The Hotel Nantucket (5)
Lizbet nearly leaps out of her chair, she wants this job so much. “I’ll send Mr. Darling my résumé tonight. Do you think you might…put in a good word for me?”
Eddie presses his fingers together in a way that seems contemplative, and Lizbet hopes he’s remembering all the times he called the Deck at the last minute and Lizbet found him a table, even when they were crazy full with a wait list. Eddie always requested table number 1 and Lizbet granted that wish when she could (that David Ortiz was sitting there one night and Ina Garten another wasn’t Lizbet’s fault!).
“I won’t put in a good word,” Eddie says. “I’ll put in a great word.”
The next week, Lizbet interviews with Xavier Darling over Zoom. Although she thought she crushed it—dropping the name of the chairman of the zoning board to underscore her local connections—Xavier’s demeanor gave nothing away. Lizbet figured someone like Xavier Darling would have a short list for the position that included people like the GMs from Wynn Las Vegas and the XV Beacon Hotel in Boston. However, only two days later, Xavier Zoom-called Lizbet and offered her the job. She was calm and composed as she accepted, but the instant she pressed the Leave Meeting button, she jumped up and down, victorious fists raised over her head. Then she collapsed in her chair and wept tears of gratitude.
The secret of change is to focus all your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new.
Lizbet had a proverbial clean slate.
She visualized a Hollywood production assistant snapping shut the clapper board as the director shouted: Take two!
On the morning of April 12, Lizbet is, unfortunately, back to fighting the old—specifically, she’s remembering how it was Christina who called her to explain away the sexting (Those texts are nothing, Libby, JJ and I were only kidding around)—when she gets a message from Xavier Darling; he’s requesting a meeting. It’s six thirty a.m.—Xavier, in England, is oblivious to the time difference—and Lizbet sighs. She was planning to get on the Peloton. But she has agreed to be at Xavier’s beck and call, so she pulls a blouse on over her workout tank, drapes her braids over her shoulders, and fluffs her bangs.
Join meeting with video.
“Good morning, Elizabeth.” (Xavier refuses to call her Lizbet, even though she has asked him to twice, telling him that the only person who called her Elizabeth was her late grandmother.) Behind Xavier, Lizbet sees Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, a view so iconically London, it might as well be a Zoom background.
“Good morning, sir.” Lizbet tries not to worry about his stern tone of voice, though she briefly wonders if today is the day the hammer drops and the hopes she has invested in the hotel will collapse, the whole thing a belated April Fools’ joke.
“I’m calling to shed some light on things that might have been unclear.”
Lizbet steels herself. What is Xavier going to tell her?
“You’ve never asked me—in fact, no one has asked me—why I bought this hotel. After all, I live in London and I’ve never visited Nantucket.” He pauses. “Have you wondered about this?”
Lizbet has, in fact, wondered, but she chalked it up to her understanding of the very wealthy: They buy things because they can.
“I bought this particular hotel,” Xavier says, “because I’m trying to impress two women.”
Whoa! Lizbet pinches her thigh to keep from gasping. This is probably the only answer worth sacrificing her thirty-minute hip-hop ride with Alex Toussaint for.
“Two women?” Lizbet says. She checks her image on her laptop screen; she’s maintaining a sort of straight face. Lizbet has, naturally, googled Xavier Darling. According to an article in the Times (London), he never married and has no children. The internet showed pictures of him at the Royal Ascot and the Cartier Queen’s Cup with young, combatively beautiful women on his arm, but never the same one twice. Who are the lucky two, and will they both be coming to Nantucket? Because that will get the island talking! She would love to remark that buying each woman a private plane or a minor van Gogh might have been cheaper.
“Yes,” Xavier says. “I’m going to share with you now who one of the women is.”
“Wonderful, sir.”
“One of the women I’m trying to impress is Shelly Carpenter.”
Shelly Carpenter, Lizbet thinks. Of course.
“Do you know who Shelly Carpenter is?” Xavier asks.
“‘Stay well, friends,’” Lizbet quotes. “‘And do good.’”
“Precisely,” Xavier says. “Elizabeth, I want a five-key review from Hotel Confidential.”
Again, Lizbet checks her image. Does she look incredulous? Yes—yes, she does. Along with eighteen million other people, Lizbet follows Shelly Carpenter on Instagram. Her account @hotelconfidentialbySC has become a national obsession. Shelly Carpenter posts at noon eastern time on the last Friday of every month—a ten-picture carousel of each property (she’s rumored to take these photos with her iPhone)—and the link in her bio takes you to her blog Hotel Confidential, where she awards properties anywhere from one to five keys. The secret to her success is her witty, brilliant writing, her razor-sharp intelligence, and her refined sense of what works and what doesn’t where hotels are concerned—but there’s also mystery involved. Nobody knows who she is. The internet agrees on only one thing: Shelly Carpenter is a pseudonym.