“I knew Magda was hiding something,” Nancy Twine of the Summer Street Church said. “I used to wonder about her putting so much in the collection plate on Sundays and now I find out she could have put in ten times more. She has millions!”
Yes, Magda English’s net worth hovers around twenty-four million dollars. The (unconfirmed) story is that she caught the eye of Xavier Darling thirty years earlier when she was working on one of his cruise ships. He wined and dined her in Monte Carlo and they ended up at a casino where she placed a five-hundred-dollar bet (her own money, she would be quick to point out) and rolled the dice at the craps table for nearly two hours, going all in each time and walking away with two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars. She invested this money with Xavier Darling’s bankers, where it grew at a steady rate. Then, in 2012, Xavier approached Magda with a dark-horse opportunity: he was investing in a company that was developing a new kind of personal security software. After reading the company’s prospectus, Magda told Xavier she wanted in. The company went public in July of 2021 and Magda’s small fortune became a big fortune. The following month, her sister-in-law, Charlotte English, died suddenly in her sleep and Magda moved to Nantucket to be with her brother, William, and her nephew Zeke. She had been looking at property with Fast Eddie, including homes on Eel Point Road, but hadn’t found anything to her liking. She took the job as head of housekeeping at the hotel because she was always happiest when she was busy.
“At least that’s what I’ve gathered from our chats,” said Brian, the bartender at the Brant Point Grill. Brian was the one who’d spilled the beans about Magda and Xavier. “They were definitely having a thing,” he said. “She told me he was an ‘old friend,’ but I was getting a vibe of ‘old friend with benefits.’”
This makes Magda’s decision to buy the hotel even more intriguing. Apparently, when Eddie told her that Xavier already had a private offer of sixteen million, Magda said, “I’m going to call Xavier’s bluff. His friend who wants to turn the hotel into a satellite office is probably only half serious—who puts a satellite office thirty miles out to sea?—but my partner and I will give Xavier the benefit of the doubt and offer eighteen million.”
“He’ll close at twenty.”
“Done,” Magda said.
As for Magda’s partner, Paul Winslow, he was overheard saying, “I’m sure I’ll be accused of buying the hotel for my son, but in reality, I was presented with a smart business proposition by Magda English. The Hotel Nantucket is a piece of Nantucket history but it’s also poised to be the most gracious accommodations on this island for generations to come. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that, given the choice? As for my son, Chad, I hope this deal shows him firsthand what kind of positive opportunities my firm can create. I hope he ultimately decides to come work with me. But if he stays on at the hotel, I respect that decision. The important thing is that the Hotel Nantucket is back in business.”
Charlene from Our Island Home senses an exuberance in the hotel staff the moment she steps into the lobby. The air is rich with the smell of good coffee and fresh-baked pastry; Aretha Franklin is asking for a little respect; the place is buzzing with conversation and laughter. Charlene feels like a bit of a bubble-burster; she has come to the hotel on a sobering mission. She approaches the desk where Sweet Edie Robbins is working—Charlene has known Edie since the days her father, Vance, used to carry her in the BabyBj?rn at the Stop and Shop, though now Edie is all grown up, looking quite chic in her silky hydrangea-blue blouse.
Charlene says, “Good morning, Edie. I can see you’re busy, but do you have a minute to talk?”
“Of course, Charlene!” Edie says. She turns to her coworker, a woman with lovely long gingery hair, and says, “I’ll be back shortly.”
Edie leads Charlene through a closed door into the employee break room. Charlene has heard rumors about this room, and it doesn’t disappoint. There’s a Formica bar counter with bright orange leather and chrome diner stools, a jukebox, a pinball machine, and a curvy midcentury sofa, where Edie leads them to sit.
“I only have a few minutes,” Edie says.
“Yes!” Charlene says. “You must be wondering what I’m doing here.” She pulls a plastic bag from her purse, and from the bag she removes an old, leather-bound journal with the initials JFB in gold leaf on the cover. “I’m sad to say that Mint Benedict passed away yesterday.”
Edie blinks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. He was one of your residents? He was elderly?”
“Ninety-four,” Charlene says. “He was the only child of Jackson and Dahlia Benedict.”
Edie smiles politely. “I’m still not sure…”
“They owned the hotel from 1910 to 1922,” Charlene says. “Then there was a fire and a chambermaid was killed.”
“Our ghost,” Edie says.
“Your ghost.” Charlene hands Edie the journal. “This is Jackson Benedict’s diary from that year. Mint kept it in his safety-deposit box. Mint’s mother, Dahlia, died of alcoholism when Mint was only ten years old and Jackson passed from cancer in 1943. There are also photographs and some small items from the hotel—a handbell, a few keys, some pieces of china from the ballroom. Mint is donating those to the Nantucket Historical Association. But he wants you here at the hotel to have Jackson’s diary. He made it clear he would like someone to actually read it.”
“I’ll read it,” Edie says. “But I can’t do it right now. I have to get back to work.”
“Just promise you’ll—”
“Yes, of course!” Edie says. “I’m pumped about this.” She opens the journal’s cover and sees the first page is dated August 22, 1922. “This is the hotel’s history.”
“I have to admit, I read it myself,” Charlene says. “It reveals some secrets about this place. The literal skeletons in the closet.”
“You should probably read it first,” Edie says to Lizbet, sliding Jackson Benedict’s diary across Lizbet’s desk.
“Charlene gave it to you,” Lizbet says.
“I’m not sure I can get to it tonight,” Edie says. “I’m going to dinner with Zeke.”
“What?” Lizbet says. “Is this hotel responsible for another romance?”
Edie shrugs. “We’re just going out to celebrate the hotel purchase.” She lowers her voice. “Zeke had no idea his aunt had that much money. He and his dad were totally blown away.”
“Thank God for Magda,” Lizbet says. “Or I’d be working as the concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills.”
Alessandra steps into the office. “The concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills?” she says. “That’s the job I’m applying for.”
“I know,” Lizbet says. “They called me today for a reference.”
“And?” Alessandra says.
“I predict that next summer, you’ll be back on the West Coast.”
“Where I belong,” Alessandra says.
Yes, Edie thinks. She’ll miss Alessandra, but she’s excited about taking over as front-desk manager. “I hope the men in LA are ready for you,” she says.
“They aren’t,” Alessandra and Lizbet say together.
“Sit down if you have a minute,” Lizbet says. “Edie is going to read to us.”
August 22, 1922
Here, for my descendants, should I be lucky enough to have any, and for the historians and the detective inspectors, is a real and true account of the events of August 19 and 20, 1922. I’m not a gifted writer, nor, up to this point in my life, have I been particularly introspective, but I feel I must put these words down, if only to exorcise them from my soot-stained mind.
My wife, Dahlia, and I held a dinner dance in the ballroom of my hotel this past Saturday. The evening started with turtle soup, followed by beef Wellington and lobster tails, and everyone enjoyed gin cocktails and champagne. Dahlia got quite tight, as always. She flirted shamelessly with Chase Yorkbridge and asked him to escort her up to our suite as a way to make me jealous—but I was not jealous at all, only relieved. I left the party directly after Dahlia and headed up to the attic storage closet to see Grace.
Grace Hadley, my mistress. I was in love with her. I am in love with her still.