Yes, of course! Richie practically shouts. He’d love to!
Kimber tells Richie that the best way to acclimate the children to him staying over while she’s away is for him to stay overnight in their suite on a regular basis while she’s there.
“The children will be fine with it,” Kimber says. She has spent so much time in the sun that her once-wan skin is now subtly golden, and her hair holds appealing beachy waves. She’s also, Grace notes, glowing from within. “They won’t blink an eye.”
“Well, that may be so,” Richie says. “But it’s against the rules. Staff aren’t allowed to sleep with the guests, Kimber.”
“Let’s go talk to Lizbet,” Kimber says.
“We can’t,” Richie says. “I’ll get fired.”
Kimber laughs. “You work seven nights a week! You barely even go home! She’s not going to fire you, because she’ll never, ever find anyone to replace you. We’re consenting adults. We’ll ask permission. Lizbet will understand.”
Mmm, Grace thinks. This is a gamble. Lizbet has been known to stretch some rules, but to blatantly break one like a stick over her knee? Grace watches as Kimber leads Richie by the hand to the door of Lizbet’s office. They enter together, Richie hanging back slightly, like a delinquent child.
“Good morning, Lizbet,” Kimber says. “Just so you know, Richie and I are having a summer romance and some nights he’ll be sleeping with me in the suite. We know this is technically against the rules.”
“More than technically,” Lizbet says, and Grace thinks she’s going to nip it in the bud, but then Lizbet gazes at Richie and Kimber, and her face softens. “But at this point, you’re more family than guest…”
“Ahh! That’s so sweet of you to say.” Kimber beams. “That’s how the children and I feel too.”
Richie clears his throat. “I promise to put work first, as always.”
“Absolutely,” Lizbet says. “So no bothering Richie at night anymore, Kimber, okay? He can come to your suite when he’s off the clock. Richie, just please be discreet.”
“Of course,” Richie says.
Lizbet clears her throat. “I would never want anything inappropriate happening in, for example, the break room,” she says.
Mario’s Playlist for Lizbet
“Love Walks In”—Van Halen
“Strange Currencies”—R.E.M.
“Kiss”—Prince
“Next to You”—The Police
“OMG”—Usher
“Girlfriend”—Matthew Sweet
“Can’t Feel My Face”—The Weeknd
“Dreaming”—Blondie
“In a Little While”—U2
“Killing Me Softly”—The Fugees
“Soulshine”—Martin Deschamps
“The Guy That Says Goodbye to You Is Out of His Mind”—Griffin House
“Nothin’ on You”—B.o.B.
“Loving Cup”—The Rolling Stones and Jack White
“Are You Gonna Be My Girl”—Jet
“Sister Golden Hair”—America
“Never Been in Love”—Cobra Starship
“Sleep Alright”—Gingersol
“Here Comes the Sun”—The Beatles
“Sexual Healing”—Marvin Gaye
“Summertime”—Kenny Chesney
Lizbet feels like a bubble in a flute of champagne; her outlook is golden and effervescent. It’s as though all of her inspirational memes have come true at once.
First of all, the hotel is thriving. The article written by Wanda Marsh—an eight-year-old kid; you just can’t make this stuff up—started a chain reaction that led to stories about Grace Hadley’s ghost being printed in newspapers across the country! The phone rang nonstop and the website crashed from all the traffic. (Lizbet was tickled by this development, inconvenient though it was. The Hotel Nantucket had broken the internet!) Having a busy hotel feels joyous; it feels like a celebration. Every day when Lizbet walks into the lobby, she’s entering the buzziest, most interesting room on the island.
Guests gather in the lobby for the percolated coffee (the richness of the coffee is mentioned time and again by guests on TravelTattler) and the almond croissants (ditto). They read the paper, start conversations, admire the James Ogilvy photograph, and watch Louie play chess (Louie shows up every morning at seven o’clock sharp, hair combed, glasses polished, little polo shirt buttoned to the top). The chaises by the pool are claimed by ten a.m.; the complimentary shuttles that run to the south shore’s beaches are full. Lizbet has had the piano tuned and every night before his shift, Adam comes in and plays show tunes while the guests enjoy the wine and cheese hour; people make requests, sing along, and slip Adam tips. After dinner, many guests forgo the lines at the Chicken Box and the Gaslight and instead choose to sit on the front porch of the hotel. They light up the fireplace tables, buy s’mores kits from the front desk, and indulge in their gooiest marshmallow dreams.
Lizbet would like to believe the hotel has finally hit its stride, but she knows the reason for the renaissance is…the ghost. But once potential guests have their interest piqued by the story of Grace Hadley, they check out the website and see the driftwood-and-rope canopy beds with the dreamy white sheers, the lavish bouquets of lilies and Dutch hydrangeas, the slipper tubs, the adult pool with the wall of climbing roses, the free minibar, and the carved teak ceiling in the yoga studio, and they think: I’d like to stay here.
The influx of guests includes the poet laureate of New Mexico, a family of ranchers from Montana, a mushroom grower from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, a neurosurgeon from Nashville, the owners of an NHL expansion team, a renowned hip-hop producer, a YouTube phenom, and a prominent editor from one of the Big Five publishing houses in New York City. This editor reads Lizbet’s Blue Book and says she’ll pitch it. She gets Lizbet’s e-mail address.
The secret of change is to focus all your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new.
Lizbet is so busy that hours and even days go by when she forgets to be on the lookout for Shelly Carpenter. Now is when Shelly Carpenter will show up; Lizbet is sure of it—and Lizbet is also sure that if Shelly slipped in under the radar in the past couple of weeks, she was met with exceptional service. Edie, Alessandra, Richie, Zeke, Adam, and Raoul are all at the top of their games.
The only thing going better than Lizbet’s professional life is her love life. Every day Lizbet goes to Mario’s cottage on her lunch hour. They make love and then he cooks for her—composed salads with grilled shrimp and creamy chunks of avocado and a side of the homemade cheddar crackers that they used to serve at the Blue Bistro or, on a rare day of rain, clam chowder and giant popovers pulled straight from the funny little oven. Sometimes Lizbet brings a bathing suit and they swim off of Mario’s front porch, and then she showers and braids her damp hair. When Mario comes in to work at four o’clock, he swings by her office with a double espresso—he figured out that the way to her heart is caffeine—and he often brings her a little gift: a cluster of roses, a perfect quahog shell, a grape Popsicle. He makes her a playlist to replace her breakup playlist. Lizbet closes her office door and they kiss like a couple of teenagers for a few stolen minutes before Lizbet straightens her skirt and Mario his chef’s jacket and they get back to work. When Mario gets home from the bar at night, he sends Lizbet a text: I’m home, Heartbreaker. Or Sweetest dreams, Heartbreaker. He has her in his phone as HB. Breaker, not broken! she thinks. She’s healed. She’s so healed that when she hears that Christina left JJ, she feels only a pang of pity for JJ; she could have told him that relationship would end badly. She considers calling to see if he’s okay but decides it’s best not to. She’s consumed with her romance with JJ’s idol, the man whose picture she gazed at on the wall of JJ’s office for fifteen years. It’s the kind of crazy plot twist that happens only in novels and movies—but she’s living it. She can’t believe how happy she is.