The Hotel Nantucket — Chapter no 22

22. Cedar and Salt

August 22, 2022

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

Greetings, all, good morning— Although I am busy preparing for my trip across the pond, I have not forgotten about this week’s bonus. I’m pleased to announce Edith Robbins as our winner. One heartfelt letter described the myriad ways that Edith went above and beyond during a family’s extended stay. Wonderful job, Edith!

I will arrive Wednesday afternoon at 2:00.

Please prepare the footmen and the trumpeters! (Joking, of

course.) XD

Lizbet has known for months that Xavier would be arriving on August 24, but the date seemed impossibly far in the future, and then, as it drew closer, Lizbet was consumed with other things. However, time

did what it always does: it passed.

Xavier arrives tomorrow.

Lizbet waits until there’s a break between fitness classes, then enters the yoga studio, which is pleasantly dark. She sets one of the thick mats in the middle of the room and considers turning on some gamelan music but decides that the sound of gurgling water over river stones in the fountain is pleasing enough. She assumes a savasana pose and tries not to think.

Half an hour later, just as her eyes naturally flutter open—this room must have supernatural powers because she actually slept— there’s a light tap on the door. The door cracks open.

“Heartbreaker?”

It’s Mario. Lizbet loves the sound of his voice. She lies back down.

“Hey.” She nearly tells him to lock the door behind him so they can christen the yoga studio—but really, what is she thinking?

Mario stands over her, holding her espresso. “Edie told me you were down here and I almost didn’t believe her. What’s going on?”

“I needed to reset.” She stands up and kisses him. “And I did!”

“Well,” he says, handing her the coffee, “that makes one of us.”

“Are you nervous about Xavier?”

“He’s my boss too,” Mario says. “You noticed I tossed and turned last night?”

“You did?” Since they’ve been back together, Mario has spent every night at Lizbet’s cottage. Lizbet climbs into bed at a reasonable hour, wakes up when Mario comes in, then dozes right

back off. “What are you nervous about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“The bar is amazing, Mario,” Lizbet says. “It’s packed every night, and it has an absurdly high rating on every restaurant-review app.

It’s positioned to become every bit as iconic as the Blue Bistro, if not more so.”

Mario smiles but she can tell he’s not feeling it.

“I’m serious,” she says.

“I know,” Mario says. “But men like Xavier…”

“I’m the one who should be nervous,” Lizbet says. “I have a whole hotel to present—twelve suites, thirty-six rooms, the lobby, the pools, the gym and sauna, this studio. But I’m confident in what we built.”

She wraps her arms around Mario’s neck and presses the length of her body against him. “I know you’re anxious because you’ve lost a restaurant on this island before, but Xavier is going to love us. We have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

That evening at change of shift, Lizbet calls a meeting in the break room. She asks Love to watch the desk so that Richie can come to the meeting along with Edie, Alessandra, Adam, Raoul, Zeke, Magda, and Yolanda. Lizbet thinks about the staff meeting she called back on opening day, when the hotel was like a fawn wobbling on new legs. She had barely known these people and they’d barely known one another.

Richie has shed thirty pounds, gotten a tan, and is smiling far more genuinely than the night Lizbet interviewed him. He’s in love with Kimber Marsh, their long-term guest; it’s the stuff rom-coms are made of! (Lizbet will not mention this romance to Xavier, however, in case he disapproves.) Edie has been consistently thoughtful and kind, the perfect foil for Alessandra, with her fierce beauty and blinding confidence. But even Alessandra has softened a bit lately,

so much so that Lizbet noticed Edie and Alessandra laughing together. (Lizbet did a double take. Was it genuine? Yes, it seemed so.) Zeke has grown into the bellman job beautifully; if his mother could see him now, she would be so proud. Yolanda is as serene as a hidden pond in an enchanted wood, and Lizbet is so glad she didn’t tell Mario about her suspicions, because once that genie was out of the bottle, it could never have been put back: Lizbet would feel awkward, and so would Yolanda and Mario and Beatriz.

Magda sits with perfect posture on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles. She remains unreadable, a sphinx. Has she ever let her guard down, shared a candid moment or personal revelation? She has not. She is the ultimate professional; Lizbet hasn’t worried for one second about housekeeping. There hasn’t been a single complaint about the cleanliness of the rooms. There were the two missing items, but Magda handled these incidents herself with the guests and her staff. Housekeeping is the bedrock of any hotel—if the hotel isn’t clean, forget it—which makes Magda the most important person on the staff, maybe more important than Lizbet herself.

Lizbet remembers thinking that she didn’t want to know her staff’s secrets. But now that summer is nearly over, she decides that she would very much like to know Magda’s secrets.

“Mr. Darling is arriving tomorrow,” Lizbet says. “I want you all to do your jobs precisely the way you’ve been doing them. Mr. Darling will introduce himself to all of you over the course of his stay. We want to make sure he’s comfortable and that his needs are met, just like any other guest. Does anyone have any questions?”

“How long will he be here?” Adam asks.

“Four nights,” Lizbet says. “He’s scheduled to leave on Sunday.”

Alessandra raises her hand. “Does Mr. Darling have dinner reservations? If he wants to go to Cru or Nautilus…”

“Then he needed to make them thirty days ago,” Edie says. “But Alessandra has an in at Nautilus and I’ve developed a nice rapport with the reservations people at Cru. So just let us know.”

“Excellent question,” Lizbet says. Xavier hasn’t said a word about what he plans to do during his visit. It’s his first time to Nantucket; he should read the Blue Book, or Lizbet can pull together some itineraries for him. She wonders if the chauffeur (who is staying at the Beach Club because their own hotel is full!) knows how to drive a Jeep on the beach. “I’ll find out what Mr. Darling’s plans are once I speak to him in person. If that’s all the questions, then I’ll end the meeting. Please, everyone, go home and get a good night’s sleep.

I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

Xavier is coming! Grace thinks. Xavier is coming! She feels a surge in her energy levels. She wants to haunt the hotel—Mary Perkowski in room 205 came all the way from Broadview Heights, Ohio, in hopes of some spooky business—but Grace needs to reserve her energy so she can enjoy tomorrow’s fanfare.

Grace isn’t the only one who’s all dialed up for Xavier’s arrival.

Zeke arrives at the hotel with a new haircut; Alessandra swaps out her clear eye crystals for ones that are sapphire blue. Edie’s attention to guest services becomes so intense, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, that Lizbet gently reminds her that some guests prefer to figure things out on their own.

Richie surprises Kimber while she’s on her laptop and sees that she’s ordering school supplies from Staples to be delivered to her apartment in New York City. “Do you have to think about back-to- school already?”

Kimber snaps her laptop shut. “It can’t be avoided. The teachers at PS Six like the children to be prepared on day one, pencils sharpened. And have you met my daughter, Wanda? She was bugging me to order this stuff weeks ago.”

Richie flops in the window seat and gazes out at Easton Street as a couple on a bicycle built for two pedal by. “I have to mentally prepare myself. All of this is coming to an end. I’ll stay at the hotel until Columbus Day, I promised Lizbet that much, but it won’t be the same without you and the children here. We only have a few days left.”

Kimber settles between Richie’s legs and leans her head back against his chest. Doug the dog lies on the floor at their feet. He lifts his head when Grace hovers over him and starts to whine. He’s still not used to her.

“Why don’t you come to New York after Columbus Day,” Kimber

says. “Live with us.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? There are plenty of jobs in the city. My divorce will be final, or nearly.”

“You wanted a summer romance,” Richie says.

“Well, maybe now I want a romance-romance,” Kimber says. She wraps Richie’s arms around her. “I don’t want this to end.”

Grace sighs. So sweet! She would like to think of Kimber and Richie ending up together when they leave here. She wants to

believe that the hotel is more than just cedar and salt. It’s a place that can create at least one happily-ever-after.

On the morning of the twenty-fourth, Chad gets to work early at Ms.

English’s request. He figures this is because of Mr. Darling’s arrival.

The hotel has to be even more immaculate than its usual immaculate self.

When he gets to the housekeeping office, he sees an unfamiliar older woman in uniform—khakis and hydrangea-blue polo shirt— running through the hundred-point checklist with Ms. English. This woman has bright red hair that looks spun over her scalp like cotton candy. Her face is plump and wrinkled and kind-seeming. She must be a reinforcement for Mr. Darling’s visit.

“Chadwick,” Ms. English says. “Please meet Doris Mulvaney, your

new cleaning partner.”

“My…”

“You’ll be showing Doris the ropes today. I told her you were one of our best cleaners!”

One of the best on a staff of four isn’t much of an accomplishment but Chad feels a swell of pride nonetheless. He offers Doris a hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mulvaney.”

She giggles and her blue eyes twinkle. “Call me Doris, please, lad.” She has an Irish accent, which is cool, Chad thinks.

Chad looks at Ms. English. “Where’s Bibi?”

“You and Doris will start with third-floor checkouts. We need to get the entire third floor cleaned before Mr. Darling arrives.”

“No problem, but—”

“Thank you, Chadwick. If you stop by here at the end of the day, we can chat then. But not now—we have too much work in front of us.”

Chad and Doris take the service elevator to the third floor.

“How old are you, lad?” Doris asks.

“Twenty-two,” he says flatly. Bibi was fired, he thinks. Ms. English gave her the ax. But she didn’t steal the Gucci belt! That was a ruse cooked up by the fake Shelly Carpenter! Bibi probably didn’t take Mrs. Daley’s Fendi scarf either. Mrs. Daley must have left it at

Ventuno.

“In university?” Doris asks.

“I graduated in May,” he says. “From Bucknell University in central

Pennsylvania.”

“And now you’re working here?”

“Uh-huh,” Chad says. He wants to be polite, but he also doesn’t want to encourage chatting. “My parents have a home here and this is my summer job.” He wonders if maybe something else is going on.

Maybe Bibi’s daughter, Smoky, was diagnosed with some kind of awful cancer or maybe there was a domestic issue with the baby- daddy, Johnny Quarter. Maybe Bibi and Smoky got in the car and went looking for Johnny Quarter or maybe Octavia and Neves were mean to Bibi on the ferry and that made her quit.

“My son is the plumber for the hotel,” Doris says. “And when I heard you were shorthanded in the housekeeping department, I offered to jump in and help. I cleaned rooms at the Balsams resort in Colebrook, New Hampshire, for years and at Ballyseede Castle back in Ireland when I was your age.” She pats his arm. “So I know what I’m doing.”

“When did you hear we were shorthanded?” Chad asks.

Doris shrugs. “Top of last week, I believe.”

Top of last week? But Bibi has been at work every day. Just yesterday she informed Chad that they were tripling the floral arrangements in every suite because of Xavier Darling’s arrival.

There would be bouquets in the living room and both bedrooms.

Chad and Bibi had groaned about this together—triple the lily stamens to trim, triple the hydrangea dust!—but there had been no indication that Bibi wouldn’t be around to pluck the wilting snapdragon blossoms. When they’d parted ways the day before, Bibi had slung her backpack over her shoulder and said, “See ya, Long Shot.” Just like usual.

He wants to text and ask her what happened. Is she okay? But Chad doesn’t have Bibi’s number. There were times when he’d wanted to ask for it, but he’d always stopped himself because…why?

He obviously thought about Bibi when he wasn’t at work—never in a sexual way, just in a friendship way. There were TikToks he’d wanted to send her and news bulletins about fin sightings on the south shore (Bibi was a devoted fan of Shark Week), stuff they could talk about the next day at work. But he never wanted to seem weird or eager and he certainly didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. Now, however, he has no way to reach her.

Chad knows Xavier Darling is supposed to arrive between two and three p.m., but at that hour, Chad and Doris are cleaning room 111 on the pool side of the hotel, so he can’t watch for him out the window. Doris is a brisk and efficient cleaner and she doesn’t mind

tackling the bathrooms. “The loo,” she says, “is my particular specialty.” Chad is then left to handle Bibi’s particular specialty, which is the bed; it has been weeks, maybe even months, since Chad was charged with making a bed, but he does a textbook, if robotic, job. His mind is elsewhere—on Bibi, of course, but also on Xavier Darling’s arrival. Chad expects to feel a shift in the hotel—a crackle in the air, a rumbling of the floors, alarms ringing or an alert on his phone.

Out the window, Chad hears only children laughing and splashing in the family pool. At a quarter to four, he and Doris move down to room 108, which has a fine view of Easton Street, but the street is quiet.

At five o’clock, Chad and Doris finish their last room of the day and Chad rolls the cleaning cart to the storage closet and restocks it for tomorrow. A hundred and twenty dollars have been left as tips and he and Doris split the money. He tries not to seem like he’s rushing, though he is, a bit, and he says to Doris, “Nice meeting you, see you tomorrow!” in a falsely cheerful voice before he hightails it to the housekeeping office.

But Ms. English isn’t there. Chad can’t believe it. It’s a quarter past five, his usual time of departure, and she had said he could come see her when he was finished for the day.

He waits for a few minutes, pointlessly checking his phone— nobody snaps or texts him anymore—and when he finally turns to leave, he nearly collides with a woman walking into the office.

“Oh,” the woman says. “Long Shot. I forgot all about you.”

Chad blinks. The woman is Ms. English, but instead of being regular workday Ms. English, in her hydrangea-blue blouse, the

matching cardigan she often wears because she finds the hotel rooms chilly, and her hair pinned back in a sensible bun—this Ms.

English is wearing a hot-pink silk one-shouldered top and a pair of snug white pants. Her hair is piled on her head and wrapped in a bright floral scarf, and pretty curls hang down on either side of her face. This Ms. English is also wearing cat’s-eye glasses bedazzled with rhinestones and a pair of platform stiletto sandals instead of the loafers that Zeke calls her “auntie shoes.”

Chad manages to find his voice. “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” she says. She considers him for a moment. “I have plans tonight, as you can probably guess, but my dinner’s not until eight o’clock, so let’s you and I go for a drink now, shall we?”

Again, Chad is rendered speechless. Go for a drink with Ms.

English? “Okay?” he says. He feels himself flush. Because Ms.

English is not looking like herself but rather like some hot older woman, Chad kind of feels like she’s asking him on a date.

“We’ll go to the Brant Point Grill and sit at the bar,” Ms. English says. “It’s high time you and I had a talk.”

On the morning of August 24, Alessandra receives an e-mail from Xavier Darling addressed to her alone. Very much looking forward to meeting you later today, Alessandra, it says. One of our front desk’s shining stars! XD Eccezionale! Alessandra thinks. She still has money in the bank, though not nearly as much as she’d hoped—her rent was expensive, the impractical vehicle she bought needs a new transmission to the tune of four grand, and she still has seventeen thousand in credit

card debt to pay off from her previous life. She wants a permanent situation. Is it crazy to think that maybe she and Xavier Darling… None of the men that Alessandra has slept with here at the hotel was wealthy or extravagant enough for her tastes—except David Yamaguchi, who, sadly, had a beautiful wife at home to whom he was very “devoted.” That douche-canoe Bone Williams actually managed, for one second, to scare Alessandra, sending her into a period of reflection. What is she doing? She has always aspired to be different from and better than her mother; however, Alessandra admits to herself that despite the glamorous trappings of her lifestyle —living first in Europe and now Nantucket, the champagne, the pricey dinners out, the luxury goods—she’s exactly the same, only she doesn’t have a daughter to show for it. Alessandra has never wanted a husband or children or a house in the suburbs or (shudder) Disney vacations. But some stability would be nice. Xavier Darling is worth eleventy billion dollars. He has homes in London, Gstaad, and St. Barth’s and apartments in New York and Singapore. He’s not tall or strapping the way Alessandra likes her men (sigh—Michael Bick), but he has good posture, a kind smile, and a thick head of silver hair.

Alessandra remembers reading that Xavier Darling had sunk thirty million into the hotel; it was what made her choose Nantucket over the Vineyard and Newport. At the time, she was thinking only of the wealthy clientele, though maybe subconsciously, she’d been thinking of Xavier himself.

He’s a little older than her usual targets…but that might be what she needs. Someone older.

At a quarter past two, Lizbet comes flying out of the back office.

She’s wearing one of her cutest dresses, Alessandra notes with approval, a white linen Cartolina shift with a scalloped hem—but she’s chosen her two-braid style, which makes her look like she’s about to yodel.

“Xavier just landed!” Lizbet says. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes!”

She makes zero effort to maintain any chill, but isn’t that the thing that draws people to Lizbet—that she wears her heart on her sleeve? At least Edie is calm. Ever since Alessandra scared away Edie’s predator (the one accomplishment this summer that Alessandra is proud of), Edie has focused her warmth and light on Alessandra—“You’re such a boss! How can I ever thank you?”—and Alessandra basks in it. Alessandra enjoyed nailing that jerk Graydon so much that she has even considered training to work on some kind of special victims unit—but of course, she would never pass the background check.

Lizbet poses in the entrance of the hotel like the hostess in a game show, Zeke and Raoul flanking her. Louie is playing chess in the lobby with the teenage girl staying in room 210 (this girl has just finished watching The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix and swears she can beat Louie, though she’s lost three games in a row quite speedily). There’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and Sheryl Crow is singing that all she wants to do is have a little fun before she dies.

Lizbet whips around and squeals, “He’s here!” Alessandra feels her heart hop a little. She glances at Edie, who is on the phone with the R. J. Miller Salon, trying to secure a pedicure appointment for

Mrs. Baskin in room 304. Alessandra taps Edie’s back and tells her Xavier’s here, and Edie whispers, “I’m on hold. I can’t hang up, she wants this for the morning.” Alessandra thinks that Edie is far more professional than she is; she would have hung up immediately.

Alessandra is jealous that Edie has something to occupy her.

Alessandra just smiles at the door, then checks her computer for no reason. Xavier doesn’t have a reservation like other guests, and Lizbet made his key cards hours ago.

Then Alessandra hears voices—Zeke’s and Lizbet’s; they both sound like stage actors—and an instant later, the man himself steps into the lobby.

Well, Alessandra thinks. He’s taller than Alessandra expected— good—and he exudes a confidence that comes naturally to the very wealthy. He’s wearing a cream-colored suit and a coral-pink shirt open at the collar, a belt with a brushed-silver buckle (nothing flashy, also good), and leather driving moccasins with woven uppers that Alessandra immediately identifies as Fratelli Rossetti. Xavier Darling’s look is plucked straight from Capri. Alessandra experiences a pang for the summers of her recent past. She misses the turquoise water, diving off the bow of Giacomo’s yacht, long lunches of grilled langoustines and crusty bread with fresh-pressed olive oil and salty, craggy chunks of Parmigiano. Xavier is deeply tanned, so she supposes his has been a summer well spent at the helm of his ship or in a private cabana on the beach at Il Riccio.

“This is nothing short of magnificent, Elizabeth,” he says, raising his arms to the antique beams, taking in the whaling-boat chandelier, the James Ogilvy photograph, the beachy elegance of the lobby.

“What an appealing space.”

Beatriz from the service kitchen appears with a deep red cocktail —it’s the Heartbreaker; Alessandra has heard all about it—and a tiny basket of gougères from the Blue Bar bakery box. The gougères are golden and fragrant, fresh from the oven but no doubt cooled to the perfect temperature so that Xavier doesn’t burn his tongue. When Alessandra and Xavier are together, her life will be blessed with exquisite welcomes like this.

Xavier accepts the cocktail and raises his glass to the front desk.

“Here’s to you!” he says, and he drinks. Lizbet leads him over to meet Edie, who has just hung up the phone; she steps out from behind the desk, faces Xavier, and curtsies. Alessandra wants to cringe but Xavier throws his head back and laughs. He and Edie shake hands and while Lizbet brags to Xavier (“Edie was a Statler Fellow at Cornell!”), Alessandra steps out from behind the desk and waits a respectful distance behind Edie until it’s her turn to be introduced. Xavier takes a deeper interest in Edie once she mentions that she grew up on the island, and Edie draws Zeke into the conversation because Zeke was raised on Nantucket as well, then Lizbet tells Xavier that Zeke is an accomplished surfer and also the nephew of Magda English, head of housekeeping, and that gets Xavier’s attention. He’s known Magda for over thirty years, he says.

Alessandra is starting to feel awkward, like a literal lady-in-waiting; however, Raoul is in a mirrored position to Alessandra behind Xavier and his expression radiates good-natured interest in this conversation that has nothing to do with him. Alessandra takes a sustaining breath and reminds herself that she will stand on deck for as long as it takes, and when she gets into the batter’s box, she will hit a grand slam.

The hotel phone rings, and although Alessandra is closest, she makes no move to answer it. She hasn’t met Xavier yet! She wills Edie to hear the phone and sense that she should be the one to answer it, but Edie is still deep in conversation and Alessandra catches a pointed look from Lizbet (she doesn’t like to hear the phone ring more than twice). She goes back behind the desk to answer the phone.

It’s the secretary of a Mr. Ianucci, who will be checking in later that afternoon. The secretary is confirming the reservation in a pool-view room for two nights.

Yes, yes, confirmed, didn’t Mr. Ianucci receive the e-mail?

Alessandra knows he did but he was probably too busy to even open it.

“We look forward to welcoming Mr. Ianucci this afternoon,”

Alessandra says, her voice maybe a touch louder than it needs to be so that Xavier will hear her superlative phone skills and realize that at least someone is working while everyone else grovels.

Alessandra hangs up just as Lizbet says, “Let me show you the break room.”

Edie returns to the desk, and Zeke and Raoul head back out to the entrance. “Lovely to meet you all!” Xavier says. Except he hasn’t met Alessandra yet and he sent that e-mail expressly to her, so she waits a moment and then, in a rare act of desperation, follows Xavier and Lizbet into the break room.

Xavier is standing at the pinball machine. “Hokus Pokus! I played this during my one American summer back in the seventies. I lived with my aunt and uncle in Casper, Wyoming, of all places. My uncle owned a ranch there, and the local watering hole had this game.” He

presses the buttons on either side and the flippers clickety-clack.

Xavier turns to Lizbet. “You don’t happen to have a quarter, do you?”

Alessandra clears her throat. “I have one, sir.”

Both Xavier and Lizbet turn around. Alessandra thinks that Lizbet might be irked that she trailed them into the break room but Lizbet just smiles and in her new cheerleader voice says, “Xavier, this is Alessandra Powell, our front-desk manager!”

Alessandra makes eye contact and shakes Xavier’s hand, then pulls a quarter from behind her ear like a magician, but only Lizbet seems impressed. Alessandra has played a lot of pinball this summer. It has given her a chance to relive her own adolescence— there was a Hokus Pokus at the pizza parlor in Haight-Ashbury where she used to go with Duffy. (Alessandra can’t think about Duffy now, though she has a friend request rotting in her Facebook account.) “Here you go, Mr. Darling. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Xavier accepts the quarter and Alessandra waits for him to say something about her remarkable performance on the desk this summer, at which point she’ll mention her previous work experience in Europe. Surely they could have an excellent conversation about Italy or Ibiza or St. Tropez, but Xavier simply says, “Thank you very much,” and turns to the pinball machine, inserts the coin, pulls back the springy lever, and lets the first silver ball fly. The machine comes to life, all dinging bells and flashing lights. It’s clear Lizbet is going to stay and watch Xavier play but Alessandra senses she would be pushing her luck to stay as well. She returns to the desk.

Xavier and Lizbet emerge and head out the back door to the pools. After that, Alessandra supposes, it will be down to the wellness center, over to the Blue Bar, then up to the owner’s suite.

She sees Zeke wheeling in the cart with Xavier’s luggage—a garment bag, a suitcase, a weekender duffel—and she nearly offers to take it up, but how weird (and obvious) would that be? She’ll have to think of another reason to visit Xavier’s suite. She needs to have a conversation with him one-on-one. That’s all it will take, Alessandra thinks. She’ll dip her chin and gaze up at him. She’ll touch his wrist between the cuff of his shirt and his watch. That’s all it ever takes.

When Lizbet returns to the desk, she’s flushed and panting as if she’s just completed an obstacle course. “He’s settled in,” she says.

“He loved everything. He was so complimentary and he noticed every detail. I’m not sure what I was worried about. This place is pretty perfect.” Alessandra resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Edie says, “I feel like I just met royalty. He’s so…elegant.”

Elegant is the right word, Alessandra thinks. She should have been pursuing elegance—manners, breeding, experience, generosity—all along but she’d been distracted by looks and surface charm and that’s why she hasn’t landed in the right situation. Now that Alessandra has met Xavier Darling in person, she can see their future together more clearly. It will be the jet and the chauffeured Bentley, of course, but also private islands, hunting lodges in the wilds of Scotland, quiet evenings at home in Belgravia, Xavier smoking a pipe and checking the markets, Alessandra curled up on the sofa by the fire, reading a leather-bound edition of Dante. She’ll lose her eye crystals and the white eyeliner; she’ll start wearing her hair in a chignon. She’ll call him X. He’ll go from infatuated to besotted to deeply in love. He’ll be captivated by Alessandra’s

intelligence, her ease with languages, her business savvy. He’ll insist that she accompany him to Davos, where she’ll draw the attention of the other moguls, and this sense of competition for her attention will prompt Xavier to propose. Or if marriage frightens him, which is what Alessandra suspects, he’ll appease her by changing his will—and by buying her an extraordinary diamond that proves his commitment without requiring a church ceremony.

All she has to do is get up to his room.

Lizbet gasps. “I forgot to give him a copy of the Blue Book!”

Well, isn’t that like the sky opening up and raining gold coins?

Alessandra snaps up a copy of the Blue Book. “I’ll take this up to him right now,” she says. “I have to drop off tickets for the drive-in to suite three fifteen anyway.” Alessandra waves the envelope that does, in fact, contain four drive-in movie tickets for the Hearn family in suite 315. Alessandra has been holding on to them all day, just in case.

An unfamiliar feeling comes over Alessandra as she approaches the door of the owner’s suite. She has butterflies.

She is always the pursued, never the pursuer.

After she knocks, she quickly tousles her hair and arranges her face into an open, innocent smile. Xavier Darling opens the door. He has shed his jacket but not (thankfully) his shoes, and he’s holding a glass of rosé. (Alessandra knows they stocked his minibar with Domaines Ott at his request.) He gives her a look of vague recognition, like he’s seen her somewhere before, but where…

“Mr. Darling, sorry to interrupt. I’m Alessandra Powell, the front- desk manager?” You sent me a personal e-mail telling me how much you were looking forward to meeting me? She then realizes, with no small amount of horror, that Xavier must have sent those e-mails to everyone. Or, even worse, his secretary sent them on his behalf!

“Yes?” he says crisply, maybe even a bit impatiently.

Alessandra clears her throat. She has been here ten seconds and she’s already blowing it. “I wanted to hand-deliver the Blue Book, sir.

It’s our recommendation guide to the island—museums, beaches, restaurants, and the like. I say our, but this is Lizbet’s brainchild. She wrote it, and our guests have raved about it. It’s something that sets us apart from the island’s other luxury hotels.” Alessandra tries to radiate virtue: See how I prop other women up and polish their crowns?

“She’s mentioned it, yes. Thank you.” Xavier reaches for the book, and Alessandra instinctively holds on tight. Come to me! she thinks.

“If you’d like me to set up any dinner reservations or arrange for any excursions, please let me know. I’m all yours.” Ever so reluctantly, she allows him to tug the book from her. Xavier riffles through the pages. “I’ll take a look when I have a moment.”

“I’m at your disposal if you need dinner—”

“I had everything booked for me weeks ago.” Xavier steps back and takes hold of the door; he seems like he’s about to close it in her face. “Thank you, Alexandra.”

That’s it, she thinks. He didn’t show the slightest interest. He didn’t flirt, didn’t wink, didn’t smile; his eyes didn’t linger. He wasn’t

intrigued, wasn’t attracted. He didn’t even get her name right.

When Alessandra gets back to the desk, she isn’t thinking straight. Edie is on the phone, so there’s no immediate follow-up questioning about how it went, although Alessandra is tempted to confide in Edie because she needs a friend. But what would she say? I’ve been trying to find a suitable man all summer, someone who will make my life easier. Edie would be appalled! Edie is idealistic, not only about marrying for love but also about women making their own way in the world. What kind of dinosaur pursues a sugar daddy? I can’t meet a regular guy and lead a normal middle- class life, I’m not programmed that way. I need someone of Xavier’s caliber and there are only a certain number of straight, unattached billionaire men, Edie.

Just as she is about to admit defeat—she’ll be a hotel desk clerk forever; her beauty will wash out like an Old Masters painting left in direct sunlight; she’ll die alone with her broken dreams—she remembers that she has a rip cord. She slips into the break room and pulls out her phone. She feels a sharp stab of guilt because she’s standing at the very counter where she and Edie fought back against exactly the kind of blackmail that Alessandra is about to

initiate.

But, sorry, she’s desperate.

She finds the pictures of herself in the Bicks’ house on Hulbert Avenue and sends them in separate text messages to Michael Bick.

I need fifty thousand more, she types. Otherwise, these go to your wife.

She’d like to claim cramps and go home, but there’s only an hour left in her shift and she’s dependent on Raoul for a ride because of

her Jeep’s crapped-out transmission, so she decides to show some grit and finish the day. She feels she’s made the right decision and is, perhaps, being rewarded when a good-looking, broad-shouldered gentleman pulling a roller bag and carrying an attaché case steps into the lobby. He glances from Edie to Alessandra, and although Alessandra has stopped treating the front desk like a beauty pageant or a popularity contest, she smiles at the gentleman and he grins and strolls right over to her.

Good boy, Alessandra thinks. In seconds, he’ll be eating out of her hand. “Good afternoon, welcome to the Hotel Nantucket,” she says.

“Checking in?” Screw you, Xavier Darling, she thinks. You lost out.

The gentleman pulls out his driver’s license—Robert Ianucci from Holliston, Massachusetts—and a gold American Express.

“Bob Ianucci,” he says. “Here for two nights.” He winks at her.

“Your name tag is upside down.”

“Ah, you noticed! I’m Alessandra, the front-desk manager. What a pleasure to meet you.”

Bob Ianucci—Italian; she likes it—isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Alessandra gets him checked in, thinking, Gold card, not platinum card, a room, not a suite, and Holliston is a Boston suburb—a nice suburb, but a suburb just the same. Bob Ianucci isn’t worth going after but Alessandra needs an ego boost—oh, does she—and so when she slides Bob Ianucci his key cards, she attaches a yellow sticky note with her number on it and says, “If you need any help with dinner reservations, just let me know. That’s my personal cell phone. I’m here for whatever you need.”

Bob Ianucci peels the sticky note off the key-card envelope and regards it with a bemused expression. “Are you soliciting me?” he

asks.

Alessandra runs her gaze over Bob Ianucci and notices things she overlooked in her haste: His blandly corporate look—gray suit pants, white shirt, navy striped tie, Seiko watch—his tight, military- style haircut, his close shave, his square jaw, and his direct gaze and she thinks, Oh God. She can’t believe she didn’t notice it right off the bat. This guy is a cop. Or, worse, a detective.

“What?” she says. “No!” She laughs and Bob Ianucci laughs and says, “Oh, too bad,” and the whole thing becomes a joke and Bob Ianucci rolls his bag onto the elevator, and when the doors close, Alessandra turns to Edie and says, “I feel like the green-puke emoji,

I’m sorry.”

Edie says, “Go home, girl, I got this.”

Alessandra wants to hug Edie, she is so grateful, but she “doesn’t want to get Edie sick,” and so she just collects her bag and scoots out the doors into the bright and newly confusing world.