1. Gabby GABBY
I make other people’s dreams come true.

It’s my job as the concierge for the Sueños Resort at Beck Island. If you’re not familiar with the destination, you aren’t alone. We have no website, no online reservations system, no phone number. Vacations are booked through word of mouth, and we coordinate solely with executive assistants and publicists of the rich and the famous.

Sueños is an intimate resort boasting thirty-six premier standalone suites on the pink-sand beaches of the Caribbean, on Beck Island, nestled between Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands. We host up to one hundred guests on any given day, and as many employees are on hand to cater to their every whim. Groups are broken up by marital status, such as the singles, couples, or family cluster, or by interests such as the explorers, the relaxers, or the networkers. So if you asked, the guests themselves would report that they vacationed with only twenty people. That’s intentional. We want them to feel like they’re the only people in the world, without feeling like they’ve landed in apocalyptic isolation.

No one is permitted to drive themselves to Sueños, and there are no available directions. One of our in-house cars will retrieve a group from either the airport on the windward side of Beck Island, or the yacht port on the leeward side. Inside the gates, each cluster of twelve guest pavilions has its own reception hut, pool, entertainment bungalow, fitness hut, and spa, though most guests prefer treatments in their suites or alfresco.

I am the only concierge across every casita at Sueños, and I am the piece that elevates the entire experience. Sueños roughly translates from Spanish as dreams, and I’ve taken the resort name to heart. That means I can have Nutella, Trader Joe’s Fruity Gummy Candies, or even a diamond ring flown in on the same day it’s requested. I have priests, rabbis, and psychics on speed dial. The more outrageous the ask, the more amped I am to make it happen.

Eldest daughter syndrome, but make it set in paradise. That’s my life.

I press the intercom for the Oak Pavilion. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson.”

“Gabby, I don’t want to leave!”

“Do you have good news for me, Gabby?”

“Of course. I wanted to let you know that I was able to secure you a chopper to San Juan so you will not be delayed due to this morning’s private jet backlog at the Beck Island airstrip.”

“And then the jet will meet us in San Juan?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jackson.”

“Are you sure? Because I have a meeting in New York and I don’t have a minute to spare.”

“The helicopters have a separate flight pattern from the jets, so you won’t have to get in the taxi line, which is what’s causing the delay. Your car will be here in ten minutes. We hope you’ve loved your stay at Sueños.”

I hear the Jacksons urgently discussing the next time they can return to Sueños and I hang up with a smile on my face. I resent the trope that people who work for the rich and powerful are bitter and angry. Instead, I am honest with myself knowing that I would have never sacrificed what it takes to amass that kind of wealth and influence. I’m perfectly content running in their world, even when some people think I’m nothing more than their “beck and call” girl.

And this life isn’t all superficial entitlement, despite what the most popular shows portray. Sueños is beautiful, and it has a surprisingly rich history. Ownership changed hands twice after the land was abandoned by troops in the Spanish-American War, but it became an icon of luxury with the vision of the late Oscar-winning actress Mara Morgan, and her estate. Mara enjoyed astronomical success in her twenties, during the nineties and the early aughts, but she grew insulted by the roles offered to her after she turned thirty-five. Instead of fighting, Mara bowed out of Hollywood and bought Beck Island in 2011 to pursue a solitary, peaceful life.

It was an accident—fate, they said—that she met her adoring husband at a political fundraiser soon after she retired. They moved to Beck Island and lived as a happy couple until they died in a tragic house fire, sparked in the dark of night and ravaging their home before firefighters could make it from the mainland. I imagine they were holding hands in their bed as they took their last breaths. It’s so Romeo and Juliet.

“Hey, Gabs.”

Mercedes, my roommate and best friend, bursts through the reception doors and collapses into my guest chair.

“Busy day?” I ask.

“Crazy,” she says, blowing the bangs out of her eyes.

“Are you going to cut those?”

“I’m growing them out.”

“I think it’s time to pin them back then, Merce.”

Mercy is the yin to my yang. When she gets frantic, I get calm. When she worries, I soothe. When I get low, she brings energy. We are a great team, in work and in life.

“Have you heard from Cassie?” she asks.

I shake my head no.

Mercy was thrown into the head-of-house vacancy when our veteran coworker Cassie moved to New York. Mercy had worked on Cassie’s team for two years, holding positions in cleaning and butler services, and she’s capable enough to handle the position, but the transition has been hard on her. Especially hard because everyone is comparing her to Cassie, who was a flawless head of house for five years.

“I bet she’s busy in rehearsals 24/7,” I offer.

“Do you think it could have happened for her that quickly?”

“Have you met Cassie? She’s magnetic. I bet theater companies are fighting for her.”

“I don’t know, that sounds like the optimistic can-do concierge in you. I’ve been trying to reach her with questions about the scheduling software and it’s been three weeks.”

I don’t tell her that it’s been a month already, but secretly I wonder if some of her frustration is jealousy in disguise. Mercy was once an actress too.

The first time Mercy visited Beck Island, she was traveling on the arm of a famous director who declared her his muse. The second winter, a big studio had greenlit his film but wanted to cast Jenna Ortega. He flew home without Mercy and suddenly she was a local.

Having become friendly with the staff, she called in favors for a job, but it was a bumpy road. Way worse than this. Cassie would find her on a lounge chair in the middle of a shift because Mercy kept forgetting she was no longer a guest. At first she declared that she was saving up for a plane ticket home, and then it was a security deposit for an apartment, but it’s been two years. I imagine she accepted the promotion to dull the sting of Cassie leaving to pursue the dreams she had once claimed as her own. If Mercy were like me, she would have let them die a long time ago. Foolish girl.

“The system will click for you. It just hasn’t happened yet,” I assure Mercy, but she shakes her head like I don’t get it.

“What I mean is, Cassie’s been gone three weeks and I haven’t heard from her at all. No one has.”

“Oh,” I say. That sounds like more than Mercy’s petty jealousy or frustration. “No one?”

“No. And I have a bad feeling,” Mercy says.

In true concierge fashion, this is my cue to tell Mercy that everything will be fine, or that I can fix whatever might feel off. But right now I can’t muster up what suddenly feels like a lie.