Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,5

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