This elicits a patronizing laugh. “I do it to provide for you and your sister and your mother.” Paul raises an arm theatrically. “I didn’t grow up with any of this.”
Right, Chad knows. His father comes from a regular background, though not one as impoverished as he might like people to believe. He grew up in a split-level house in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, which is close to the Main Line but pointedly not on it. It was Chad’s mother, Whitney, who had the sterling pedigree—an estate in St. David’s, private school at Baldwin, a father who was a managing partner at Rawle and Henderson, the definition of a Philadelphia lawyer. Paul met Whitney at Smokey Joe’s bar on Route 30 when she was at Bryn Mawr and Paul was a scholarship student at Haverford. It was Whitney’s father who helped Paul get into the business school at Wharton and then introduced him to the gentlemen at the Brandywine Group.
“I know,” Chad says.
“You have the rest of your life to work,” Paul says. “I thought we agreed that you would take the summer off to enjoy yourself.”
Chad feels a lump in his throat. “I don’t deserve to enjoy myself.”
“I thought we agreed, as a family, to put what happened behind us.”
“I can’t just put it behind me, Dad,” Chad says. He seeks out Paul’s eyes. His father is essentially a decent guy who knows the difference between right and wrong. The mandate to keep “what happened” a secret is coming from Chad’s mother. She has her reputation to think of. It’s bad enough that so many people at home know; Whitney Winslow doesn’t want her social circle on Nantucket whispering about it as well. “Have you heard from the lawyers?” Chad swallows. “Or Paddy’s family?”
“Yes,” Paul says. He exhales like he’s about to deadlift three hundred pounds. “The surgery was unsuccessful. Patrick lost sight in the eye permanently.”
Paddy O’Connor, Chad’s best friend from college, his best friend possibly ever in his life, is blind in his left eye. Permanently. Chad feels blinded himself. He bends over his knees.
“We’re offering a generous settlement—paying all the medical bills in addition to compensation for the eye.”
How much is an eye worth? Chad wonders. What is the value of a full field of vision when you meet the woman you want to marry or hold your newborn child for the first time? Or when you go to MOMA to see van Gogh’s Starry Night or watch the sun set in the evening? Half of Paddy’s eyesight is gone. He can still see, but—Chad looked this up right after the accident—he’ll lose depth perception, and he’ll have difficulty judging distance and tracking moving objects.
“I want to contribute,” Chad says.
“That’s very generous of you, son, but—”
Chad pulls the sixty-five dollars out of his pocket and slaps it on the table next to Paul’s gin and tonic. He has nearly forty-eight hundred dollars saved from his paychecks. He’ll give everything he makes this summer to Paddy. The amount will be dwarfed by whatever Paul has offered, but Chad wants Paddy to know that he didn’t just roll over on his beach towel, beer in his hand, joint between his lips, and let his parents handle this. He went out and got a job where he deals with other people’s dirty diapers and forgotten late-night candy bars and bathroom swamps.
Paul eyes the money. “I’d like you to give your notice at the hotel tomorrow.”
“No,” Chad says.
“Your mother doesn’t like how it looks,” Paul says. “You working as a menial laborer—”
“Menial?” Chad says. “I have another word for it: honest. It’s an honest job, cleaning rooms for people who work hard themselves and who come to Nantucket to relax and have a vacation. You haven’t seen these rooms, Dad; they’re every bit as nice as the rooms in this house. The hotel is a special place—”
“That isn’t exactly what your mother has heard.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Chad says. He realizes now why his father works so hard. It has nothing to do with the pool or the Range Rover or a bowl filled with ripe peaches. It’s so he can control people. “I could be working at a roadside motel on Route Triple Zero in Nowheresville and the work would still be noble. People’s lives include messes, and I’m cleaning them up.”
“You’re to give your notice tomorrow, Chadwick,” Paul says.
Chad stands up. “Or what? You’ll ground me? Throw me out of the house? Disown me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You’re the one who’s being ridiculous,” Chad says. What kind of parents don’t want a child to actually take responsibility for his actions? His parents. Which is why he made such careless, thoughtless mistakes in the first place. His mother and father raised him to believe that he was invincible. They raised him to believe that nothing bad could ever happen in his life. But it did.
“I won’t quit,” Chad says. “I’m not a quitter.”
July 11, 2022
From: Xavier Darling ([email protected])
To: Employees of the Hotel Nantucket
Good morning! I think we can all agree the summer is now in full swing. Once again this week, the reviews reflect an exceptional job done by our front-desk manager, Alessandra Powell, and this week’s bonus goes to her. I hope the rest of you will strive to follow Alessandra’s excellent example of service.
Thank you for your continued hard work.
XD
Edie is in the break room with Zeke when the Venmo alert comes into her phone, so she ignores it. She and Zeke have become friendly and Edie isn’t going to let anything interrupt their bonding time. She spent all of her awkward freshman year of high school and at least half of her slightly less awkward sophomore year stalking Zeke English both in person and online, so the fact that they are now sitting next to each other at the Formica counter eating ice cream with their thighs practically touching is nothing short of miraculous to Edie in a long-delayed-dream kind of way.
Zeke says exactly what Edie is thinking. “I can’t believe Alessandra won the money again this week. It’s starting to feel like a setup.”
Edie makes a noncommittal murmuring noise, though what she wants to do is emphatically agree. Something must be up with Alessandra. She’s good on the desk, no question, but she doesn’t go the extra mile the way Edie does. If a guest requests an extra pillow or towel or a second container of the smoked bluefish paté, Edie zips directly up to the room and hands it over with a bright (and sincere) smile. She has learned the first names of everyone who answers the phone at Cru in order to secure hotel guests what is, for most people, an impossible reservation. She even went so far as to buy the little boy staying in room 302 a lighthouse key chain from the Hub because he was obsessed with Brant Point Light. Edie used her own money (of which she has very little), not the hotel’s petty cash, which is what Alessandra uses to buy herself lunch. (Petty cash is not to be used for their personal expenses, Lizbet has told them multiple times, and yet Edie says nothing to anyone because she loathes a tattletale.) Then there are the Marsh children. Edie helped Wanda write an article about the “ghost,” and when Wanda grew emotional and asked why nobody had saved Grace Hadley, Edie gave her a hug and said that was a long time ago, before there were smoke detectors. Edie also found Louie a chess instructor—a housepainter named Rustam who had been a chess champion back in Uzbekistan.
Edie would like to ask Kimber to write a TravelTattler review—Kimber would surely mention Edie—but she can’t bring herself to campaign on her own behalf.
Alessandra has won the bonus three weeks in a row. This is a side stitch that stays with Edie through all her working hours. It’s cathartic to hear that it bugs Zeke as well.
“Do Adam and Raoul ever tell you what it’s like to live with her?” Edie asks.
Zeke rolls his eyes. “Adam says she hardly ever sleeps there.”
“What?” Edie says.