Charlene from Our Island Home senses an exuberance in the hotel staff the moment she steps into the lobby. The air is rich with the smell of good coffee and fresh-baked pastry; Aretha Franklin is asking for a little respect; the place is buzzing with conversation and laughter. Charlene feels like a bit of a bubble-burster; she has come to the hotel on a sobering mission. She approaches the desk where Sweet Edie Robbins is working—Charlene has known Edie since the days her father, Vance, used to carry her in the BabyBj?rn at the Stop and Shop, though now Edie is all grown up, looking quite chic in her silky hydrangea-blue blouse.
Charlene says, “Good morning, Edie. I can see you’re busy, but do you have a minute to talk?”
“Of course, Charlene!” Edie says. She turns to her coworker, a woman with lovely long gingery hair, and says, “I’ll be back shortly.”
Edie leads Charlene through a closed door into the employee break room. Charlene has heard rumors about this room, and it doesn’t disappoint. There’s a Formica bar counter with bright orange leather and chrome diner stools, a jukebox, a pinball machine, and a curvy midcentury sofa, where Edie leads them to sit.
“I only have a few minutes,” Edie says.
“Yes!” Charlene says. “You must be wondering what I’m doing here.” She pulls a plastic bag from her purse, and from the bag she removes an old, leather-bound journal with the initials JFB in gold leaf on the cover. “I’m sad to say that Mint Benedict passed away yesterday.”
Edie blinks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. He was one of your residents? He was elderly?”
“Ninety-four,” Charlene says. “He was the only child of Jackson and Dahlia Benedict.”
Edie smiles politely. “I’m still not sure…”
“They owned the hotel from 1910 to 1922,” Charlene says. “Then there was a fire and a chambermaid was killed.”
“Our ghost,” Edie says.
“Your ghost.” Charlene hands Edie the journal. “This is Jackson Benedict’s diary from that year. Mint kept it in his safety-deposit box. Mint’s mother, Dahlia, died of alcoholism when Mint was only ten years old and Jackson passed from cancer in 1943. There are also photographs and some small items from the hotel—a handbell, a few keys, some pieces of china from the ballroom. Mint is donating those to the Nantucket Historical Association. But he wants you here at the hotel to have Jackson’s diary. He made it clear he would like someone to actually read it.”
“I’ll read it,” Edie says. “But I can’t do it right now. I have to get back to work.”
“Just promise you’ll—”
“Yes, of course!” Edie says. “I’m pumped about this.” She opens the journal’s cover and sees the first page is dated August 22, 1922. “This is the hotel’s history.”
“I have to admit, I read it myself,” Charlene says. “It reveals some secrets about this place. The literal skeletons in the closet.”
“You should probably read it first,” Edie says to Lizbet, sliding Jackson Benedict’s diary across Lizbet’s desk.
“Charlene gave it to you,” Lizbet says.
“I’m not sure I can get to it tonight,” Edie says. “I’m going to dinner with Zeke.”
“What?” Lizbet says. “Is this hotel responsible for another romance?”
Edie shrugs. “We’re just going out to celebrate the hotel purchase.” She lowers her voice. “Zeke had no idea his aunt had that much money. He and his dad were totally blown away.”
“Thank God for Magda,” Lizbet says. “Or I’d be working as the concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills.”
Alessandra steps into the office. “The concierge at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills?” she says. “That’s the job I’m applying for.”
“I know,” Lizbet says. “They called me today for a reference.”
“And?” Alessandra says.
“I predict that next summer, you’ll be back on the West Coast.”
“Where I belong,” Alessandra says.
Yes, Edie thinks. She’ll miss Alessandra, but she’s excited about taking over as front-desk manager. “I hope the men in LA are ready for you,” she says.
“They aren’t,” Alessandra and Lizbet say together.
“Sit down if you have a minute,” Lizbet says. “Edie is going to read to us.”