The Hotel Nantucket — Chapter no 4

4. Help Wanted

Lizbet sets aside the third week of April to conduct her final round of staff interviews. She placed ads in the Nantucket Standard, the Cape Cod Times, and the Boston Globe and on Monster, ZipRecruiter, and Hcareers, but the pool of applicants wasn’t as large as she’d hoped.

Lizbet checked her junk folder but found nothing except e-mails from FarmersOnly.com (once, at a low point post-breakup from JJ, she’d made the mistake of visiting their website).

Lizbet doesn’t mention the disappointing response to Xavier because day-to-day operations are her responsibility. She should be relieved she isn’t inundated with college kids whose grandmothers will inevitably die the second Saturday in August. She doesn’t need a lot of people; she needs the right people.

Grace is wearing her new robe and, to replace her frilled cap, the Minnesota Twins hat that she casually disappeared from Lizbet’s gym bag a few days ago. She perches on the highest shelf in Lizbet’s office, which gives her an excellent vantage point for seeing the candidates. Grace vividly remembers her own hiring in the spring of 1922. There were at least forty girls shepherded into the ballroom of the hotel, and each one was handed a rag. Mrs. Wilkes, head of

housekeeping, had inspected each girl’s technique as she dusted the wainscoting and the round oak banquet tables. Grace suspects Mrs. Wilkes had also been noting appearances, because it was mostly the pretty girls who were chosen; the ugly girls were sent home.

Lawsuits, Grace thinks now with a chuckle.

Grace peers over Lizbet’s shoulder at the short stack of résumés on the desk. The first candidate is a twenty-two-year-old Nantucket resident named Edith Robbins who has applied for a front-desk position. Lizbet opens the door to her office and invites Edith—a young woman with luminous brown skin who’s wearing a pencil skirt and kitten heels—to take a seat.

“Sweet Edie!” Lizbet says. “I can’t get over how grown up you are!

I remember your mom and dad bringing you to the Deck on your

birthday.”

Sweet Edie beams. “Every year.”

“How’s your mom doing? I haven’t seen her since your dad’s funeral.”

“She’s working full-time at Flowers on Chestnut and she took my dad’s spot in the Rotary Club,” Edie says. “So she’s keeping busy.”

“Please tell her I said hello. Now, I realize you’re the child of two seasoned hospitality professionals, but I have to ask—didn’t your mom want you to work at the Beach Club?”

“She did,” Edie says. “But I thought this would be the more exciting opportunity. Everyone on the island is talking about this

place.”

“Oh, really? What are they saying?”

Edie gives Lizbet what might be called an uneasy smile. What are they saying? Grace wonders. Is anyone talking about her?

“Your résumé is impressive!” Lizbet says. “You graduated from the school of hotel administration at Cornell, where you were a Statler Fellow. You were number one in your class!”

Of course she was! Grace thinks. Look at her!

“In your opinion,” Lizbet says, “what’s the most important aspect of hospitality?”

“Making a genuine connection with each guest from minute one,”

Edie says. “A warm greeting and a smile—‘We’re happy you’re here.

Let us help you have a wonderful stay.’”

“Great answer,” Lizbet says. “It states here that you worked at the Statler Hotel on Cornell’s campus and then, last summer, at Castle Hill in Newport?”

“Yes, my boyfriend and I worked at Castle Hill together. That property is a-maze-ing!”

Lizbet’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is your boyfriend here for the summer? Because I’m still looking for—”

“We broke up right after graduation,” Edie says.

Grace can’t imagine what kind of fool would break up with this captivating young woman.

“We both got offers from the Ritz-Carlton management-training program,” Edie says. “But I wanted to spend the summer on Nantucket with my mom. Graydon asked if he could come and I said no. I wanted to start my adult life as an independent woman.”

Good for you, Grace thinks. She would have wanted to be an independent woman back in the day if that had been a thing.

“I’d love to offer you a spot on our front desk,” Lizbet says. “Your starting wage will be twenty-five dollars an hour.”

Grace understands inflation, but even so, this number is mind- boggling. In 1922, she made thirty-five cents an hour!

“We’re paying well above industry standard,” Lizbet says. “But then again, we expect more. It’ll be a rigorous schedule.”

“Not a problem,” Edie says. “One of the things they drilled into us at Cornell was that we would have no personal life.”

“At least you’re prepared.” Lizbet leans in. “I suppose you follow Shelly Carpenter on Instagram?”

“‘Stay well, friends,’” Edie says. “‘And do good.’ Her reviews are fire!”

Fire, Grace thinks. Everything good these days is fire. She can’t wait for this term to move along.

“Do you think she’ll ever give five keys?” Lizbet asks.

“My friends and I used to debate what it would take for her to grant the fifth key. The woman is so nitpicky, and yet she’s not unreasonable. If you ask for skim milk with your room-service coffee, you should get it. The blow-dryer should work without pushing the reset button. I’m of the opinion that, if you pay attention and have the resources, then yes, a fifth key is possible.”

“Excellent. The hotel’s owner, Mr. Darling, is determined to get the

fifth key.”

Sweet Edie beams. “I’m so here for it!”

The next interview is right in Grace’s wheelhouse: head of housekeeping! Grace scans the résumé: Magda English, age fifty-

nine. There are two addresses listed, one in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, and one just around the corner on West Chester Street. Ms.

English’s experience includes thirty-two years as director of housekeeping on XD Cruise Lines. Ms. English retired in 2021, and yet here she is, the woman who might be the new Mrs. Wilkes.

Lizbet meets Ms. English (“Please,” she says, “call me Magda”) in the lobby, and Grace trails them down the hall at a distance; she can tell nothing gets past this woman.

“We have thirty-six rooms,” Lizbet says. “And twelve suites.”

Magda has regal posture and barely a single line on her face. As she and Lizbet stroll the corridor, she admires the mahogany barrel ceiling and the brass portholes, salvaged from a French ocean liner, along the walls. “I used to run housekeeping on cruise ships, so I’ll feel right at home,” Magda says. Her voice has a delightful West Indian lilt (whereas Mrs. Wilkes’s voice had been like a cheese grater on Grace’s backside). “These portholes will need to be polished every week.”

Lizbet opens the door to room 108. Grace slips in and settles on top of the canopy bed, adjusting her robe for modesty. She’s chosen this spot because she can’t be seen in the mirror or window.

Magda walks over to the emperor-size bed and runs a hand over

the duvet cover. “Matouk sheets?”

“Good guess,” Lizbet says.

“I know my linens.” Magda picks up the hydrangea-blue cashmere throw at the foot of the bed. “This is lovely.”

“All the rooms have them. They’re woven at Nantucket Looms especially for the hotel.”

“I hope they plan on weaving extras,” Magda says, “because these will ‘accidentally’ find their way into the guests’ luggage, I assure you.” She pokes her head into the walk-in closet and then the bathroom. “How many people would be on my staff?”

“Four,” Lizbet says.

Magda laughs. “That’s a tenth of what I’m used to. But it should be enough.”

“So what brought you to Nantucket?” Lizbet asks.

Magda sighs. “I spent the first half of my career on ships in the Mediterranean, then I requested a transfer back home to the Caribbean. When my brother’s wife died in September, I took my retirement and moved here to take care of him and my nephew Ezekiel.”

“Ezekiel English is your nephew? I’m interviewing him this afternoon.”

“He’s a lovely boy, as you’ll see for yourself.” She smiles. “Zeke and William have had a rough few months…but now that they’re back on their feet, a little job will fill my days.”

Lizbet raises her eyebrows. “This is more than just a little job.”

“Well, it’s not a cruise ship,” Magda says. “My standards are impeccable, as my previous employer will attest. I promise you, the hotel will be cleaner than it’s ever been in the past.”

Well! Grace thinks indignantly. I guess we’ll see about that.

After Magda departs, Lizbet considers going for a lunchtime run or grabbing one of the mountain bikes from the hotel’s brand-new fleet and powering out a quick ride. This morning she finally felt a thaw in

the air, but as tempting as it is to go outside, Lizbet decides to stay at her laptop. First, she checks the references of a married couple— Adam and Raoul Wasserman-Ramirez—who have both applied for bellman positions. They currently work at the Four Seasons in Punta Mita, Mexico, and want to come to New England for the summer.

Lizbet has been putting off deciding about Adam and Raoul because she isn’t sure hiring a married couple for the same job is a good idea, even though they both interviewed well over the phone. What if they bicker? What if one far outperforms the other?

The e-mail from the GM at the Four Seasons is glowing. It mentions that Adam has a “beautiful singing voice.” (How is this relevant? Lizbet wonders. He’s going to be schlepping bags.) The letter ends with We at the Four Seasons Punta Mita have determined it’s best if the Wasserman-Ramirezes are scheduled separately.

Ha! Lizbet’s instincts were correct—but the reality remains that she needs three bellmen, and her options are limited. She’ll hire Adam and Raoul.

Next, although she has cautioned herself not to, she checks to see if there are any new reservations for opening week.

There’s one, a booking for four nights made by a couple from Syracuse. This is heartening, but the fact that the hotel’s overall occupancy is hovering at just above 25 percent a full week after the website went live is not. They placed banner ads on all the major travel websites, and Lizbet wrote what she felt was an excellent press release, but there have been very few takers. When Lizbet called Jill Tananbaum at the Nantucket Standard to see what had

become of her piece, Jill said, “Jordan told me he might run it at some point but he can’t say when.”

Lizbet hung up, discouraged. The reputation of the hotel was, admittedly, abominable, and Xavier’s interest in it was somewhat perplexing, but it had undergone a remarkable metamorphosis.

Building the new! she thinks. But only an instant later, she wonders if she’s in over her head. It had been far easier to sell herself to Xavier than she’d anticipated (considering she had no actual hotel experience)—and only now does Lizbet wonder how much competition she had. Is it possible she was the only person who applied for this job?

Xavier has asked Lizbet to book him suite 317—historically, the hotel owner’s suite—from August 24 to August 28. It feels a little strange that Xavier isn’t coming until the end of August, but Lizbet is relieved. By then, she might know what she’s doing.

Lizbet isn’t sure where all this self-doubt is coming from; she’s probably just hungry. She’s tempted to run over to Born and Bread for a sandwich, but there isn’t time. Her next interview is here.

The third résumé is quite impressive, Grace thinks. Alessandra Powell, age thirty-three, applying for a front-desk position. The very first line announces (in boldface) that Alessandra is fluent in Spanish, French, Italian, and English. She has worked at hotels in Ibiza, Monaco, and, most recently, Tremezzina, Italy. This draws Grace back in time. When Dahlia Benedict was being “nice” to Grace, she would gab about her and Jack’s travels abroad. She told Grace that she and Jack had sailed to Europe aboard the

Mauretania, and when Grace murmured sarcastically under her breath that it sure was a good thing the Mauretania hadn’t hit an iceberg like the Titanic, Dahlia slapped her soundly.

It was a slap Grace deserved. By that point, Grace was so deep into the affair with Jack, she saw no way out. She very dearly wished the Mauretania had sunk with both Jack and Dahlia aboard.

Grace is yanked back to the present moment when a young woman with long, wavy apricot-colored hair steps into Lizbet’s office.

No, Grace thinks. No! There’s a stench coming off the woman that means only one thing: a rotten soul.

The woman, Alessandra, holds out a white paper bag. “I brought you an ABC grilled cheese from Born and Bread on the off chance you’ve been so busy interviewing that you skipped lunch.”

Lizbet’s blue eyes widen. “Thank you! That was so…intuitive. I did skip lunch, and the ABC is my favorite sandwich.” She accepts the bag. “Please, sit. So, Alessandra, your résumé is nothing short of remarkable—Italy, Spain, Monaco. And you speak so many languages! What brings you to our little island?”

“It was time to come home. To the States, that is, though I’m originally a West Coast girl. I studied romance languages in Palo Alto—”

“Were you at Stanford?” Lizbet checks the résumé. “It doesn’t say that here—”

“And then I did the whole backpacking-through-Europe thing—the train, the hostels—and I found myself flat broke in Ravenna. I went there especially to see the mosaics in the Basilica of St. Vitale.”

“Mosaics?”

“They’re the finest examples of Byzantine mosaics outside of Istanbul. They’re magnificent. Have you seen them?”

Oh, please, Grace thinks. How pretentious.

“I haven’t.”

Alessandra says, “Well, when I say flat broke, I mean I gave my last euro as a donation to enter the church. Fortunately, I struck up a conversation with a gentleman who was also viewing the mosaics, and it turned out he owned a pensione in town. He let me stay for free in exchange for working on the front desk—and my career in hotels was born.”

“So you were in Europe for…eight years, give or take? I notice there are some gaps on this résumé—”

“I wanted to leave Italy while I still felt fondly toward it. And I chose Nantucket because it seems like the most exclusive of the New England summer-resort spots.”

“I’m curious…did Shelly Carpenter from Hotel Confidential review any of the hotels on your résumé?”

Alessandra nods. “She apparently stayed at Aguas de Ibiza while I was working there. Her piece was positive, but she gave us only four keys. She had a couple of legitimate complaints. The first was that the bellman took fifteen minutes to deliver her luggage to her room, which was ten minutes too long by her standards—”

“Oh yes, I know.”

“And there was no salt and pepper on her room-service tray even though she’d specifically requested it.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, people got fired. You know that she wears disguises and uses aliases and always shows up at the busiest times, when the

staff can’t pay as close attention to every guest as they might otherwise. And sometimes she creates extraordinary circumstances to see how the staff reacts. Rumor has it that when she visited the Pickering House Inn in Wolfeboro, she slashed the tire of her rental car to see how quickly the staff would change it.”

“I did not know that,” Lizbet says, slumping a little.

“My advice would be to train the bellmen in basic auto repair, because I’m sure once Shelly Carpenter gets wind of this place

opening, she’ll make an appearance.”

“You think so?”

“I can almost guarantee it. She seems to like Nantucket. She

reviewed the White Elephant—”

“She gave it four keys.”

“And she reviewed the Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel, which is where I’m interviewing next.”

“You’re interviewing with Mack Petersen?”

“I…am, yes. Mack has basically offered me a position already, but I told him I wanted to keep my options open.”

Oh, come on, Lizbet! Grace thinks. She’s bluffing!

Lizbet runs her finger down the résumé. “These references have only the main numbers for the hotels. Can you provide any names or extensions?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a lot of turnover in the hospitality business. My GM in Ibiza retired and bought an olive orchard. My GM in Monaco got throat cancer and died.” She pauses, milking the moment for all its worth. “Alberto. He smoked a pipe.”

When Lizbet makes a sympathetic face, Grace groans. She would bet her robe and hat that there had never been an Alberto!

“If you call the hotels directly, they can pull up my performance records.”

“You have the experience I’m looking for,” Lizbet says. “High-end luxury hotels with a discerning clientele.”

“May I ask what kind of pay you’re offering?”

“We pay twenty-five dollars an hour,” Lizbet says. “Though, because of your experience, I can bump you to twenty-seven fifty and make you the front-desk manager.”

No! Grace thinks. She needs to get this little witchy-witch out of here. Grace blows cold air down the back of Alessandra’s neck.

Alessandra doesn’t even blink. Figures.

“The hours are pretty brutal,” Lizbet says. “One and a half days off

every two weeks.”

“A day off? What’s that?”

“Ha!” Lizbet says. “You’re too good to be true.”

Grace has a feeling this is precisely the case.

Staff of five, Lizbet thinks as she takes a bite of the apple, bacon, and white cheddar grilled cheese on cranberry-studded sourdough that Alessandra brought her. Alessandra interviewed well, though her résumé has holes in it. There’s a recent year-long period that’s unaccounted for, but it’s possible Alessandra was traveling between jobs; she seems cultured, into art and languages. And she said she’d studied romance languages in Palo Alto—“Palo Alto” is a wink-wink reference to Stanford, but if Alessandra went to Stanford, wouldn’t that be plastered across the top of her résumé? Lizbet decides to

overlook these things. Mack Petersen down at the Beach Club basically offered Alessandra a job, but Lizbet snapped her up!

Alessandra seemed to know a great deal about Shelly Carpenter.

Alessandra could be their secret weapon.

What an improvement! Grace thinks when she sets eyes on the final candidate of the day. Ezekiel English, twenty-four years old, is, as the kids say, a smoke-show. (It’s another piece of slang Grace doesn’t love, though she can see how it applies now. She’s feeling a little warm in her robe, and she pulls open the collar.) Zeke gives Lizbet a dazzling smile and shakes her hand. “Hey, I’m Zeke English, what’s good?”

“The sandwich I just finished was good,” Lizbet says. “If that’s what you mean?”

“Sorry, I’m a little nervous,” Zeke says. “Thanks for having me in.”

How adorable! Grace thinks. He’s nervous.

“Please, have a seat,” Lizbet says. “I met your aunt Magda this morning.”

“Yeah,” Zeke says. “Aunt Magda’s the bomb. She moved in with us last September…” Zeke bows his head, and when he raises it again, his eyes are bright with tears. He clears his throat. “My mom died of a brain aneurysm. Aunt Magda cooks for us and…just generally makes everything better.” He wipes a tear with the back of his hand, and before Grace can stop herself, she flies down to give his broad shoulders a squeeze. She loves a man who isn’t afraid to show his emotions. The hug seems to revive Zeke a bit (or maybe

Grace is giving herself too much credit?), because he sits up straighter and laughs. “Am I blowing this interview or what?”

Lizbet leans forward. “I’m interested in hiring human beings,” she says. “Not robots. You experienced a profound loss.” She takes a breath. “Let’s start over. Hi, Zeke, welcome! How long have you lived

on Nantucket?”

“My whole life, born and raised.”

“Where else have you worked on the island?” Lizbet asks.

“I’ve been teaching at the surf school out in Cisco since I was fifteen,” Zeke says.

He’s a surfer! Grace thinks. Well, it’s official: Zeke is her crush.

She wonders if he would be interested in a ghost with the figure of a nineteen-year-old but the wisdom of someone much older. (She’s kidding! The scene in that nineties movie at the potter’s wheel would —sadly—never happen in real life.) “That’s a fun job,” Lizbet says. “Why make the switch to hospitality?”

Zeke laughs. “My dad told me it was time to grow up. He said I could either work here or work for him. He was the electrician on this renovation.”

“Yes,” Lizbet says. “William and his crew did a wonderful job.”

Zeke says, “I couldn’t believe it when I heard someone was fixing it up. It had always seemed like a lost cause. You know, my friends and I used to party here in high school.”

O! M! G! Grace thinks. Zeke is one of her high-school partiers all grown up!

“Some strange stuff happened this one night,” Zeke says. “A ghost’s face appeared on this chick’s phone.” He pauses. “So then

this place got a reputation for being haunted, and we stopped coming.”

Lizbet gives him an indulgent smile. “Don’t worry, we did an exorcism when we renovated.”

Ha-ha, Grace thinks. She considers floating Zeke’s résumé off the desk to prove just how wrong Lizbet is, but she doesn’t want to show off. Yet.

Lizbet likes Zeke—he’s a lovely boy, just as Magda promised— though Lizbet worries he might be a bit surfer-dude laid-back for the job. What if it takes him fifteen minutes to get bags to a room instead of Shelly Carpenter’s prescribed five minutes? She sighs. Women will go crazy when they see him…he’s a dead ringer for Regé-Jean Page. And she’s already hired Magda, and his father is their electrical contractor, so she can’t not hire him. Lizbet will just have to train him and Adam and Raoul that bags go directly to the room within five minutes! And she would like to train Zeke not to mention the ghost to anyone. Can she get away with that?

She sends him a text: You have the job!

Zeke texts back: Kk.

Lizbet closes her eyes. Kk?

A second text comes in: Thank you very much for the opportunity.

I won’t let you down!

Lizbet exhales. She can work with that.

The last person Lizbet has to hire is a night auditor, but the only application she’s received for the job is from some guy named Victor Valerio (real name?) who sent a picture of himself wearing white face makeup, glow-in-the-dark fangs, and a long flowing black cape.

When you ask for people to work the graveyard shift, Lizbet supposes, you end up with vampires.

Perfect company for their ghost, she thinks, laughing to herself.

She’ll have to handle the night auditing until someone suitable

applies.

She sends Xavier an e-mail.

Dear Xavier—

I hired our core staff today. Onward toward the fifth key!

All best, Lizbet