry.

Maybe JJ and Christina will get married and have six kids and two Labradoodles, and JJ will coach football at the Boys and Girls Club and win citizenship awards, while Lizbet…what will Lizbet do? Work the front desk at a hotel that will receive a three- or possibly even two-key rating from Shelly Carpenter because the hotel is cursed or haunted or both—and that’s only if Shelly deigns to show up.

No, Lizbet won’t mope. She won’t engage in negative thinking.

She tries to recall an inspirational meme, but the only one that

comes to mind is the quote attributed to Socrates, and she’s sick of it.

Lizbet is careful to just sip her second cocktail. The strawberry and ginger and blood orange square-dance on her palate—spiraling out, reeling back in. She closes her eyes.

“It’s good, right?” Petey says. “Those strawberries were picked at Bartlett’s Farm this morning.”

“Did you tell Chef I was here?” Lizbet asks.

“I sure did.”

“Is he coming out?”

“Coming out here?” Petey says.

Yes, Lizbet thinks. That’s what chefs do when there’s a VIP—they come out to the dining room to say hello. It’s only a quarter past five, so there’s no way Mario is in the weeds yet.

“He doesn’t believe in it,” Petey says.

Lizbet feels stung; it’s another rejection—not that she cares one whit about Mario Subiaco. He’s full of himself.

She should probably leave. Even in 2022, there’s something a little pathetic about a woman sitting at a bar alone. Lizbet has a bottle of Krug champagne at home, languishing in the back of her fridge. She’ll drink the whole thing by herself. She was saving it for a monumental occasion, either good or bad. She had hoped, of course, for the former and gotten the latter, but there’s no denying that Christina taking over Lizbet’s job at the Deck is monumental.

Petey disappears into the back again and Lizbet can’t blame her for wanting to escape; Lizbet isn’t exactly a fountain of scintillating conversation. When Petey returns, she’s holding a silver julep cup lined with parchment and filled with golden, crispy, paper-thin potato

chips. Alongside these, she sets a dipping sauce that looks like creamy Thousand Island flecked with herbs.

“Our amnesia sauce,” she says. “It’s so good, it makes you forget everything else.”

Oh, but that this were true, Lizbet thinks. Then she tastes it—and for one sublime moment, she can’t remember her own name, much less the name of her ex-boyfriend or the wine rep he was sexting.

For the next few minutes, she exists in a bubble where it’s only her, the Heartbreaker, the blue granite, and the world’s best chips and dip.

Elvis Costello yields to Van Morrison, “Crazy Love.” The playlist isn’t helping her, but what does help is Petey appearing with a trio of deviled eggs, one topped with bacon, one sprinkled with snipped chives, the third crowned with diced sweet red pepper. Lizbet takes a bite of each. They’re perfection. If Lizbet closes her eyes, she could swear she was back in Minnetonka at the annual First Lutheran… “Chef calls these his church-picnic eggs,” Petey says.

Yes, precisely.

“Another Heartbreaker?” Petey asks.

“You betcha!” When Lizbet drinks, she starts sounding very Minnesota. “Please and thank you.” She’ll Uber home if she has to.

Other people have entered the bar and are tucked into the banquettes. Lizbet doesn’t know anyone—yet. The second she sees a familiar face, she’ll leave.

The third Heartbreaker arrives along with three chilled soup shooters—curried zucchini, cream of Vidalia onion, and a spicy watermelon gazpacho. Behind that are two hot chicken sliders with house-made pickles and cafeteria tacos, which are like the ones

Lizbet remembers from Clear Springs Elementary except the shells are crispier, the ground beef richer, the shredded cheese smokier, the tomatoes riper, and the iceberg crunchier. Lizbet takes a bite of this, a nibble of that. She watches sausages wrapped in puff pastry with some kind of mustard sauce go past her and she feels a pang of envy. She’ll get that next time, along with the painterly array of miniature vegetables from Pumpkin Pond Farm, served with buttermilk ranch. The food is so fresh and so fun and so flawlessly presented that Lizbet decides Mario Subiaco can have all the bragging rights he wants. The music picks up energy—Counting Crows, Eric Clapton. Lizbet bobs her head along. She hasn’t looked at her phone even once; she is not unproud of that. She’s a woman having fun at a bar alone. What was she afraid of?

Beatriz appears behind the bar, holding a tray of chilled shot glasses.

“Here’s our whipped cream concierge,” Petey says.

Whipped cream concierge! The third Heartbreaker has gone to Lizbet’s head and she gives a little shriek. What a gifted idea!

“Our flavors tonight are coconut and caramel apple,” Beatriz says.

“Would you like one?”

“You betcha!” Lizbet says. “One of each, please and thank you!”

Beatriz arranges the shot glasses in front of her and hands her a demitasse spoon. Lizbet starts with the coconut, which tastes like a mouthful of coconut cloud, then moves to the caramel apple.

A man takes a seat two over from Lizbet. “Hey, hot stuff,” he says to her, extending a hand. “I’m Brad Dover from Everett.”

“Hi?” Lizbet says. Brad Dover has a thick Southie accent and a meaty face and, no doubt, a closet filled with Bruins jerseys and a

bone to pick with Tom Brady.

He turns to Petey. “I’d like an Irish car bomb, please, dollface.”

The only problem with the Blue Bar, Lizbet decides, is that it’s open to the public, including people like Brad Dover from Everett, men who order Irish car bombs and call complete strangers “dollface” and “hot stuff.” It’s definitely time for her to go.

“I’ll take my check, please and thank you,” she says.

Petey raises her palms. “Everything is on the house.”

“You’re kidding,” Lizbet says. “Well, thank you, it was extraordinary.”

“You can’t leave yet,” says Brad Everett from Dover—or is it Brad Dover from Everett? She neither knows nor cares. “I just got here.”

Exactly, she thinks. She pulls out two twenties to leave for Petey as a tip, swivels away from Brad Dover, and comes face-to-face with the person who has taken the seat on the other side of her, and that person is Mario Subiaco. He’s in a white chef’s jacket and a White Sox cap, and he’s a little sweaty, which only serves to make him

even hotter than she remembers.

“Hey there, Heartbreaker,” he says.

She reels back in surprise. “I thought you didn’t come out of the kitchen.”

“There’s an exception to every rule,” he says. “How was your

food?”

“It was…it was…”

“That good?” he says.

“Better than that good,” she says—and to her mortification, she feels tears gathering. It’s the vodka, obviously; she’s had three Heartbreakers in just over an hour—who does that? A woman who is

eating out for the first time in months, a woman who has had her shoddily stitched-up heart ripped apart at the seams again. It’s not Christina’s gloating that’s making her cry. It’s kindness—the food itself and someone caring what she thought of it.

Mario smiles into his lap. “Well, thank you. I know you have high standards, so I was trying my hardest. I wasn’t sure about the cafeteria tacos.”

Lizbet laughs and discreetly wipes under her eyes. “They were a hell of a lot better than the ones our lunch lady Mrs. MacArthur used to serve up.”

“Good, good,” Mario says. He clears his throat. “So, listen, I have the night of the fifth off and I was hoping I could take you to dinner.”

“Hey, buddy boy,” Brad Dover from Everett says. “Buzz off. I’m taking her out.”

“No,” Lizbet says to Mario. “He’s not. And yes, I’d love to have dinner.” She grins. There’s no point trying to keep her cool, if she ever even had any, because Mario Subiaco is asking her out, which is a sentence that should be punctuated by ten exclamation points.

“Where shall we go?”

“I was thinking about the Deck,” Mario says. “How does that sound to you?”

Ha-ha-ha-ha! Lizbet thinks. Is this happening? Is this happening?

“Sounds perfect,” she says.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Mario says. “We have a reservation at eight.”