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.