“We give all new guests a complimentary massage,” Dante cut in.
“And clients are encouraged to share their personal goals so that we adjust future treatments and schedules accordingly,” Emily added.
Paul turned to me. “So, what are my personal goals, Hannah?”
I studied my husband, who was tall and lean, but not the least bit skinny. Since early spring, Paul had joined me on a daily jog around the Naval Academy sea wall, something I’d been in the habit of doing every since my late friend Valerie had turned me on to it. Paul’s thighs and glutes were in great shape; his pecs and abs incredible. The man was ripped. I could think of only one area-his back-that needed work. He’d injured it in a farm accident many years ago.
“More flexibility in your back?” I suggested, thinking that if Garnelle’s fingers couldn’t work miracles on his creaky vertebrae, nobody’s could.
Paul patted his face. “How about doing something about these wrinkles?”
He was joking, but Emily didn’t get it. “Yes! We can schedule you for a chemical peel!”
Paul waved a hand. “Hold on! Let’s just stick with the massages for now. Do real men get facials?”
Dante looked shocked. “Of course.”
Emily pressed her palms together. “Good! A massage and a facial, then. And you’ll want to spend some time in the steam room.”
“The steam room’s divine, Paul,” I said. “I can vouch for that. And when you come out, you can hit the Jacuzzi, or the pool. There’s a refreshment station where they’ve got springwater with lemon slices and herbal teas.” I reached out and squeezed Paul’s knee. “And if you ask very nicely, one of the guides will bring you a smoothie.”
Paul consulted François. “Peach?”
“Any flavor you want, Professor.”
“Then after you’re done,” Emily rattled on enthusiastically, “one of the guides will help you plan your next visit, take you back to the receptionist for scheduling, and then they’ll thank you and escort you to the door.”
“To the gift shop,” Dante corrected.
Emily grinned. “Oh, right. To the gift shop, then.”
Paul leaned back in his chair. “A massage and a facial. Sounds like a real hardship.”
“Can you come when we open tomorrow?”
“How about right now?” Paul asked.
Emily shook her head. “We gave almost everyone the day off.”
“I have to teach first thing in the morning. How about we show up around lunchtime?” Paul raised an eyebrow in my direction. “No sense bringing two cars all the way out here.”
When I nodded in agreement, Emily said, “Okay. I’ll put you down for an appointment. And remember, Dad, the staff aren’t supposed to know you’re a ringer.”
“So,” I asked, “when do you start getting real customers instead of guinea pigs like me and your father?”
“Tomorrow.” Emily rose from her chair to check on Tim, who had awakened from his nap and was fussing quietly in his car seat, tugging on the seat belt, trying to worm his way out of the contraption. “We started taking appointments by phone yesterday morning,” she said brightly, “and by the time the party was over, we were seventy-five percent booked for the first month.”
In spite of his wife’s cheerful optimism, Dante looked worried. “After the party, I thought we’d be at one hundred percent.” He relaxed into the cushion and laced his fingers behind his head. “What we need is some sort of publicity stunt.”
“Don’t be silly,” Emily said. “The opening attracted lots of attention. Calls are still coming in.”
Dante continued as if his wife had never spoken. “Remember when we filled Founders Green with plastic lawn ornaments the day before graduation?”
François threw back his head and laughed. “God, that was a riot!”
“Remember the ’Fords who stole the sacred statue of Athena from the Great Hall at Bryn Mawr, and managed to knock her head off?” Dante chuckled.
He was referring to Haverford College, where he and François had sown a goodly number of wild oats.
Emily, a ’Mawrter, was clearly unimpressed. “That was so low-brow,” she sniffed. “Paradiso’s much more upmarket than that.”
“Yeah,” François said. “Don’t be an asshole, Dante.”
Ever since my daughter eloped with Dante, my relationship with my son-in-law had been an up and down thing. Just when I was growing to like the guy, he’d pull some bone-headed stunt and I’d find myself wondering what Emily saw in him all those years and three children ago.
I wasn’t even entirely convinced that the two were officially married. The only proof I had of the ceremony was a photograph of the happy couple in front of a wedding chapel in Las Vegas, sent via e-mail attachment. I had a picture of myself with Princess Leia cinnamon buns clapped to my head, helping Han Solo blast the bejessus out of the Death Star, and I’d never even met Harrison Ford, so what did that prove? Only that the computers in the photo booth at King’s Dominion can work wonders, that’s what.
“I think you should concentrate on the here and now,” Paul said reasonably. “Do you think you’ll be ready for tomorrow, Dante?”
Dante shrugged. “We’ve gotta be.”
“Except for the nursery,” Emily corrected. “That opens next week.”
Speaking of the nursery reminded me that I hadn’t seen Chloe or Jake since we arrived. “Where are the children?” I asked.
Emily unstrapped Tim, lifted him out of the car seat, and settled him on her hip. She flapped her free hand in the direction of the beach.
Down by the breakwater, I caught a glimpse of Chloe’s blond ponytails and Jake’s curly mop bent over something on the sand. As I watched, Jake began stabbing at the mystery object with a blue plastic shovel. I shaded my eyes against the sun. “Who’s that looking after them?”
“Alison Dutton, one of the guides. She just loves the kids. I don’t know what I would have done without her the past week. Jake’s always been a picky eater, you know, but he’ll even eat François’s spinach quiche if Alison feeds it to him, and it’s got feta in it.”
“Alison’s supposed to be taking care of clients,” Dante grumbled. He drew breath to elaborate when his cell phone erupted, bringing a welcome end to that topic of conversation. We watched Dante check the caller ID. “Sorry, guys. Gotta take this call.” We waited politely while he hit Talk, pressed the phone to his ear and wandered to the far end of the veranda, where he parked a hip on the railing and spoke quietly to whomever was calling.
Emily, who half a minute earlier had been shooting daggers at her husband, relaxed. “And you can help, too, Mom.”
“How’s that?”
“You used to screen candidates when you worked at Whitworth and Sullivan, right?”
I nodded, almost afraid to admit it, because it didn’t take a Mensa membership to figure out where this conversation was going. “And you’d like me to look over some résumés?”
“Would you? You’re an angel!”
As simple as that, I had volunteered.
“Dante’s doing all the interviews, but if you could pull out the good ones and set up appointments, that would be great.”
Tucking his cell phone back into its holster, Dante rejoined us. He squeezed Emily’s shoulder. “I’m sure your mother has better things to do, Em.”
Emily blinked, bit her lower lip. I’d seen that look before. Emily hated being squelched.
I quickly jumped to her rescue. “I’m more than happy to help out, Dante. Bring on the résumés.” Then, to Emily, I said, “What positions are we talking about?”
“The accountant you know. But we’re also looking for a certified aesthetician.”
I groaned. “I’m not even sure what an aesthetician does!”
“Skin care, facials, manicures, pedicures, hair removal-”
“For the beauty parlor?”