Page 7 of The Hotel Nantucket
Edie gives Lizbet what might be called an uneasy smile.Whatarethey saying?Grace wonders. Is anyone talking abouther?
“Your résumé isimpressive!” Lizbet says. “You graduated from the school of hotel administration at Cornell, where you were a Statler Fellow. You were number one in your class!”
Of course she was!Grace thinks.Look at her!
“In your opinion,” Lizbet says, “what’s the most important aspect of hospitality?”
“Making a genuine connection with each guest from minute one,” Edie says. “A warm greeting and a smile—‘We’re happy you’re here. Let us help you have a wonderful stay.’”
“Great answer,” Lizbet says. “It states here that you worked at the Statler Hotel on Cornell’s campus and then, last summer, at Castle Hill in Newport?”
“Yes, my boyfriend and I worked at Castle Hill together. That property is a-maze-ing!”
Lizbet’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is your boyfriend here for the summer? Because I’m still looking for—”
“We broke up right after graduation,” Edie says.
Grace can’t imagine what kind of fool would break up with this captivating young woman.
“We both got offers from the Ritz-Carlton management-training program,” Edie says. “But I wanted to spend the summer on Nantucket with my mom. Graydon asked if he could come and I said no. I wanted to start my adult life as an independent woman.”
Good for you,Grace thinks. She would have wanted to be an independent woman back in the day if that had been a thing.
“I’d love to offer you a spot on our front desk,” Lizbet says. “Your starting wage will be twenty-five dollars an hour.”
Grace understands inflation, but even so, this number is mind-boggling. In 1922, she made thirty-five cents an hour!
“We’re paying well above industry standard,” Lizbet says. “But then again, we expect more. It’ll be a rigorous schedule.”
“Not a problem,” Edie says. “One of the things they drilled into us at Cornell was that we would havenopersonal life.”
“At least you’re prepared.” Lizbet leans in. “I suppose you follow Shelly Carpenter on Instagram?”
“‘Stay well, friends,’” Edie says. “‘And do good.’ Her reviews are fire!”
Fire,Grace thinks. Everything good these days isfire. She can’t wait for this term to move along.
“Do you think she’ll ever give five keys?” Lizbet asks.
“My friends and I used to debate what it would take for her to grant the fifth key. The woman issonitpicky, and yet she’s not unreasonable. If you ask for skim milk with your room-service coffee, you should get it. The blow-dryer should work without pushing the reset button. I’m of the opinion that, if you pay attention and have the resources, then yes, a fifth key is possible.”
“Excellent. The hotel’s owner, Mr. Darling, is determined to get the fifth key.”
Sweet Edie beams. “I’msohere for it!”
The next interview is right in Grace’s wheelhouse: head of housekeeping! Grace scans the résumé: Magda English, age fifty-nine. There are two addresses listed, one in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, and one just around the corner on West Chester Street. Ms. English’s experience includes thirty-two years as director of housekeeping on XD Cruise Lines. Ms. English retired in 2021, and yet here she is, the woman who might be the new Mrs. Wilkes.
Lizbet meets Ms. English (“Please,” she says, “call me Magda”) in the lobby, and Grace trails them down the hall at a distance; she can tell nothing gets past this woman.
“We have thirty-six rooms,” Lizbet says. “And twelve suites.”
Magda has regal posture and barely a single line on her face. As she and Lizbet stroll the corridor, she admires the mahogany barrel ceiling and the brass portholes, salvaged from a French ocean liner, along the walls. “I used to run housekeeping on cruise ships, so I’ll feel right at home,” Magda says. Her voice has a delightful West Indian lilt (whereas Mrs. Wilkes’s voice had been like a cheese grater on Grace’s backside). “These portholes will need to be polished every week.”
Lizbet opens the door to room 108. Grace slips in and settles on top of the canopy bed, adjusting her robe for modesty. She’s chosen this spot because she can’t be seen in the mirror or window.
Magda walks over to the emperor-size bed and runs a hand over the duvet cover. “Matouk sheets?”
“Good guess,” Lizbet says.
