I felt churlish asking that the head-and-shoulders be removed; however, ask I did.
The bathroom was tiny with no surface for toiletries, so I placed mine on the back of the toilet, a decision that landed my moisturizer in the bowl. The bathroom had a fuzzy pink rug, and, friends, you know how I feel about rugs or carpeting of any kind in bathrooms. The sink’s drain was sluggish, and the shower, while giving decent pressure, was subject to sudden drastic changes in temperature (probably due to the Hubertsons, on the same floor, flushing their toilet).
Although I bristled at the strict timetable for breakfast, I was in my seat promptly at eight. The proprietress brought out freshly squeezed orange juice and a fruit salad that included blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, sliced peaches, and fresh figs. (She won me over with the figs.) The “main course” was a mushroom, herb, and gooey Brie frittata with a side of crisp bacon and a golden hash-brown patty. Also on offer were banana pecan muffins and cheddar scones. The breakfast was the most delicious I’ve eaten in my life—yes, friends, better than the croissant with butter and apricot jam at the Shangri-La in Paris, better than the congee at the Raffles in Singapore—but my infatuation with the food was mitigated by the need to chat with the proprietress and the Hubertsons about which shop in town had the best penuche fudge and how much of a rip-off the whale-watching trips were. By the end of the meal, I was longing for the freedom and anonymity of a proper hotel.
In the end, I balanced the mediocrity of the Sea Castle accommodations (the sluggish drain, the unsettling contents of the trunk) against the extraordinary breakfast, and I arrived at three keys. Those of you who love quilts, stained glass, oak sideboards, cross-stitch, green-apple-scented candles, “country charm,” and good-hearted chitchat may have arrived at four keys, but on this point we’ll have to differ.
Stay well, friends. And do good.
—SC
“I can’t believe she went to a bed-and-breakfast,” Adam says. “Has she ever done that before? Next thing you know, she’ll be reviewing Airbnbs.”
“I thought she was harsh,” Edie says. “My mom wanted to buy the Winter Street Inn a few years ago when Mitzi Quinn put it up for sale, but my dad talked her out of it. It’s a lot of work, running those places. I like bed-and-breakfasts. I think they’re quaint and cozy.”
Adam groans. “Death by cross-stitch.”
Lizbet happens to agree with Adam but she won’t weigh in; she has something bigger on her mind. “Hyannis Port,” she says. “Shelly Carpenter is getting closer.”
19. The Blanket, the Belt, the Burglary
August 1, 2022
From: Xavier Darling ([email protected])
To: Employees of the Hotel Nantucket
Happy August, team! I’m pleased to offer this week’s thousand-dollar bonus to a different staff member: Raoul Wasserman-Ramirez. Raoul’s excellent service at the bell stand was extolled by a large family who recently stayed with us. He went above and beyond the call of duty to meet their needs and always had a smile. That’s what I like to hear!
I’ll be seeing you all in just a few weeks!
XD
August is the least favorite month of most people who work in the summer service industry—and Lizbet is no exception. July is merely a dress rehearsal for the flat-out theater-of-the-absurd production that is August. That was true at the Deck—every table every night was booked with a VIP. Lizbet once had to say no to Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani requesting a table for eight because she simply couldn’t bump one of her regulars (but it killed her to do it).
At the hotel, August is just as full as July—you can’t get any fuller than full—but the clientele is more demanding. A woman named Diane Brickley insists that Edie rent her “the room you keep vacant for VIP walk-ins.” Edie comes to Lizbet and says, “I need your help. Alessandra is on lunch.”
“Still?” Lizbet says. Alessandra has been pushing the envelope where lunch is concerned—the day before, she was gone for ninety minutes, and when Lizbet spoke to her about it, Alessandra shrugged and said, “Fire me.”
Which, of course, Lizbet couldn’t do. Not in August.
Lizbet pokes her head out her office door. Diane Brickley is, Lizbet would guess, nearly eighty years old. She looks like one of the ladies who eat lunch every day on the patio of the Field and Oar Club. She’s wearing a knee-length Nantucket-red skirt that she probably bought at Murray’s Toggery back in the 1960s—it’s faded to pale pink—a yellow slicker, and a rain bonnet (the forecast did call for thunderstorms, but out the front doors of the hotel Lizbet sees golden sunshine). There’s an antique Nantucket Lightship basket hanging from Diane Brickley’s forearm. Lizbet realizes that Diane Brickley is one of the Field and Oar ladies, and she sits on the board of directors at the Nantucket Lightship Basket Museum. She lives at 388 Main Street.
“Hello, Mrs. Brickley, it’s Lizbet Keaton.”
Diane waves a hand. “At least somebody here knows me. I have my daughter visiting with her four teenage sons and I can’t handle the noise, the smell, or the mess. Please put me in the room you save for visiting dignitaries.”
Hotels do not keep rooms vacant for VIP walk-ins; that’s a myth. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brickley,” Lizbet says. “We’re full. We don’t have a single room available.”
“Full?” Mrs. Brickley says. “The White Elephant is full, the Beach Club is full, and the Wauwinet is full, but I thought for sure you’d have a room available. Isn’t this place haunted?”
Guests have been posting their “visits” from the ghost of Grace Hadley all over social media. Nothing that Grace does shows up on anyone’s camera, but these people get likes and follows and reposts anyway. Derek White, a fourth-grade teacher from Shaker Heights, reported seeing a ghost reflected in his dark bedroom window; he claimed she was wearing “one of the hotel bathrobes and a Minnesota Twins cap.” A few days later, guest Elaine Backler was applying eyebrow pencil when she saw a “floating robe and navy baseball hat” in the mirror behind her. (Lizbet is certain Elaine must have heard about Derek’s sighting and was corroborating it to stoke intrigue. The detail about the Twins cap, though, nags at Lizbet. She misplaced her own navy Minnesota Twins baseball cap sometime during her first week of work and it hasn’t turned up.)
The Washington Post calls, then USA Today, but all Lizbet can tell them for sure is that a chambermaid was killed in a fire at the hotel a hundred years earlier. Is Grace Hadley now haunting the hotel? “It’s anyone’s guess,” Lizbet says lightly. The phone rings nonstop; people have started booking rooms for the following summer.
Lizbet wants to tell Mario about this—tell him he was wrong that the hotel might be a flash in the pan; Lizbet is half full for next June already—but she has consciously avoided any situation in which she might see Mario. She hasn’t texted or called. He called her once at midnight, waking her up; it took extreme willpower but she let the call go to voice mail, and he didn’t leave a message. He also sent Beatriz to the front desk with a bakery box—the homemade pizza rolls, the gougères, the doughnuts—and Lizbet brought it directly to the break room for everyone else to enjoy.
She longs for him every second of every day.