“I’ve never eaten a Big Mac in my life,” Mrs. Amesbury says. “We’d like to go to the Deck.”
Lizbet nods robotically. “Their phone lines open at three. I’ll have Edie call.”
“I’d prefer you to call,” Mrs. Amesbury says. “You’re the general manager; you’ll have the most clout. If it’s as difficult to get a reservation as you claim, we’ll need every advantage.”
Ha-ha-ha-ha! Lizbet thinks. “I’d be happy to call myself, Mrs. Amesbury. I’ll call at three o’clock on the nose.”
But at three o’clock on the nose, Lizbet is up on the fourth floor testing out the ladder that leads to the hotel’s widow’s walk. The walk is quite large, probably big enough to hold thirty people, and Lizbet is thinking of offering a viewing platform to guests for the fireworks. Something to rival the Deck?
The ladder is rickety and steep. Lizbet manages to climb up, but not without effort. This won’t work for the Fourth, but even so, she unhooks the hatch door and pulls herself up so she can take in the dazzling panorama. Lizbet can see all the way down to the yellow, green, and blue umbrellas of the Beach Club; she can see Brant Point Light and the streets of town in a neat four-block grid.
“What are you doing?”
Lizbet gasps. Wanda, holding her notebook and pencil, is standing at the bottom of the ladder.
“What are you doing?” Lizbet asks. “I thought we made it clear this floor is off-limits.”
Wanda nods seriously. “I know. But this is where the ghost lives.”
Lizbet nearly snaps, There is no ghost, why isn’t your mother keeping a closer eye on you? This hotel isn’t your playhouse, but Wanda, with her white-blond hair and her thick glasses, is too adorable to scold. She’s wearing a red gingham dress with strawberries embroidered on the rickrack in front. Other eight-year-old girls, Lizbet suspects, are waltzing around in cutoffs and crop tops, checking their Instagram accounts.
Lizbet closes the trapdoor tight and takes Wanda by the hand. “Let’s go.”
When they reach the desk, Mrs. Amesbury is waiting. “Did you secure my reservation at the Deck?”
Lizbet considers saying, Yes, I called at three and they’re booked solid. But she can’t bring herself to lie. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Amesbury, I completely spaced about it. I’ll call now.”
Mrs. Amesbury nods with her lips pressed tight, as though she expected this kind of dropped ball. “I’ll wait.”
What can Lizbet do but pick up the phone and call the Deck?
“Good afternoon, the Deck.” The female voice that answers is familiar, but it’s not Peyton. Lizbet runs through her former staff, trying to put a name to the voice. Or maybe JJ hired someone new?
“Good afternoon, this is Lizbet Keaton calling from the Hotel Nantucket?” She waits for a response but is met with silence. “We have a party of two here at the hotel who would like a reservation on Monday evening at”—Lizbet looks at Mrs. Amesbury, who holds up seven fingers—“seven o’clock.” There’s no way Mrs. Amesbury is going to get seven. Five thirty or nine thirty maybe, maybe, if there’s been a last-minute cancellation.
“By Monday, you mean the Fourth?” the voice says.
“Yes, the Fourth of July. At seven o’clock. For two people.” Lizbet might as well be asking for the moon to be shot out of the sky or for the ocean to be dyed purple.
“Very good,” the voice says. “What’s the name?”
Lizbet is rendered temporarily speechless. Is it possible Mrs. Amesbury will get a seven o’clock reservation on the Fourth of July? Have things at the Deck gotten so bad that they have a table available? Lizbet isn’t sure how to feel about this. She wants to gloat—the restaurant is failing without her—but she also feels sad that the place she invested so much energy in has fallen like a sloppy Jenga tower.
“Amesbury,” she says. “And again, they’re staying with us here at the Hotel Nantucket.”
Mrs. Amesbury flashes Lizbet a smug smile. Lizbet can hear the words I told you so.
“Please let the Amesburys know they’re number fifty-seven on the wait list for that date and time. Should a table become available, we’ll let you know.”
“Ah,” Lizbet says. She’ll be able to volley the I told you so right back to Mrs. Amesbury, but she’s not happy about it. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed, I guess. Thank you so much.”