Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,6
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