“We’ll go to the Brant Point Grill and sit at the bar,” Ms. English says. “It’s high time you and I had a talk.”
On the morning of August 24, Alessandra receives an e-mail from Xavier Darling addressed to her alone. Very much looking forward to meeting you later today, Alessandra, it says. One of our front desk’s shining stars! XD
Eccezionale! Alessandra thinks. She still has money in the bank, though not nearly as much as she’d hoped—her rent was expensive, the impractical vehicle she bought needs a new transmission to the tune of four grand, and she still has seventeen thousand in credit card debt to pay off from her previous life. She wants a permanent situation. Is it crazy to think that maybe she and Xavier Darling…
None of the men that Alessandra has slept with here at the hotel was wealthy or extravagant enough for her tastes—except David Yamaguchi, who, sadly, had a beautiful wife at home to whom he was very “devoted.” That douche-canoe Bone Williams actually managed, for one second, to scare Alessandra, sending her into a period of reflection. What is she doing? She has always aspired to be different from and better than her mother; however, Alessandra admits to herself that despite the glamorous trappings of her lifestyle—living first in Europe and now Nantucket, the champagne, the pricey dinners out, the luxury goods—she’s exactly the same, only she doesn’t have a daughter to show for it. Alessandra has never wanted a husband or children or a house in the suburbs or （shudder） Disney vacations. But some stability would be nice. Xavier Darling is worth eleventy billion dollars. He has homes in London, Gstaad, and St. Barth’s and apartments in New York and Singapore. He’s not tall or strapping the way Alessandra likes her men （sigh—Michael Bick）， but he has good posture, a kind smile, and a thick head of silver hair. Alessandra remembers reading that Xavier Darling had sunk thirty million into the hotel; it was what made her choose Nantucket over the Vineyard and Newport. At the time, she was thinking only of the wealthy clientele, though maybe subconsciously, she’d been thinking of Xavier himself.
He’s a little older than her usual targets…but that might be what she needs. Someone older.
At a quarter past two, Lizbet comes flying out of the back office. She’s wearing one of her cutest dresses, Alessandra notes with approval, a white linen Cartolina shift with a scalloped hem—but she’s chosen her two-braid style, which makes her look like she’s about to yodel.
“Xavier just landed!” Lizbet says. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes!” She makes zero effort to maintain any chill, but isn’t that the thing that draws people to Lizbet—that she wears her heart on her sleeve? At least Edie is calm. Ever since Alessandra scared away Edie’s predator （the one accomplishment this summer that Alessandra is proud of）， Edie has focused her warmth and light on Alessandra—“You’re such a boss! How can I ever thank you?”—and Alessandra basks in it. Alessandra enjoyed nailing that jerk Graydon so much that she has even considered training to work on some kind of special victims unit—but of course, she would never pass the background check.
Lizbet poses in the entrance of the hotel like the hostess in a game show, Zeke and Raoul flanking her. Louie is playing chess in the lobby with the teenage girl staying in room 210 （this girl has just finished watching The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix and swears she can beat Louie, though she’s lost three games in a row quite speedily）。 There’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and Sheryl Crow is singing that all she wants to do is have a little fun before she dies.
Lizbet whips around and squeals, “He’s here!” Alessandra feels her heart hop a little. She glances at Edie, who is on the phone with the R. J. Miller Salon, trying to secure a pedicure appointment for Mrs. Baskin in room 304. Alessandra taps Edie’s back and tells her Xavier’s here, and Edie whispers, “I’m on hold. I can’t hang up, she wants this for the morning.” Alessandra thinks that Edie is far more professional than she is; she would have hung up immediately.
Alessandra is jealous that Edie has something to occupy her. Alessandra just smiles at the door, then checks her computer for no reason. Xavier doesn’t have a reservation like other guests, and Lizbet made his key cards hours ago.
Then Alessandra hears voices—Zeke’s and Lizbet’s; they both sound like stage actors—and an instant later, the man himself steps into the lobby.
Well, Alessandra thinks. He’s taller than Alessandra expected—good—and he exudes a confidence that comes naturally to the very wealthy. He’s wearing a cream-colored suit and a coral-pink shirt open at the collar, a belt with a brushed-silver buckle （nothing flashy, also good）， and leather driving moccasins with woven uppers that Alessandra immediately identifies as Fratelli Rossetti. Xavier Darling’s look is plucked straight from Capri. Alessandra experiences a pang for the summers of her recent past. She misses the turquoise water, diving off the bow of Giacomo’s yacht, long lunches of grilled langoustines and crusty bread with fresh-pressed olive oil and salty, craggy chunks of Parmigiano. Xavier is deeply tanned, so she supposes his has been a summer well spent at the helm of his ship or in a private cabana on the beach at Il Riccio.