The Hotel Nantucket (73)

Lizbet shrugs. She can’t say Yolanda’s name. “It’s just a sense I get.”

“Your sense is wrong.”

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, Lizbet thinks. “I can’t get hurt again, Mario.”

“Lizbet, come on. How about a little faith?”

She glares out the windshield at her tiny shingled cottage, a cottage she bought with someone else. She had faith once upon a time. It didn’t work out.

Mario sighs. “Is it okay if I walk you to the door?”

She doesn’t answer but he does it anyway, giving Lizbet one last chance to change course. Why can’t she just treat this relationship like an easygoing summer romance with great sex, water views, and delicious meals? It started out that way…but then there were the roses he brought her in the Tom and Jerry jelly jar and the lunch when he cried telling Lizbet about his cousin Hector who died of liver cancer. At another lunch, Lizbet was so tired that she skipped sex and skipped eating and just fell asleep on Mario’s bed, and she woke up an hour later to him kissing her eyelids, and he handed her a brown paper bag with a homemade pan bagnat for her to take back to the hotel. She thinks about how he called Christina “Tina” and how he never starts the car unless she has her seat belt fastened and how he holds her face when he kisses her, his fingertips always grazing her earlobes. All of these things accumulated and now, suddenly, Lizbet finds herself losing her grip on her good sense. Something secret is going on with Yolanda; maybe it’s unspoken or unpursued, but there’s a fondness, a flirtation, and Lizbet is both jealous and disappointed in herself for being jealous. She has to get out. Now.

Mario gives her a kiss that is tender enough to make her change her mind—and she nearly relents. How can she give this up? But in the end, she pulls away. “Good night, Mario.”

“Good night, Heartbreaker,” he says.

July 25, 2022

From: Xavier Darling ([email protected])

To: Employees of the Hotel Nantucket



Good morning! I just want to let you know how encouraging it is that the world has discovered the hotel and that reservations are where they should be: at 100 percent occupancy. The reviews on the TravelTattler website are a testament to everyone’s hard work and dedication. But this week, one staff member was mentioned above all others, and once again that was Alessandra Powell. Keep up the good work, everyone!

XD



Every time Grace sees Alessandra enter a gentleman guest’s room at night, she steers clear. Alessandra is sleeping with the guests—Mr. Brownlee, Mr. Yamaguchi, Dr. Romano—in exchange for them writing TravelTattler reviews that specifically mention her, a ploy that has so far earned her four thousand dollars in bonus money.

However, when Grace sees Alessandra go up the side stairs with a man named Bone Williams, she gets a dreadful feeling. She’s annoyed by this—the last person she wants to rescue is the little witchy-witch Alessandra—but her foreboding is too strong to ignore.

When Bone Williams checked in, Grace saw flashing red lights and heard an obnoxious alarm sounding, but she chalked this up to toxic masculinity. (Bone, what a name, she thought. Another man referencing his penis!) He arrived on the first car ferry of the day, stormed into the lobby at half past nine, and asked Edie why the hell there was no valet parking and what was he supposed to do with his Corvette Stingray because he couldn’t just leave it on the street!

Edie was the model of calm patience. She told Mr. Williams that the hotel had only twelve parking spots and those were reserved for people staying in the suites. Bone then told Edie with a barely concealed snarl that he had tried to get a suite but they were all booked!

“You can’t penalize me for that!” Bone Williams was on the short side but very muscular (he probably “lifted”). Grace would put him at thirty-five or so, which felt young for his level of entitlement. “My room had better be ready.”

“It’s nine thirty,” Edie said. “Our guaranteed check-in time is three p.m. But we’ll do our best to get you in long before that, Mr. Williams.”

“Three o’clock!” Bone shouted. “You have got to be”—he swallowed a word—“kidding me!”

“We have a complimentary continental breakfast, which you can enjoy on the porch, or I can have it delivered to you at the adult pool,” Edie said. “Or, if you’d like to stroll into town for breakfast, we highly recommend the Lemon Press on Main Street.”

“I’m not ‘strolling’ anywhere,” Bone said. “I want to check into my room, not wander the property like a hobo when I’ve paid good money to stay here. And I need a secure spot for my Stingray.”

“I’ll contact you as soon as your room has been cleaned,” Edie said. “Unfortunately, the guests in that room haven’t checked out yet.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Bone said. “Let me speak to your manager.”

At this point, Edie smiled. “Certainly.” She turned to Alessandra. “Mr. Williams, this is Alessandra Powell, our front-desk manager.”

Alessandra said, “You drive a Corvette Stingray? Wasn’t that the pace car for last year’s Indy Five Hundred?”

Bone’s demeanor instantly changed. “It was, yes.” He slid over to Alessandra’s position at the desk and drank in her appearance. Her hair was braided with a hydrangea-blue scarf woven through, and she was wearing the white eyeliner and eye crystals that seemed to mesmerize every man she spoke to, including Bone Williams. “Hey, your name tag is upside down.” He did the unfunny shtick of craning his neck, trying to read it. “Alessandra.”