The Hotel Nantucket (14)

“I’m not mad,” Lizbet says. “And I’m also not going to marry you. You cheated on me.”

“I didn’t touch Christina,” JJ says. “Not once did I touch her.”

“That may be so,” Lizbet says. “But clearly there was enough electricity or chemistry between the two of you that the mere idea of her gave you a hard-on that you then went to the trouble of photographing and sending to her along with one hundred and eighty-seven texts describing what you would like to do with her if you ever got her alone in the wine cellar.” The espresso Lizbet just finished asserts itself; it’s liquid anger coursing through her bloodstream. “You’re a cheater, JJ. I will not marry you and all the forgive-me flowers in the world won’t change my mind. You’re a jerk for showing up here.”

“What do I have to do to get you to forgive me? I can’t run the restaurant without you.”

“Hire Christina.”

“I don’t want Christina. I want you.”

“I’m guessing what you really mean is that Christina was blackballed by every restaurant on this island—as she should have been—so she moved to Jackson Hole.” Lizbet can only hope this is true.

“Libby, please, I’m desperate. I’m lost. And look at you, baby, you’re a hundred times hotter than you’ve ever been.”

For one vainglorious second, JJ snags Lizbet’s attention. She has spent the months since they split running and riding the damn Peloton and taking private barre classes with Yolanda. She has lost thirty-two pounds, carved out the sides of her thighs, and scooped out her ass cheeks. She can wall-sit for two and a half minutes and plank for three; she can hold a crow pose in yoga; she has triceps! And today, she has freed her hair from the usual braids; she’s wearing it sleek and long, parted down the middle.

Lizbet has been chasing something, and that something is revenge. She has been waiting for the moment when JJ would acknowledge her change in appearance. A hundred times hotter. It’s a start. Far more important than how Lizbet looks is how she feels, which is strong, healthy, motivated! She’s not going to drink eight glasses of rosé every night this summer, she’s not going to share JJ’s cigarettes or stay up until three in the morning. She’s finished with that lifestyle.

“I need to get to work,” Lizbet says. “Please leave and take back the ring.”

“So you’re saying you don’t love me?” JJ reaches into his pocket again, and Lizbet suddenly feels panicky, afraid that he’s going to pull out a gun and…shoot her? Himself? Is he that unhinged? She takes a step back but then sees it’s just his phone in his hand. “You’re telling me you can listen to this and not feel anything?” He plays “White Flag” by Dido. But I will go down with this ship. How many times did Lizbet and JJ sing this at the top of their lungs in JJ’s truck as they rode to the beach at two in the morning so they could see the moonlight on the ocean? How many times did they dance to the song in their kitchen? I’m in love and always will be.

Playing it now is unfair.

“What I feel is sad and disappointed,” Lizbet says. “You betrayed my trust. You tossed fifteen years of my love down the drain because you couldn’t stop yourself from telling Christina that you wanted to tongue her nipples.”

JJ winces. “I never said that.”

“Oh, but you did. Get out of here, JJ, before I have one of my bellmen physically remove you.”

JJ puts the ring box in his pocket and straightens up to his full height. He’s six foot five and weighs two hundred and eighty pounds. In the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, where Lizbet was raised, that’s called a Paul Bunyan.

“Or I’ll get a restraining order,” Lizbet says.

“Libby—” He grabs her arm and she wrenches it away.

“Is there a problem?” A man in a white jacket and houndstooth pants steps out of the entrance to the new hotel bar and strides over to JJ and Lizbet.

Who is this? Lizbet thinks. The script on his jacket reads CHEF MARIO SUBIACO.

Lizbet fights to keep her composure. Mario Subiaco? Almost involuntarily, Lizbet looks over at JJ. His mouth has fallen open a bit.

“I’m Mario Subiaco,” Mario Subiaco says, offering Lizbet his hand. “The chef of the Blue Bar.”

The Blue Bar. Of course—Mario Subiaco used to be the pastry chef at the Blue Bistro, which was Nantucket’s best restaurant before it closed in 2005. Mario Subiaco is the OG Nantucket celebrity chef. JJ keeps Mario’s picture—clipped from a profile of him in Vanity Fair that was written just after the Blue Bistro shut its doors—taped to his office wall! Lizbet thought Mario Subiaco was in Los Angeles working as a private chef for Dwayne Johnson. But apparently he’s here now.

Holy buckets, Xavier, she thinks. Good job.

“Lizbet Keaton,” Lizbet says, shaking his hand. “I’m the general manager of the hotel.”

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“You’re Mario Subiaco!” JJ sounds like a nine-year-old Pop Warner quarterback who’s meeting Tom Brady. “You’re a legend, man!”

Mario nods. “Thanks, that makes me feel really old. Who are you?”

“JJ O’Malley,” he says. “I’m the chef/owner of the Deck.”