Maisie is the biggest joy of my life, but working at Aquamarine runs an awfully close second. I love the atmosphere, the energy, and the pride in knowing our guests could have chosen any hotel in Miami Beach, but they chose ours because we’ll make sure their stay is as close to perfect as you can get.
It’s nearly ten when I clock in and log on to the digital concierge portal. Ms. Whitaker is staying with us tonight and the dairy has already been scheduled to deliver her raw milk. There are only a handful of requests for wake-up calls and early airport limousines, but anything can happen between 10:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M.
Cecily peeks her head into the office. She’s been the evening concierge for the past ten years and I secretly covet her job. I don’t mind having to fetch sex toys for a visiting dominatrix, but Cecily was once tasked with buying a Maserati for a Saudi Arabian prince.
“Thought you should know that Blackwell is here,” she says. “He checked in earlier tonight.”
Peter Rhys-Blackwell is … well, no one is exactly sure what he does for a living. His Wikipedia entry calls him an entrepreneur, a promoter, and a real estate developer, but mostly he’s known for being seen with celebrities and splashing out cash like he prints it himself. He’s in his late sixties. Recently divorced from wife number four. He can be exceptionally generous and thoughtful, but according to the staff whisper network, he can also be racist, misogynistic, and homophobic. And I can attest to the fact that he has difficulty keeping his hands to himself. His behavior is tolerated because most of us can’t afford to do otherwise. Standing up to someone like Blackwell takes a safety net many of my coworkers don’t have.
“Appreciate the heads-up,” I say, offering a silent prayer that Blackwell is already asleep in his bungalow and stays that way for the rest of the night. Not likely, given that Miami Beach never sleeps, but one can hope.
I spend the first hour of my shift making late-night dinner reservations, booking car services, and ordering an extra-large anchovy pizza for a couple of drunk Australian rugby players camped out in the lobby. Right before my dinner break, I deliver a bottle of Tylenol to a guest with a pained back. After scarfing down a Publix Cuban sandwich and a Diet Coke, I return to the desk as the front doors swing open. Blackwell strides into the lobby wearing white Gucci driving loafers, a giant gold watch, and a pink Hawaiian shirt covered in parrots and palm leaves paired with white shorts. His cologne reaches me first.
I step out from behind the reception desk and give him a welcoming smile. The employee handbook requires it, but after this many years, it’s automatic. “Good evening, Mr. Rhys-Blackwell. Enjoying your stay at Aquamarine?”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Rachel.”
I’m surprised he knows my name until I remember I’m wearing a name tag. “You too, sir.”
“How’s your little one?” he asks, dipping a hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulling out a money clip. “A daughter, right?”
“Yes.” That he legitimately remembers I have a daughter softens me, and when my smile widens, it’s authentic. Talking about Maisie has that effect on me. Every single time. “She’s nearly four.”
“I remember when my youngest was that age.” He peels a bill off the stack of cash in his hand, and I pretend not to notice. First, because it’s unbecoming behavior for an Aquamarine employee. Second, because it still boggles my mind that someone could have that much cash casually sitting in their pocket. Blackwell has hundreds, while I’m lucky if I have a quarter for the Aldi shopping cart. He says, “She was hell on wheels.”
“I’ve been fortunate so far.” I tap my knuckles lightly on the desk. “Maisie is an awesome kid.”
“With a mother like you, how could she be anything else?” Blackwell leans in, pressing the money into my palm with one hand as the other comes to rest between my hip and my ass. “Have a bottle of Macallan and a cigar—nothing cheap—sent to my bungalow, will you, sweetheart?”
“Certainly, sir.” I take a step back before his touch can become a grope. “Right away.”
Blackwell makes a low, satisfied hum in his throat that kind of creeps me out, and winks. “Such a good girl.”
He saunters in the direction of the doors leading outside to the bungalows. As Peter Rhys-Blackwell encounters go, this one wasn’t too icky. I glance down to find a one-hundred-dollar bill in my hand. There’s no rule that says I can’t accept tips, but I don’t feel completely comfortable keeping this much money. Except, Maisie’s birthday is coming up, and she’s been begging for a bike with training wheels. I tuck the cash into the pocket of my uniform skirt. I’ll decide later.
Ordinarily I’d notify the bar manager of Blackwell’s request and he’d have someone from his staff deliver, but it’s Friday night, and the bar is crowded. Instead I double-check the portal to see which brand of cigar Blackwell prefers and then add it to his room charge, along with the bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey, and prepare the room service tray myself.
The air is pleasantly cool as I wheel a wooden bar cart along the bungalow path, and the sound of the waves washing against the dark, empty shore is soothing. There’s too much ambient light to see more than a few stars, but there’s a kind of peace that comes with knowing they’re up there all the same, moving steadily across the night sky. That if you get lost, the stars will guide you home.
I knock on the bungalow door. “It’s Rachel with your room service.”
The door opens and Blackwell stands in front of me with his Hawaiian shirt hanging open, his hairy belly peeking through the space between. Not something I’ve ever wanted to see, but at least he’s still wearing his shorts. The housekeepers claim he sits around in his underwear while they clean his room. Blackwell steps aside and gestures me forward. “I didn’t expect you to be my delivery girl. Come in! Come in!”
I roll the cart into the suite.
“Pour me a glass, would you?” Blackwell asks, picking up the cigar. He takes a sniff. Seemingly satisfied, he rejects the cigar cutter I provided and pulls a small metal knife from his pocket. He opens the blade and slides the end of the cigar through a hole in the handle, then closes the blade, slicing off the tip. People I know don’t smoke fancy cigars much less have their own cutters, so the whole process is kind of fascinating. He glances up to see me watching him. “Have you ever smoked a cigar?”
“I haven’t.” I turn my attention to the Macallan bottle as he holds a match to the cigar, his cheeks puffing in and out until the tobacco catches the flame.
Blackwell holds the smoldering cigar out. “Wanna try?”
I crinkle my nose. “No, thank you. How do you take your whiskey?”
“Got any of those little stones?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
I open the ice bucket and use a pair of tongs to place a few of the chilled whiskey stones in a glass, followed by a generous pour. I’m surprised to find the liquor smells like campfire and cinnamon. I thought it would smell like … I don’t know … gasoline or something equally flammable. Rich people always seem to love the most disgusting-sounding things, like truffles, caviar, and soup made of dried bird saliva.