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The monstrous stack of creative writing papers mocked Olivia from her desk. It stood, formidable as any skyscraper, as she paced back and forth, her phone pinned to her ear. On the other end, Anthony described yet another minor disaster at The Hesson House. The recently renovated boutique hotel located on the coast had just recently held its grand opening, which had been a huge success. It was an old-world mansion that had taken months to restore to its former glory in the wake of her Great Aunt Marcia’s death and subsequent will, which had listed Olivia as the new owner of the house. It had been a turbulent time — a whirlwind, to say the least, and Olivia wasn’t always sure which direction was up.
“What? He just stormed out of the kitchen?” Olivia lifted a pen to her forehead and clicked at the end of it with her face as frustration brewed.
“Yeah. He threw one of those skillets as he went, too.”
“Does he know that each of those skillets cost four hundred dollars?”
Anthony chuckled. “I’m guessing not.”
“So, you didn’t even need to fire him, I guess?”
“Nope. But we’re short-staffed for the night and we’re fully booked with even more dinner reservations than normal. Mary told the staff to put out new tables along the waterline. We borrowed a few from the Sunrise Cove.”
Olivia had recently hired Mary as a sort of third-in-command, beneath her and Anthony, especially since she’d recently returned to full-time school duties and couldn’t be at The Hesson House all hours of the day any longer.
“The Sunrise Cove is always there in a pinch, aren’t they?”
“I think they can feel what novices we are. Taking pity on us,” Anthony said with a dry laugh.
“We’ll take all the pity we can get. What was it we read about the first few years of a hospitality business?”
“One to two years to break even.”
“Okay. That’s fine. One to two years? That’s nothing. It happens in a flash.”
“You sound optimistic.”
“I’m not. But it’s the only way to be, right?” Olivia’s smile grew wider. “You put me in a good mood, regardless. What do you say? Let’s close the dang thing and move to Hawaii.”
“I have a feeling your four best friends would take real issue if I whisked you off to Hawaii like that.”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? We’re bringing them, too.”
Students began to filter in — at first, just a couple stragglers, and then a full burst of them, as though the faucet had been turned all the way up. Olivia blinked up at the sea of sixteen-year-olds who planned to give her about twenty percent of their attention this sixth period as she forced them to discuss a book they probably hadn’t bothered to read much of. Could she blame them? The weather was still nice; school had only just begun a few weeks before, so nobody’s head was screwed on correctly. Hers certainly wasn’t.
“I guess I have to let you go,” she said with the slightest of sighs. “Thank you for being there when the skillet was thrown and for all other minor disasters. You know I love you, don’t you?”
They’d only just recently started to say the “L” word. It made Olivia’s heart swell with happiness.
“I love you, too. Don’t let the teenagers bully you into submission.”
“I’m sure they’ll find a way.”
The bell blared with finality. Olivia placed her phone to the right of that monster stack of papers that sat neatly on her desk, cleared her throat, and then faced all twenty-two of her hormonal student-monsters.
“Afternoon, everyone,” she said as brightly as she could. “I assume all of you read to chapter four last night in The Great Gatsby?”
There were several side-glances and some grunts. Anxiety permeated through the room like a cloud. Olivia had seen the likes of this time and time again. Finally, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, doll-like porcelain creature in the back, Samara, shot her arm through the air and said, “I did. I read the chapters.”
Her voice wavered. Always, she gave the air of someone on the brink of a meltdown.
“Great. Thank you, Samara. Can you give me a rundown of some of the potential themes you feel Fitzgerald illustrates within these first few chapters?”
Samara’s eyes widened with fear. One of the football players, who sat in the corner, chortled and then whispered something to the guy beside him. Samara dropped her eyes to the desk. This class was off to a spectacular start.
“All right, let’s outline the themes together.” Olivia lifted an erasable marker to the whiteboard and began to scribe as her students drew out their notebooks to take the appropriate notes. “I know it’s still early in the year, but I really need you guys to do your reading. You’re juniors, which means you only have a year till you start applying for colleges. Many of you will take your SATs this year. It’s all about pushing your mind to its limit. It’s all about teaching yourself to think in a more profound way. All of you are incredibly capable.”
Did she really believe everything she spouted now? She wasn’t sure. She’d said all these words time and time again. Students had filtered through her life, year after year, as she had gotten steadily older. Now, at forty-one, she felt a strange shift in how the world dealt with her. She had always been rather shy (unless she stood in front of her students, of course) — but now it seemed that that shyness was a relief to a world that no longer wanted to look at her twice.
**
AFTER SEVENTH PERIOD’S bell declared the end of yet another school day, Olivia rushed to the teacher’s lounge, pulled open her Tupperware, which revealed the packed macaroni and cheese she’d made, and scarfed down half of it. The Pre-Calculus teacher, Janet Maxwell, arched her grey eyebrow toward her and said, “Make sure you chew and swallow your food, young lady.”
Olivia tried to laugh, but her mouth was too full. When she swallowed, she said, “I guess I’ll have time to eat when I’m dead.”
“Keep that dark humor at home, honey,” Janet Maxwell told her with an ironic laugh. “We deal with students here. We have enough darkness to handle.”
Olivia stretched her long, lean legs out toward her car, which caught the bright reflection of the mid-September sun beautifully. She slid into the front seat and then drove north toward the mansion. She had driven this route so often over the previous months that she hardly remembered the drive. Before she knew it, she shut off the engine and gazed up at the elaborate mansion, its ornate pillars which flanked the porch, and its glowing windows. Gosh, she missed the days when this space had been for her and Anthony, just the two of them — falling in love and mostly covered in plaster and paint. “The good old days,” before the “clients” had stormed through the front doors.
Well, of course, they were paying customers. They kept the place afloat. Not that anything felt particularly “afloat” at the moment.
Olivia inspected her makeup in the mirror, added a dash of eyeliner, and then burst out into the open air. Sounds of hotel guests swelled out from the restaurant on the other side of the hotel, where tables spilled out toward the beach. On the left-hand side of the grounds, still, just out of sight, they’d set up a croquet court, and to the left of that, they’d had two tennis courts built. The waiting list for the courts was always about a mile long.
Just as Olivia entered the front door, the pianist seated at the baby grand in the foyer began to tinkle away at another tune. The savoy smells of another glorious lunch rushed out like a wave from the kitchen. Several people continued to sit in the dining area, enjoying mid-afternoon glasses of wine and conversation. Anthony stood at the front desk alongside Mary and an older couple in maybe their sixties, both of whom were dressed immaculately. They looked to be a part of the one percent; even their skin glowed as though they’d drunk some kind of everlasting-life elixir.
“Olivia, so wonderful you’re here,” Mary beamed in that warm and inviting voice of hers. “Mr. and Mrs. Adams, this is Olivia Hesson. She’s the proud owner of The Hesson House. Olivia, Mr. and Mrs. Adams just checked in this afternoon. Apparently, they were good friends with your Great Aunt Marcia.”
Olivia extended a hand. “Welcome to The Hesson House. It’s so remarkable to meet others who knew my great aunt and what a wonderful woman she was.”
“Yes. Your Great Aunt Marcia and I used to vacation in the French Riviera together, in the old days,” Mrs. Adams said mischievously. “We got ourselves up to no good.”
“I can only imagine.” Olivia noted that the woman’s eyes traced down the slightest bit, then erupted back up, as though she tried to avoid something. Olivia forced herself not to focus on it.
“Shall I show you to your suite?” Olivia asked.
“They’re in the presidential,” Mary said knowingly. “But I can take them. I know you have so many things to attend to.”
“Nonsense,” Olivia said with a wave of her hand. “Come with me. I assume your luggage has already been brought upstairs?”
“Of course,” Mary affirmed. Her eyes told a strange story. Again, Olivia furrowed her brow with confusion, then returned her face to its normal position.
Olivia led Mr. and Mrs. Adams up the winding staircase to the third floor, where the presidential suite took up one entire half of the floor. She told them about each unique antique piece within the suite, about the ornate bed and the claw-footed bathtub and the antique rug, which she’d found in the basement during their renovations.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Adams said as Olivia bid them goodbye at the door. “We look forward to our time here.”
“Remember to speak to Mary or one of the receptionists about island events over the next few weeks,” Olivia told her. “It’s only September — not yet winter and the island is still alive and buzzing. Just a tiny bit colder, that’s all.”
Olivia sauntered back down the staircase. Her hand caressed the smooth wood as she wound down to the main level. When she reached the foyer, Anthony placed his hand at the top of her shoulder, bent his head and whispered, “Come with me.”
“Not now, Anthony,” Olivia said with a little laugh. “I have a to-do list about a mile long.”
“I know. But...” Anthony grimaced. Another couple passed by, headed for the bar area. The pianist switched to another jingle.
“What? You’re looking at me like I have three heads.”
“It’s just that, well, there’s no easy way to tell you this.” He now spoke quieter than she’d ever heard him.
“What?” she hissed.
“You have melted cheese on your blouse,” he said finally. “I only noticed it when you were speaking with the Adams. I’m sorry.”
Olivia scrunched her nose tightly. Her eyes traced down toward a big ruffle on her blouse — one she’d bought second-hand from a French fashion collector. Sure enough, a big streak of bright orange, melted cheese blared itself across her breast. How embarrassing.
“Well. I think it’s safe to say I’m not juggling this whole high school-slash-hotel schedule well,” Olivia said, still looking down at the horrendous display.
Anthony drew his hand over the back of her head and laughed. Slowly, his laughter transformed Olivia’s face, and she found space to giggle, too.
“Ah, well. I wondered why Mrs. Adams looked at me like that. Like I was a schlub,” Olivia said. “I’ll head to the office and clean up. Thank goodness I have extra clothes here.”
“I don’t know,” Mary said from behind the front desk. “I think the cheese stain works for you.”
“You think, Mary? Should I keep the look going?”
Mary shrugged. “To be honest, I’ve seen stranger fashion trends. And at least this could become a snack later.”
Anthony cackled as Olivia rolled her eyes and headed back to her office. “I swear. If you two don’t tell me the next time I have any kind of food on my blouse in front of high-paying guests, you’re both fired!”
“Good! Fire us! See if you can do this by yourself!” Mary bantered brightly.
Olivia whipped around and placed her palms together. “Come on, Mary. You know I worship the ground you walk on. Keep up the good work, you two! It’s crunch time. It’s always crunch time.”