Summertime Guests Read online

  “Oh, my God.” It hits her all at once, a hollow pit forming in her stomach.

  “Jesus,” says Tom, who has come up beside her to rest a hand on her shoulder. “She’s not moving.”

  “No.”

  It’s obvious to them both, but somehow still needs to be said, as if by acknowledging it aloud, the woman might hear their words through the open window, might somehow will herself to move an inch, if only to give them a sign—a flutter of a hand, the shifting of a foot—that she’s going to be all right.

  But her body remains completely, horribly still.

  TWO

  Earlier that day

  Jean-Paul wakes feeling as if something is off, the same feeling he gets when he has left the burner on or forgotten to lock the front door at night. When he pushes up out of bed, a sense of uneasiness pulls at him, and he tries to recall if the baby slept last night. A faint memory of Isabella crying and Marie going to hush her before Jean-Paul fell back asleep is what comes to him.

  He realizes all too well that Marie is doing the heavy lifting with their three-month-old. Not only because Marie insists on breastfeeding (even bottles of breast milk are mysteriously verboten in their house) but also because Jean-Paul has spent most of the last several months at the Seafarer, overseeing the renovations and now tending to the swift uptick in reservations since it reopened in April. Being general manager of the prestigious hotel has turned out to be every bit as challenging and exhilarating as he’d hoped. He only wishes he didn’t feel so guilty about leaving in the morning and chagrined when he returns home, excited to tell Marie about a successful day, only to sense resentment jumping off her body like sound waves.

  Marie has no idea what his job entails—how could she? Since they set foot in the States, nearly a year and a half ago, arriving on a red-eye from Paris, her days—at least before the baby—were largely spent exploring the city while Jean-Paul versed himself in Seafarer protocol. Occasionally, she’d stop by the hotel, poking her head into his office to say hello and tell him where she was headed—off to the Museum of Fine Arts, the Christian Science Monitor Building, the Institute of Contemporary Art. But more often than not, she’d set out as soon as Jean-Paul left for work only to burst through the door at dinnertime, brimming with news about the paintings she’d seen, the quirky people she’d met. One day she’d gotten lost in the South End for hours and had the most delightful time asking strangers for directions, laughing at their funny accents, their oddly dropped Rs.

  Each day presented a fresh chance for his wife to explore, as if her new city were an elaborate set of nesting dolls to disassemble and admire. That she’d adjusted so well pleased him. He’d been afraid she’d long for her friends back home, maybe hunger for their Parisian cafés or miss her job as a motivational speaker. To the contrary, though, she’d been thrilled by the idea of Jean-Paul’s taking the Seafarer job from the very beginning.

  “What an honor!” she’d exclaimed when the call came. “You must accept, yes? Out of a hundred candidates, they picked you!” Her eyes had gleamed with pride, and Jean-Paul allowed himself to bask in the accomplishment for a brief moment.

  “You wouldn’t mind? Packing up and leaving behind our lives here?” Already he’d been promoted to assistant manager at Le Bistrol, one of Paris’s most opulent hotels. It was quite possible that one day he would ascend the ranks to manager; as his friends liked to say, no one left Le Bistrol willingly unless, perhaps, he were being wheeled out in a casket. But the Seafarer position held a particular sway over Jean-Paul, as if it were built into his muscle memory: ever since he was a young boy, his father, an international banker, would whisk the family away to Boston for a week, where they’d stay at the Seafarer.

  For Jean-Paul, the Seafarer encapsulates everything magical about his childhood—having his parents all to himself for a week, being able to partake in the theaters and ballparks and boiled lobster. Even now, a Red Sox banner from Fenway, where he and his dad watched the Sox defeat the Yankees 3–2 in a nail-biter, hangs on the bedroom wall. He remembers jumping from his parents’ king-size bed to his own double in the hotel room, recalls sitting by the pool where waiters in crisp whites delivered meals to their lounge chairs and where Jean-Paul would unfailingly order a cheeseburger with fries and a Coca-Cola, the most American meal he could think of.

  The opportunity to manage the hotel of his boyhood dreams, to bring it into the next century, as mandated by the board, had been too good to pass up, as intoxicating as the first scent of summer in the air.

  “Mind? Mais non!” Marie said. “It’s the perfect opportunity for you. As for me, I can learn to speak American,” she teased. “At least, better than I do now.” She’d pulled him into an embrace and pressed her soft lips against his. “And I will teach those American women the French secret to staying skinny.”

  “Ah, and what is that exactly?”

  “Walking, fresh air, lipstick and sex.”

  “It sounds so simple,” he said, loving that she seemed keen to join him on this new venture.

  “Which is precisely why it works.” She clapped her hands together, insistent. “You must call them back immediately. Tell them that you’re honored to accept.”

  Which was how they’d found themselves, one month later, on American soil, living in a two-story brownstone in Boston’s Seaport District, selected for them by a realtor who, in turn, had been recommended by the hotel. Their lives unspooling exactly as they’d imagined.

  And then one day Marie stepped into his office holding a surprise behind her back: a tiny white stick bisected by two pink lines.

  Soon enough his wife’s days were consumed with setting up the nursery (that is, after Jean-Paul had dragged an untold number of unpacked boxes and crates from the spare room into the garage) and painting the walls a soft pink. Along the top near the ceiling, she stenciled tiny bluebirds for a border. “But what if she hates birds?” Jean-Paul asked, and Marie had shooed him away, saying what did he know about little girls anyway?

  Those had been their salad days, when they joked with each other easily, when a pregnant Marie might page him at the hotel to tell him to bring home a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream if he had any intention of not sleeping on the sofa that night. Together, they watched as her belly grew and grew, until his petite French wife looked as if an enormous basketball were attached to her front, and yet Jean-Paul still thought her the most enchanting woman he’d ever met.

  When Isabella arrived at last, five days past her due date, it was with a holler and a bang—practically pushing herself out into the world as the medics wheeled Marie across the hospital entrance. Jean-Paul remembers the exquisite little toes, the dainty, crinkled fingers, Isabella’s tiny face scrunched up in rage during those first few minutes. But when the nurse laid the baby on Marie’s chest, she’d instantly settled, as if recognizing her own mother’s scent.

  Besotted, that’s what they were.

  But somewhere in the last few weeks (or maybe months?) Marie has grown quiet, sullen. Work now demands that Jean-Paul arrive at the hotel by seven most mornings and that he often stay as late as seven or eight in the evenings. Especially now that the renovations are complete, reservations have soared. And while technically he’s on call only for the weekends, inevitably a small crisis—an angry, belligerent guest; a leaky pipe; a broken generator—will arise, and his night manager, Oliver, will call to wrench him from the depths of sleep.

  Sometimes when the phone rings in the middle of the night, Marie will give him a swift kick under the sheets, as if Jean-Paul isn’t answering quickly enough (though, she claims to never remember the call—or the kick). Inevitably a tender bruise will pop up on his calf the next day, proof. When he left this morning, she was particularly petulant, shooting him dark looks across her coffee mug while the baby—dear, sweet Isabella, with her enormous brown eyes and plump belly sticking out deliciously over
her diaper—shifted fitfully in her arms. His wife is convinced that their daughter suffers from colic, but their pediatrician has reassured them that she’s a typical three-month-old, if a tad sensitive.

  “Sensitive?” Marie had come home raging. “How about every little thing sets her off?” Jean-Paul didn’t know what to say to make things better. He felt as if he’d already exhausted all his best material: It’s only a stage. The baby will grow out of it. Maybe she’s going through a growth spurt? But the comment that really sent his wife into a whirlwind of rage was when he inquired if maybe they should switch to formula to help calm Isabella.

  Was it possible, he asked foolishly, that Isabella was allergic to Marie’s milk? Well, he might as well have accused Marie of poisoning their own daughter! For two whole days, she refused to speak to him.

  How, Jean-Paul wonders (to himself), does she expect him to provide for his family and do his job well on practically no sleep at all? At least Marie can nap during the day while the baby sleeps. He’d actually said this aloud over dinner one night, another comment made in grave error when he was delirious from lack of sleep himself. Marie had practically snapped his head off like a sprig of broccoli. As if he’d suggested that taking care of the baby was akin to checking into a lavish spa for the day! He’d meant no such thing, naturally, but why is it that his fatigue never seems to matter? Marie claims her exhaustion exists in another realm that he can’t possibly imagine, a realm that is sanity-robbing.

  Whenever he rushes through the door at seven or even, on occasion, six thirty (six thirty!), her disappointment still greets him. Always, Jean-Paul takes Isabella, cradling her in his arms and cooing to her until she finally quiets.

  “See, she likes you,” Marie said one night. “She hates me.” Jean-Paul clucked his tongue, dismissing it for the nonsense that it was. But before he could entirely reassure his wife, she vanished, the sound of her feet already tripping up the stairs to the tub, where she treated herself to a long soak, no one allowed to disturb her. Sometimes, he thinks, his wife acts as if the baby is an inconvenience, an ill-timed guest dropping by the house who can’t leave soon enough.

  What Jean-Paul doesn’t say, but occasionally feels, as he lays his precious daughter down to sleep at night, is that their dear, sweet baby whom he adores, has ruined them.

  It’s seven thirty in the morning when he finally swings through the hotel’s revolving door and tries to tamp down the rushed, panicked feeling in his chest. The lobby already bustles with activity. The oak floors have been freshly polished, and a fresh bouquet of lush purple lilacs sits on the marble table in the main vestibule. From the back windows that open onto the harbor, the morning sun pours in, bathing the lobby in an early-morning glow. Jean-Paul takes a moment to appreciate the splendor of the newly renovated space, a delicate balance between old and new, before approaching Tabitha and Rachel at the front desk.

  “Good morning. All’s well?” he asks.

  “So far, so good,” says Tabitha. “One hundred and three new guests arriving today, mostly for the wedding.”

  “Ah, right. The Saltonstall nuptials.” Jean-Paul makes a mental note to check in with Gillian, his wedding director, later this morning to ensure that everything is set for Saturday’s reception. The Saltonstalls represent old money in Boston, and if there’s one wedding the hotel wants to get right this summer, it’s this one. There’s certain to be a flock of photographers. Across the way at the concierge desk, Clive is already assisting a guest, busily unfolding brochures to suggest a dozen possible tours for the day.

  When his night manager, Oliver, strides by, Jean-Paul joins him to grab a cup of coffee and inquires how the evening went.

  “Nothing too egregious to report. No one walking naked in the hallways,” Oliver jokes, though this has happened once or twice in the Seafarer’s storied history. “Only a few rooms that were a little too loud. Had to shut down a couple of parties.”

  Jean-Paul raises an eyebrow, the sinking feeling of the morning returning. He understands guests come to vacation at the Seafarer, but he also understands that vacation means something different to everyone and that the hotel’s more subdued guests, in particular, don’t appreciate a late-night party in an adjacent room. “No police, I hope?”

  “Nah,” says Oliver. “Pretty tame stuff. Some kids in their twenties, it looked like.”

  “Floor?” Jean-Paul asks. He’ll double-check the rooms for any damage after Housekeeping finishes up. Already, he’s anticipating the complimentary dinner cards he’ll have to pass out as an apology to any neighboring guests.

  “Fourth. Rooms 405 and 407, I think. Tabitha can confirm it for you.”

  Jean-Paul helps himself to a cup of coffee at the breakfast buffet. “Anything else I should be aware of?” The cream pools in his coffee, and he stirs it with a spoon.

  “Not that I can think of. My nightly report is on your desk.”

  Jean-Paul nods his thanks, scoops up a glazed Danish and lets his gaze wander over the early-morning diners in the restaurant. Many are already dressed for touring Boston in the summer heat—sneakers, sun hats, water bottles. There are families with small children, a smattering of couples, and a few individuals who dine alone. One woman, her plate piled high with waffles, scans a magazine. When she glances up, Jean-Paul recognizes her and tries to avoid catching her eye—but it’s too late. Ms. O’Dell gives him a small wave.

  He manages to return a weak smile and a nod. Dealing with Ms. O’Dell so early in the day is an interaction that demands at least one full cup of coffee, and Jean-Paul has only had a few sips. A guest since Monday, Ms. O’Dell has made herself known to the entire staff because she has called the front desk thirty-four times. Thirty-four times! Requests for extra towels, a pitcher of water with fresh lime slices (not lemon), someone to show her how to work the television (never mind the detailed instructions on the card by the bed) and a more comfortable chair from which to enjoy the view from her balcony (a chaise lounge from the porch was dispatched).

  There have, in fact, been enough requests for extras that Jean-Paul wonders if she might be someone famous, a movie star, perhaps. She’d mentioned that she was a reporter for the Providence Dealer, but perhaps it’s a cover. Is she a celebrity traveling in disguise, only no one has bothered to alert him? It seems unlikely. Most stars, he knows, travel with an entourage, and if nothing else, their outrageous demands, typically outlined in all caps (e.g., MUST HAVE ROOM-TEMPERATURE EVIAN AVAILABLE UPON CHECK-IN; ABSOLUTELY NO FLOWERS IN SUITE DUE TO ALLERGIES) preceded their arrival weeks before. Still, seeing her this morning makes him think he should google her on the off chance that she is someone important. Something about her seems vaguely familiar.

  When she turns back to her magazine, Jean-Paul makes a quick exit, winds his way back through the lobby and arrives at his office. He sets down his coffee and clicks on the computer to check emails before morning meeting at eight o’clock. There’s a note from Housekeeping (they’re running low on towels) and another from Maintenance about a faulty shower on the fifth floor, a burned-out hallway light on the seventh. By the time he has culled through the most important ones, Jean-Paul has forgotten all about Claire O’Dell, and when an advertisement for something called NannyTime pops up on the screen, he clicks on it randomly.

  The website features a photo of an attractive young woman, presumably the nanny, smiling at a happy, contented baby in her arms. NannyTime Equals MommyTime says the caption. Underneath, it reads:

  Do you need a break? Let our fully certified, loving nannies come to your rescue. They’ll watch your precious one while you nap, shop, work or do whatever your heart desires. Give yourself MommyTime by signing up for NannyTime today!

  It dawns on Jean-Paul that not once have he and Marie discussed hiring a nanny. Someone who can visit for a few hours, give Marie a chance to nap or take a solitary walk. Knowing his wife, he suspects she’ll protest, but given
time, he might persuade her otherwise. Slowly, the possibility turns over in his mind while he reads on. There are multiple candidates with résumés rivaling Mary Poppins’s. One talks about her work as a nanny for a former governor; another describes how she helped raise six kids under ten (Jean-Paul shudders; he can’t imagine). As he scrolls through the friendly, confident faces, the wisp of an idea begins to take on more definite shape. A nanny might solve all their problems, might be precisely the ticket to break Marie out of her momentary funk.

  He decides then that he’ll make a point of discussing it with her over dinner tonight, assuming that he makes it home in time, and grabs his notebook for morning meeting. Of course, it’s Friday, which means they’re about to kick off the hotel’s busiest forty-eight hours. As he saunters down the hallway, he considers his pep talk for his various directors; maybe he’ll pull an inspirational quote from Charles de Gaulle or Charlemagne—something about fighting nobly to the very end or bucking up when the stakes are high—because one thing is for sure: they’ll need every ounce of energy and poise that they can muster for the weekend ahead.

  Earlier that week

  THREE

  On Tuesday morning, June 8, Claire finds herself driving by the house of her boyfriend of thirty years ago. She’s on her third loop around, as ridiculous as it is, despite the fact that she’s starting to feel like a stalker and vaguely worries that a neighbor will see her and call the police. What she’s doing here, she can’t exactly say. Hoping to catch a glimpse of her former lover on his way out the door to work? Satisfying a morbid curiosity to see if he has aged well or merely somewhat well, like herself? Claire has already decided that if she spots him but he doesn’t recognize her, she’ll take it as a sign from the universe that she should keep on driving. Right back to the hotel. Maybe right back home to Providence. Her stomach is a mess, butterflies, or botherflies as her late husband, Walt, used to call them.