“It all worked out the way it was supposed to,” Edie says.
“But you couldn’t have predicted any of those circumstances. You made a decision based on your understanding of what hospitality means—saying yes rather than no.” Lizbet leans in. “Next year, I want you to be our front-desk manager.”
Edie perks up. “You do?” she says. “What about Alessandra?”
Lizbet shakes her head. “I doubt she’ll come back next year. But if she does…she’ll just have to deal.”
The hotel feels empty in the aftermath of the Marshes’ departure and Edie has to remind herself that they still have a full hotel. She calls Magda to let her know that suite 114 has checked out and is ready for a deep clean; fortunately, they built in a buffer night. No one will check into that room until Saturday.
Just then, Mr. Ianucci from room 307 steps in from the family pool in just his bathing suit with a hydrangea-blue towel draped over his shoulders like a cape. He lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head.
“I hate to bother you,” he says.
Edie would beg to differ on this point. Mr. Ianucci seems to relish being high maintenance. Edie was the one who made the reservation with his secretary right after the ghost story broke. The secretary begged for a two-night stay when Lizbet had instituted a three-night minimum due to high demand. Fine, Edie granted a two-night stay. Yesterday he asked for a reservation at the bar at American Seasons less than an hour before he wanted to dine. Who does that? But Edie handled it. This morning, he showed up in the lobby in his pajama bottoms and a Hanes undershirt and typed on his laptop and drank coffee and ate two of Beatriz’s almond croissants even though a sign encouraged the guests to take only one. He then asked Edie if she could arrange for a surfing lesson for later that morning and Edie smiled and said, “I’ll try,” though what she meant was A little notice would have been nice. However, Zeke was still friends with everyone at the surf school, so he arranged for a private lesson with Liam, the best instructor. Fine, great, Mr. Ianucci was so happy—not happy enough to tip either Edie or Zeke, but that’s not why they do the job. Then Mr. Ianucci called down to the desk to say that the water temperature on the south shore was only 72 degrees. “That’s a bit chilly for me,” he said. “I’m going to stick to the pool.”
Edie called to cancel the surfing lesson with her apologies but feared that the next time she asked for a last-minute favor, she would be turned down.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Ianucci?” Edie says now.
“The nice lady from the kitchen brought out the lemonade and the cookies,” he says.
Edie’s eyes widen. Lemonade and cookies? Is it three o’clock already?
“But the children at the pool snatched up the cookies before I could even get out of my chaise. Could I possibly get some more cookies?”
Edie will have to request another special favor, this time from Beatriz. “No problem. I’ll ask the kitchen for another batch right away.”
Mr. Ianucci holds up prayer hands, but does he actually say “Thank you”？ He does not; he slips back through the pool door.
Edie calls the kitchen to ask for more cookies, and when she hangs up, Lizbet steps out of her office. “I’m going home early, Edie. This whole thing with Xavier…and the Marshes leaving…I’m schlumped. I need to recharge my batteries for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is the last Friday of the month, which means a new Hotel Confidential Instagram post. “No problem,” Edie says. “I’ve got things covered here.”
Lizbet’s brow wrinkles. “Where’s Alessandra?”
“At lunch,” Edie says breezily, as if Alessandra hasn’t been gone for over two hours.
A few minutes later, Beatriz appears with another platter of cookies. She shakes her head at Edie in mock disgust—asking for extra cookies is no bueno because Beatriz is prepping for evening service at the Blue Bar—and Edie says, “You’re going to make one guest in particular very happy.”
“It better be Shelly Carpenter,” Beatriz says, and Edie laughs, but when she steps out onto the patio of the family pool and sees Mr. Ianucci under an umbrella with his laptop out, she thinks, Is Mr. Ianucci actually Shelly Carpenter? He has asked for a lot of special favors, starting with the two-night stay, which means he’ll be checking out by eleven a.m. the following day, conveniently one hour before the post comes out.
“Here you go, Mr. Ianucci,” Edie says, offering him the cookies. She’s so hungry she could eat the entire platter herself. The fresh-from-the-oven cookies are studded with milk chocolate chips, white chocolate chips, and toffee bits; they’re crisp at the edges but soft in the center.