Felice stood up too. “Oh, hey. I almost forgot. One of the servers heard some members talking about how Mrs. E’s father-in-law died today. So, was he Parrish’s grandfather?”
“Yeah. I think he’d been sick for a while.” Livvy shrugged. “That’ll make my mom happy. She’s got some kind of major grudge against the whole family.”
“Maybe you should call her and share the good news.”
“I would, but I’m currently not speaking to her.”
Felice rolled her eyes. “Talk about a grudge. Maybe you should get over being pissed at her. You don’t know how lucky you are that your mom is still around to be pissed at.”
Traci turned back to her computer. She checked the previous evening’s report. They’d been at 70 percent capacity, which wasn’t stellar, especially in what should be the Saint’s high season, but this weekend was already a sell-through, which was a relief.
When she looked at their occupancy trends she saw that midweek bookings were lagging behind the previous year’s data for the same time period.
The hotel’s marketing team were urging her to start some down-pricing offers, but she’d resisted the idea, because Hoke had drummed it into her head that the Saint kept its exclusive status because the hotelneverdiscounted.
But times had changed, and there’d been a widely publicized unsolved murder on the premises, which she knew had prompted a rash of cancellations.
Selena, the head of marketing, was a proponent of dynamic pricing, a sliding scale that offered last-minute deeper discounts on unsold rooms, which would be promoted across social media. According to her, it would bring the hotel younger guests who might never have been able to afford a stay at a hotel like the Saint, and more important, as Selena kept repeating, “Traci, an empty room does us no good. We need heads in beds.”
Selena was right, she concluded, after studying long-range bookings for the summer. She clicked on her latest email and agreed to the new marketing plan, which Selena was calling “Come Summer at the Saint.” The plan wasn’t cheap—it includedonline advertising—but she remembered another of Hoke’s aphorisms, one she knew was handed down from his father. “Ya gotta spend money to make money.”
When she’d finally waded through as many memos and emails as she could stomach for one day, she looked up and it was nearly seven.
She called the Verandah and placed her dinner order. If she hurried, she’d have just enough time to pick up dinner, run home, shower, and change out of her golfing disguise.
CHAPTER 52
Felice met Traci at the employee entrance to the kitchen with the takeout order.
“Mrs. E…” Felice started. “I know Mr. Burroughs is pretty mad at me. And I just wondered if you’d put in a good word for me, because I really need this job. I love my work.”
“Leave Charlie to me,” Traci said. “The only opinion that matters is our guests’, and they love your food. And so do I.”
Felice’s face nearly cracked open with her grin. “Oh, wow. Thanks!”
“We need a new seafood supplier,” Traci said. “That grouper for today’s special was frozen and not locally caught. And while you’re at it, maybe we look into growing more of our own produce here at the Saint. We grow the annuals and perennials we use in landscaping, so why not put the hothouses to work with vegetables too?”
“That would be amazing. And I’ve already met with a local fisherman. He’s a shrimper and his brother is a commercial fisherman. I can buy their stuff right off the dock.”
“That sounds good, but you’ll want to make sure they can provide the quantity we need,” Traci reminded her. “In the meantime, what have you fixed me for dinner tonight?”
“You’ve got an appetizer of seared scallops with a pomegranate and Meyer lemon coulis, and I guarantee the scallops are fresh.The salad is local tomatoes, peaches, basil, and burrata over arugula with a balsamic drizzle. Dessert is mini chocolate mousse cheesecake.”
“And the entrée?”
“A couple of little filets, for grilling, and two sauces…”
“That sounds sinful,” Traci said, taking the takeout package from the chef.
“Or Saintly,” Felice said. “Let me know how you like the scallops.”
“I will,” Traci promised.
After she’d showered, Traci changed into a block-printed blue- and-white caftan that was probably supposed to be a bathing suit cover-up, but which she liked for its lightweight ease.
She twisted her hair into a messy French knot and was just about to apply lipstick when the doorbell rang, setting Lola into a frenzy of shrill barks, and her pulse racing.
“Lola, hush,” she called, padding barefoot to the door.
