Lizbet has just finished showing the couple from Syracuse around—the woman said she had a “nice” following on Instagram, and Lizbet thought she might help spread the word about the hotel—and she’s been on her feet all day long (what possessed her to wear stilettos?), but when Edie tells her about the family in suite 114, she hustles back to the office. All she can think as she collapses into her chair is that Sweet Edie was duped on day one by some grifter.
She has to go to suite 114.
Lizbet limps down the hall and knocks on the door with a smile on her face that’s so forced, it makes her head ache.
Kimber Marsh opens the door. Thank God Edie warned Lizbet about the hair, because it’s startling. “Ms. Marsh, hello. I’m Lizbet Keaton, the general manager of the hotel.”
“What a beautiful property you have here,” she says. “The kids are in heaven.”
Lizbet had meant to be firm but when the two little towheaded children in glasses tiptoe out of the bunk room, she relents immediately. The girl is holding a book, and the boy clutches a white chess queen. “I spoke with Edie, who checked you in. She told me you’d like to pay in cash, which is fine. I’ll need the first week as a deposit.”
“Yes, of course. One second.” Kimber heads into the bedroom and reappears a moment later with a stack of bills. She counts it out: thirty-three hundred dollars. “The first week plus five hundred for incidentals. I can pay in advance every Monday if that’s easiest?”
“In advance every Monday works,” Lizbet says, relaxing a bit. If the woman pays in advance, there’s no problem, is there? “We’ll slip an invoice under the door and e-mail it to you as well.”
Kimber Marsh opens her arms and hugs Lizbet, and the children run over and grab Lizbet around the legs. Over Kimber’s shoulder, Lizbet sees the dog. He trots over to sniff Lizbet, then plops down at her aching feet.
At the end of the day, Lizbet calls the staff to her office. Raoul, who is working night bell, agrees to watch the desk.
Lizbet gathers Edie, Alessandra, Zeke, Adam, and Magda, who is trailed by a preppy-looking kid wearing rumpled khakis and a pink oxford shirt rolled up above his elbows.
“Lizbet, let me introduce the newest member of my housekeeping staff, Chadwick Winslow,” Magda says. “I trained him today. The other cleaners won’t be in until the morning.”
“Chad Winslow,” the kid says, shaking Lizbet’s hand.
“That’s right, I remember when you dropped off your résumé. I’m glad this worked out. Welcome.”
Chad dips his head. “Thank you for the chance. I’m grateful.”
Chadwick Winslow sounds like a name straight off the Mayflower manifest, but Lizbet wants to foster diversity and inclusivity across the board. Why shouldn’t a rich-looking dude named Chad be cleaning rooms?
Lizbet leads everyone into the break room, which has been decorated to resemble a 1950s diner; there’s the signature turquoise and orange of a Howard Johnson’s and a lot of chrome and Formica. It provides a complete psychological separation from the rest of the hotel, which is important when everyone is working six and a half days a week. There’s a bar counter where the staff can sit and eat lunch, a low, curvy sofa with plenty of pillows for napping, a soft-serve ice cream machine, a vintage pinball machine—Hokus Pokus—and a jukebox that gives four plays for a dollar. Lizbet is seriously impressed by the break room, but for the most part, the staff seem nonplussed. Zeke stares at the pinball machine like it’s a Martian spacecraft, and Lizbet can see him wishing there was a TV and a PS5 instead. Edie inspects the songs on the jukebox and says, “I’ve never heard of any of this music. Who’s Joan Jett?”
Lizbet asks everyone to sit and then checks that the door is closed tight.
“First of all, I want to thank you all for your great work today.” She brings her hands together in front of her chest. The incident with JJ and Mario Subiaco that morning in the parking lot feels like three days ago, and Lizbet has to stay to work the night desk. How is she ever going to make it through the summer?
She isn’t, at this rate, and especially not in heels.
“We have guests in suite one fourteen who will be staying for the summer. I just want to remind everyone that although these guests may become very familiar to you over time, you should always treat them with the highest standards of service. And information about all our guests should be held in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course,” Edie says. Everyone else just nods.
Something about Kimber Marsh’s cash felt fishy, and after the children and Doug retreated back to their room, Lizbet had wanted to ask Kimber a question—but she wasn’t sure what that question should be. Was her ex-husband abusive? Was he in the Mob or a drug dealer? Was the family in hiding? In the end, Lizbet said to Kimber, “We’re so glad you’re here. I wrote a Nantucket recommendation guide, which I’m calling the Blue Book. I’ll leave it for you at the desk.” Then Lizbet zipped down to her computer and googled Kimber Marsh of East Seventy-Fourth Street, New York, New York. Nothing relevant came up. Lizbet checked Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram—nothing. She tried Kimberly Marsh, Kim Marsh, Kimmy Marsh—still nothing. As far as the internet was concerned, Kimber Marsh didn’t exist. Was that suspicious? Lizbet reasoned that there were lots of people who didn’t use social media. Or maybe because of the divorce, she had deleted her accounts.
To the staff, Lizbet says, “I’ve advised Ms. Marsh to use the exit next to her suite to walk the dog. The last thing I want to see is that dog strolling through the lobby.”
“I’ll walk the dog for Ms. Marsh if she needs me,” Zeke says.
Edie laughs. “Seriously? This afternoon, that dog was walking you.”
“We bonded,” Zeke says. “It’ll be my pleasure to do that for Ms. Marsh.”
“He just wants the thousand-dollar bonus,” Adam says.
“About those bonuses,” Lizbet says, and every pair of eyes snaps back to her. “In addition to reading the TravelTattler reviews, Mr. Darling will be hearing from me about staff performance. And what I’ll be looking for is superlative guest service, of course, but also selflessness, sacrifice, promptness, consistency, kindness, and teamwork.”
Alessandra, who has been sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, raises a hand. “Will Mr. Darling be in residence this summer?”
“Not until August.”
Alessandra frowns, but the rest of the staff look relieved. Adam raises his hand. “Can we get the piano in the lobby tuned?” he asks.
“Sure,” Lizbet says. Until this second, she thought of the piano only as a piece of furniture. “Do you play?”
“I do,” Adam says. He sings out “Welcome to the Hotel Na-antucket!” to the tune of “Hotel California,” and everyone except Alessandra smiles. He has a great voice, a Broadway voice—just like his former GM said in the e-mail.
“I’ll put that on my list,” Lizbet says. She looks around the room. “Does anyone else have hidden talents?” She pauses. “Or perhaps a secret to share in this safe space?”
She watches every face in the room tense up.
Lizbet smiles. “Just kidding, guys. Thank you for a terrific first day.”
Lizbet isn’t kidding. She wants to nurture intimacy and trust. During her fifteen seasons at the Deck, Lizbet was a vault for all sorts of sensitive information. She was the first call when Goose’s brother got arrested for a DUI; she sat with Juliette in the restaurant office while Juliette cried about accidentally getting pregnant. However, Lizbet kept boundaries in place—she was 90 percent boss, 10 percent big sister. Her staffers were a little afraid of her, but that meant she was doing a good job. She wants to create that same atmosphere here; it’s her strength. She scrutinizes her staff. If they’re hiding anything—as she suspects Kimber Marsh is—she wants to know about it now.