The Concierge Always Knows – Part II

The Concierge Always Knows
– Part II

Story Written by
Vivian Calder, Isadora Quinn,
Salomé Morelli, Camila Calderón,
& Rita Marenko

Visual World & Imagery Inspired by
Serafina D’Alessi, Livia Moretti,
Alba Rinaldi, Celeste Marin, & Scott Bryant

Intimacy Coordination
Vivian Calder, Isadora Quinn,
& Salomé Morelli

With care and reverance, their story is shared by
Scott Bryant at the direct request of Vivian Calder, Isadora Quinn,
Salomé Morelli, Camila Calderón, & Rita Marenko

---

Act II, Scene 2:
“The Confession and the Curveball”

Setting: The Concierge Desk – Late Night.

(SALOMÉ stands alone behind the desk. The lobby is quiet. A small candle flickers in the background. She looks at her reflection in the glass wall.)

SALOMÉ

(to herself)
There’s a difference between noticing and feeling.
I’ve made a career out of the former.
The latter is… trickier.

(She picks up the white robe from earlier. Folds it carefully. Places it on the counter. Hesitates.)

(softly, to her reflection)
She thinks she’s chaos.
(pause)
But I’ve never seen someone spiral so beautifully.

You don’t fall for guests. That’s the rule.
But she’s not just a guest.
She’s a sparkler in a blackout.

(A pause. She sets the robe aside. She adjusts the candle slightly. Steadies herself.)

Then — footsteps. Laughter from a corridor. The door opens.
She turns, the concierge mask slipping back into place.
But in her eyes? The fire is still lit.

Still. Don’t be the fool who reaches for the flame… and forgets it burns.

---

Setting: A quiet corner of the garden terrace. Later that night. The female guests have moved inside. Lanterns flicker softly in the trees. The ocean wind is gentle, but it carries a weight.

At rise: ISADORA sits beneath a lemon tree, alone, and barefoot with her chic high heels placed next to her. She stares out into nothing.

ISADORA

(quietly, to herself)
Is it always like this? The stillness after the storm… or is this just what it means to finally exhale?

(She runs a hand down her chest, feeling her heart.)
No encore. No applause. Just… breath.

(A tear falls. She doesn’t wipe it away.)

Hello, my sweet red wine. We’re all alone now. With your consent, we shall…indulge..

(ISADORA sips the wine. It’s terrible. She nods like it deserves that.)

Wow, this wine is Mediterranean disappointing.
Like my last Bumble date: bitter, overpriced, and still left me pretending to enjoy it.

(to audience)
I’ve been rehearsing this moment for years.
The speech. The setting. The sigh.
The part where she touches my hand and says she felt it, too.

I swoon, we kiss, we elope—happily ever after.

(pause)

But no.

Now here I am.
One perfect lemon tree.
One not-so-perfect bottle of red.
And absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

(pause)
Stick to the story, Isadora.

---

(CAMILA enters quietly, holding her shoes in one hand.)

CAMILA

I thought I might find you here. Izzy. By the way, who are you talking to? Was that Shakespeare I heard?

ISADORA

(stands up)

No one. Just had to get the words out. Under this lemon tree. Okay, so I needed a minute. Or a lifetime. I am a mess.

CAMILLA

Are you…feeling okay, Izzy?

ISADORA

Just peachy. Tell me, what is your secret, Camila? What’s your 50 step skincare routine because I must know. And you are so…radiant. Sorry, the horrible wine is talking through me. You know how it is with me and wine.

CAMILA

Well..I’ve been called a lot of things, but radiant is new. But thank you. Izzy, is this about the fig tart? Because I did warn you it was aggressive.

ISADORA

It’s about everything. Here, there, everywhere.

(pause)

Can we talk?

CAMILA

Of course.

ISADORA

Listen, I invited you here to say something.

I made it a trip.
A plan.
A… soft-focus fantasy.

But underneath all of it—

I just wanted to tell you the truth.

CAMILA

Izzy…

ISADORA

Let me say it.

I’ve been in love with you for years. And this time it’s not the wine talking.
(beat)
Maybe it came in flickers. In spurts. In cycles—sorry, TMI.
(a breath)
But it stayed.
Long enough to know it was real.

CAMILA

Oh, Izzy. My sweet little Izzy.

ISADORA

You don’t have to say anything. I just—
I couldn’t keep holding it like a secret in my throat.

(CAMILA takes her hand. Gently. Not romantically.)

CAMILA

I did know.
(beat)
In a soft, blurry way.
I loved being near you. I still do.
(gentle, firm)
But I never felt that way.

ISADORA

(a beat)
I know.
(another beat)
I thought I was prepared for this.

CAMILA

I’m so sorry.

ISADORA

Don’t be.
You didn’t promise me anything.
I built this whole story by myself.
You were the scaffolding. I thought I was the masterpiece.

(CAMILA laughs gently.)

CAMILA

You’re brave.
Not many women I know are that brave.

ISADORA

I feel ridiculous. And stupid.
Especially after that whole Wine/Whine fiasco earlier.
I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or embarrass you. It just… spilled out.
You’re the one woman I’ve ever felt safe enough to dump all my chaotic, horny feelings on—
(catches herself)
I just miss what we had.
And maybe what I thought we still had.
I guess I don’t know how to let go.

CAMILA

And Izzy… I do understand.
I should’ve told you about Rita sooner. We weren’t trying to hurt you—just trying to figure things out.
You made this place brighter, we both see that.
I want you in our lives, but… not if it keeps you tethered to something you’re trying to let go of.
Rita considers you a sister.
I hope—someday—you can believe that’s still love.
A different kind. But just as real.

(pause, gentler)

I just didn’t want to be the reason you got hurt.

(beat)

If it helps…
(gentler)
You deserve someone who doesn’t make you wonder.
(silence)

And you’re always welcome to third-wheel it with us—
If that’s not too awkward.
Though knowing you, it probably will be.
But you’ll do it anyway.

ISADORA

Yeah.
I think I’m starting to believe that.
You know how I am as a third wheel—wobbly, messy, unglamorous.
I could splinter at the sound of you and Rita… romancing.

You don’t want a third wheel people wonder about—
whether she’s a bird’s nest of a mess
masquerading in a mismatched outfit, streaked mascara… or a robe.
Like this whole adventure has been, honestly.

(pause)

Do you think being a third wheel is just a trial period?
(half-smile)
Because I’m very bad at standing on the sidelines.
(pause)
Rita’s not bad on the eyes either…
once I get past the scent of lemon bath bombs in the suite.

(CAMILA and ISADORA face each other, as if it’s one last goodbye, which it isn’t but ISADORA feels it is.)

CAMILA

Oh, Izzy.
You’re ridiculous—in the most lovable way.
You really do have a way with the ladies.
And Rita and I?
We’ll always be here for you. No matter what.

(CAMILA kisses Izzy’s cheek. Then exits, quietly.)

(ISADORA watches her go. Breathes. Alone again.)

ISADORA

(to audience)
There it is.
The truth.

Not cruel.
Not cinematic.
Just… clean.
Well, maybe the delivery could’ve used work.

I thought it would shatter me.
But instead, it cleared the floor.

I don’t think I could handle being the third wheel.
I’d fall apart like a wagon wheel on the Oregon Trail
at the first glimpse of candlelit hand-holding.

Honestly… why me?
It’s hard being a sapphic girl.

(pause)

I’m not asking for a fairy tale.
Just one night where I don’t accidentally re-enact a tragic lesbian rom com…
in full Three Stooges-style slapstick.
I was always more of a Carol Burnett Show kind of slapstick girl anyway.

---

(A footstep. A figure in the dark. SALOMÉ.)

SALOMÉ

Sorry, Isadora, love, I didn’t mean to listen.

ISADORA

Well, right on cue—as always.
My lady knight in black, swooping in to concierge me to… somewhere.

Love? You’re the first concierge to call me that.
You always mean to listen.
You’ve got a real knack for flawless entrances.

SALOMÉ

Not this time.

(She steps closer. The space between them is charged.)

Although, I must say you were brave in that moment with Camila.

ISADORA

Wait, what? Hold on. No, no.
I appreciate the hospitable flattery, but you don’t know the full Isadora Francesca Quinn.
I am Lady Don Quixote—galloping after imaginary, beautiful women in my head to be my Lady Sancho…to dine and flirt over tacos….
who always turn out to be windmills of rejection.
It’s all…part of my chaotic, messy life.

SALOMÉ

That must be exhausting for you.

ISADORA

It is. But less than pretending I didn’t feel it. More like hot and bothered. Which happens too often.

SALOMÉ

And now? Still as you say, “hot and bothered”?

ISADORA

Now I feel like the story I thought I was in just… ended.
And I have no idea what comes next.

Although, the chic black attire really suits you, Salomé.
I mean—well—of course it does. You’re a concierge.
What else would you be wearing?

(pause)
Oh god. I am so crashing and burning tonight.

SALOMÉ

Maybe you’ve crash landed in a better story now.

ISADORA

I need a pint of ice cream with a side of a hug.

(Silence.)

SALOMÉ

Unfortunately, we are out of ice cream until tomorrow…but that hug..that I can do.

ISADORA

Wait. Hold up. We just met. I’m no Babe Lost in the Sappho Woods, you know. We can’t come on that quickly. You know how much I fear ambushes…in the bush?

SALOMÉ

You seem to… spiral.

ISADORA

Oh god. Spiral Mac and Cheese.
Extra cheesy. Mildly tragic.

SALOMÉ

No, no. It’s rather…adorable.

ISADORA

And what are you? The love interest? The unexpected plot twist? Where’s your horse? Your castle? Or do you always prowl among the bushes?

Oh god Isadora…there I go again…

---

(CAMILA sits alone with a half-empty glass, Rita nowhere in sight. The music from inside is muffled.)

CAMILA

(to herself)
Izzy always made me feel like I was the sun in the center of her little universe.
It was… intoxicating.
But I never knew how to hold it. Or deserve it.
With Rita, it’s different. Less story, more sweat and salt and skin.
But with Izzy…
(pause)
I just didn’t want to be someone’s idea of a grand finale.
I wanted to be… simple. And I never am.
(beat)
Maybe that’s why I let her hope.
And why I can’t do it anymore.
(beat)
She deserved more than a soft no and a fig tart.
(softly)
I hope she finds what she came for.
Even if it wasn’t me.
(to herself, quietly)
She left.

RITA

(flippant)
You snooze, you lez.

(CAMILA smiles faintly. RITA rises, grabs her wine, and exits with a wink.)

---

SALOMÉ

We can go somewhere else quiet..

ISADORA

No, no. Just a standard feature of being Isadora Quinn.

For a concierge you seem to be deeply curious.
More curious than most women I’ve met.

Like hot-lady-gynacologist-who-makes-Isadora-blush-intense deep.
Not that it’s a bad thing…I guess?

Are you sure you’re not some magical fairy gay-mother/concierge come to Cinderella me to the sapphic ball and…I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

I have so many tales of bad dates, and not all of them fairy happy.

SALOMÉ

I’m still deciding.
But I’d like to find out.
With you, of course.

ISADORA

Well, I do have my shoes in hand—so I think we know they fit and can skip the glass slipper fitting. Except my feet are dirty at this point.

I hope that won’t cause a rift in our…what do we call it…guest-conceirge relation…ship?

(Just as the tension crackles—PETAL rushes on, holding a pair of high heel shoes (from somewhere?) and a smoking incense stick.)

SALOMÉ

Hold on. Petal. This either isn’t good or another mystical, hammy performance of hers.

PETAL

Emergency!

Heavens to Libra! Oh, Salome! Someone left clove oil open in the aromatherapy room and now the wellness suite smells like grief and licorice. It’s a bad sign I tell you…a trickster spirit has infiltrated our sacred fem realm. I must have missed an area to sage! There must be men nearby…

SALOMÉ

Petal.
You were the last one in the wellness suite earlier.
With Regina, Anita, and Maria.
And Ms. Rollins.
So what’s actually happened?

PETAL

Oh. You’re right.

Well—it’s about Henrietta.
She found a robe in the lemon grove.
(beat)

(She holds up the robe. It’s ISADORA’S.)

ISADORA

Oh my god. Now who would want my robe? It’s not like I have a twin running around.

PETAL

She went full clipboard fury about ‘uninvited male heretics breaching our sacred femdom like Normandy Beach.’ I said it was probably just a sacred robe offering. She threatened to call the Pope and Vatican housekeeping.
(pause)
Tell me, sweet m’lady Isadora —
Shall I bury it under moonlight… or just dry clean?

SALOMÉ

(without missing a beat)
Dry clean it, Petal.
Then sage it.
And do not involve Henrietta.

(beat)
She’s already been on edge because someone—
(the answer is obvious)
—used chocolate pudding instead of mud
on Ms. Jensen.
One of our best-paying clients.

PETAL

So that’s where my gluten free chocolate pudding had gone today. Thought maybe a mouse or a ghost—

SALOMÉ

This is not a joke.

(longer beat)

Because of that mistake, we comped a suite.
A suite.
For pudding.

(beat)

We concierges function on precision, Petal.

(beat)

When precision is disrupted—by preventable chaos—guests become unhappy.

(beat)

And that is not tolerated.

(slower)

Today, I ignored a dozen sane women who depend on me
to contain the fallout from your improvisation.

(beat)

Next time—
stay in your own lane.

PETAL

Well… I don’t think anyone can ever be truly crystal clear.
That’s beyond magic—

SALOMÉ

Petal.

(each word precise)
Purple.
(beat)
Burble.
(beat)
Babble.

(calm, glacial)
Do not test my patience again.

(beat)

I would like one quiet evening.

(beat)

Especially with Ms. Quinn.

(pause, cool and final)
Thank you.

PETAL

…You’re welcome.

(PETAL leaves.)

ISADORA

Look at you. That’s the first time I’ve seen you unravel like that. Glad I’m not the only one falling apart around here. Also—super hot. And on what, our second unannounced date? In your uniform, too. You really know what a woman wants.

(beat)
A femme in pressed lapels and world-ending eye contact.

(starts getting a little too playful, maybe slurring ever so slightly)

You know, I just love when a woman lets it all out in uniform. Like yes, ma’am—you can come five-star declare war on my turf anytime. I surrender… because apparently, I’ve been a very bad, bad girl and—

(stops, catching herself)

Oh dear god. I’m so sorry. There I go again. Unclassy and horny much, Isadora? Not what mother taught you. What is it about the wine here that makes me so… loopy?

(beat)

Did you spike my wine? I mean, I was waiting for you to..take me home.

SALOMÉ

All in a day’s work. And no, a concierge never steps in unless asked to. Let’s just say Petal has been a vessel for chaos for some time. Something Henrietta, Carmella, and Ms. Rigetti have openly expressed regret about hiring her.

It’s a miracle Petal hasn’t managed to burn the resort down yet.

But if I did spike your wine…
…you’d never catch me. Like femme 007 like you said.

Now. Where were we, Ms. Quinn?

(to herself)
She thinks I’m immune.
That I only show up when it’s safe.
She doesn’t know how often I’ve almost stayed.

End of Act II, Scene 2

---

Act II, Scene 3
“Exit Strategies and Emotional Luggage”

Setting: Suite 3B. Late night. Dim lighting. The room is calm, almost too calm. One lamp glows. The robe from earlier hangs on the wall. A nearly packed suitcase sits open.

At rise: ISADORA is folding a dress carefully, almost ritualistically. A half-finished note sits beside a glass of water. She’s changed into pajamas, but her lipstick’s still on—just barely.

ISADORA

(to audience)
I told the truth.
I didn’t explode.
I didn’t win, either.
But my god did I spiral at the worst time.

Isadora’s probably moved on, thinking I’m some sappho weirdo with a uniform fetish.

I might be packing, or I might just be avoiding the fact that I don’t know what staying means anymore.

But I still don’t understand who would want my robe? I mean, I don’t smell… do I?
I brought perfume. The good kind. The Isadora-smells-rich-and-super-femmy-femme-swoon-the-ladies kind.
Specifically chosen for sapphic yearning… and accidental “Going My Way?” hallway encounters like I’m some femme Frank Sinatra on the lesbian prowl. Just without the cigarettes, pressed suit, fedora hat.
(beat)
And I tested it. Twice. On my wrist and my décolletage. For research purposes. Obviously. Then panic-spritzed my neck like I was scent-marking a lesbian crush in the wild.

---

(A soft knock. She freezes. Sets down the dress. Opens the door—)

(SALOMÉ stands there. She’s in casual clothes. No uniform. No mystery.)

ISADORA

Why hello, Salomé.
I don’t recall ordering room service with you on the menu, but I’ll take it.

Let me guess—Casual Friday Night?

Didn’t expect to see you without the Femme 007 suit.
But I must say…
you clean up rather devastatingly well.

Tell me—are you Cary Grant and I’m Audrey Hepburn?
Is this Charade?
Or am I Grace Kelly and you’re Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief?

Personally?
I’m a Rear Window, front-row, watch-it-all kind of girl.
Much more fun and hot—
unless you’re the one watching your own heartbreak in 4K.

(beat)
And honestly?
I’m starting to suspect you strip-swiped and planted my robe in the lemon grove.
Because for a concierge, you’re suspiciously good at strip-theft.
Like “how-the-hell-did-she-do-that?” good.

SALOMÉ

Then maybe step out of the frame.
Yes, I might have swiped it.
I did instruct housekeeping to bring you a fresh one.
But planting it in the garden?
That has Petal written all over it.

ISADORA

Oh sure. Petal and the entire housekeeping team conspired to strip-steal my robe.
Clearly overcome by my tragic hotness and scent of existential despair.
That slaps. For now.

SALOMÉ

I mean… you do leave quite the scent trail.
Figs, bad decisions, and something… French?
(pause)
Anyway…
I didn’t know if you’d still be up.

ISADORA

I wasn’t asleep.
I was… folding. Literally and metaphorically.
And spiraling through my never-ending Rabbit Hole of Horny Sappho Longing.
Pretending I was someone who actually knew what to do next —
and who to do it with.
Then I thought, “What the hell, Isadora.”
And I put on my pajamas.
‘Woo. Good job Isadora. You get a cookie.’
(pause)
Hey—at least my Girl Scout skills still come in handy.
And believe me, I scout A LOT.

I do feel naked without my robe.
If you really wanted it, you could’ve just said.
Still kind of weird for a concierge to covet a guest’s robe —
unless you find my perfume Ode de la Sweat de Femme arousing.
Then again, it is freeing without the robe.
Not that I’m some exhibitionist, although my love life has been nothing but a case of Exit-bitionism, if you get what I mean. Or something…

(pause)

Truth is, apparently I’m good at starting things.
Not so much at keeping them.

Story of my life so far.

(pause)

I’m sorry you’re probably bored of me now. I get it. I just get all, super talkative and..you know, nervous when I’m around any hot, princess charming woman and..

SALOMÉ

(cracks a faint smile, as if charmed)

Now I see why you were called a “Spiral Pookie Noodle.”

ISADORA

(half-laughs, then eyes Salomé)
Oh god. From dinner. It’s a miracle I made it out of that relationship with my nouns intact.

(pause)

SALOMÉ

May I?

ISADORA

(archly)
Into what, exactly? The suite? My late-stage identity crisis?
(beat)
Be specific, Salomé.

SALOMÉ

(softly)
Into wherever you are when you’re not performing.

(Isadora flinches. Not visibly — just enough for a careful viewer to catch.)

ISADORA

(almost a whisper, with a smile that’s trying too hard)
Oh god.
That’s cheating. You used the vulnerability card and you haven’t even kissed me yet.

(a pause, she softens — barely)
No one’s ever… asked before.

SALOMÉ

(a step closer)
Then maybe that’s where we begin.

ISADORA

Of course. Might as well. You’re here, I’m here, we all scream we’re queer…
(beat)
Nevermind. Forget I said that.
(pause)
It’s not like I planned to go full Mae West with a ‘Come up and see me sometime’ to a woman who smells like international intrigue and wears confidence like cologne. Like really…strong cologne in a good way. Like, as a woman, I’d tap that..oh god, there I go again.
But hey… here we are.

(They hold the space. The door is still half-open. The invitation lingers. Isadora doesn’t answer with words — just lets the door ease open a little more.)

(SALOMÉ steps inside. Stands awkwardly for the first time.)

SALOMÉ

I was told you’re leaving?

ISADORA

Who said that? I’ve just been… folding.
I keep folding things like it’ll give me clarity.

SALOMÉ

And has it?

ISADORA

No. But hey, at least my clothes are aggressively well-organized.
(stares at her own suitcase)
Did you come up here just to watch me fold laundry? Bold move.
Not exactly the kiss-my-feet-and-suck-my-toes fantasy I’d hoped for, but hey, whatever floats your boat.

SALOMÉ

I’m sorry.

ISADORA

For what? Really though, I appreciate the effort.
We don’t all stick the Sapphic landing on the first vault.
Believe me—plenty of close calls. More than a few crash-and-burns.
Especially with older women.
(beat)
They know how to light a fire—and how to walk away before it burns the bushes.
(pause, winces)
Wait—no. Not the bushes again. Poor phrasing. Abort! Abort the metaphor!
(beat)
God, I need a euphemism coach.
(pause)
Wait….sorry for what, Salome?

SALOMÉ

For showing up too late.
And still not knowing how to be… open.
(pause)

(ISADORA and SALOME sit next to each other at the foot of the bed)
(pause)

(looks down at Isadora’s feet)
(softly, unsure if it will land—so she reaches for humor)

Would it please you if I said you have exquisite feet?

(Silence. Heavy. ISADORA looks down at her bare feet and then back up to Salome)

ISADORA

Oh… why thank you, Salomé.
Not usually the first compliment I get—but hey, I’ll take it.
(pause)
You don’t have to know how to be anything.
You just have to choose to be here.
(pause, with a shrug)
I think that’s how it works?

SALOMÉ

That’s the part I can’t promise.
I must confess…

(ISADORA flinches. Doesn’t speak.)

(quietly)
I care about you.
(beat)
More than I should.
(a breath)
Enough that I can’t pretend this is harmless.
(pause)
And not enough—
(she stops herself)
Not enough to promise what I don’t know how to give.

(quiet)
I learned a long time ago how not to reach.

(beat)
And you make me forget that.

(a glance away, honest)
That’s what frightens me.

(SALOME stands up, ISADORA follows)

ISADORA

Then why did you come?

SALOMÉ

Because I wanted to. To be alone with you.
Without the suit but me in my natural state.
Sorry, I mean, my casual self.

ISADORA

Well, I don’t mind casual nudity from time to time—
but it’s rare I get a woman to disrobe on the first vibe.
What’s that saying? “From first to third base”?

Now Camila… she had her own Wile Coyote romance plan—
prosecco, rose petals, and strategic wardrobe malfunctions.
That’s Camila. Always keeping it spicy.

Sometimes too spicy.
Like Blue Is the Warmest Color levels of spicy.
Too much male-directed, male-gazey mess—
and not a single towel in sight.

(she blinks, realizing she spiraled again)
I’m sorry, you were saying, Salomé?

SALOMÉ

I was afraid if I didn’t…
you’d leave without ever knowing I felt something.
Even if it’s not enough.

(ISADORA nods. Quiet.)

ISADORA

Why, Salomé…
You really are hot and bothered tonight—
with just a touch of Emily Dickinson queer longing.
My favorite genre. Brings out the Kleenex every time.
(pause)
You sure know how to turn a girl on.
But thank you for saying it—
even if the delivery could use a little… poetic polish.

SALOMÉ

I specialize in curated experiences.
Though… I’m still working on the experience part.
As a concierge, I do have to say—thank you.
And you’re right. It does.

ISADORA

Maybe once we get to know each other better,
I’ll treat you to my femme Inigo Montoya Princess Bride impression.
And you? You can be my Sapph Princess Buttercup.
Drives the femmes wild—
especially the “Prepare to be kissed” part.
Even more so after prosecco.

(SALOMÉ smiles but her smile disappears. She steps closer. Almost touches ISADORA. Stops.)

SALOMÉ

Goodnight, Signorina Quinn.
(a beat. She means it. She doesn’t want to leave.)

(She exits.)

(ISADORA remains standing. She doesn’t move.
The door stays open a moment longer than it should.
Then—she closes it.)

---

(A breath)

(PETAL enters uninvited, holding a ceramic bowl filled with salt and flower petals.)

SALOMÉ

Petal! What do you want? I asked you to stay out of my clients’ rooms!

PETAL

Only for a minute, Salome…
The night is still young, m’lady.
My clairvoyant senses detect… hints of regret swirling in this very room.
Or perhaps just a touch of clouded sapphic confusion…
Never fear! For I—Petal, curator of the mystic arts and accidental aromatherapist—possess remedies most mystical.
(beat)
…Or so I like to think.

ISADORA

Tell me, Petal—how do you do that?
Appearing like Endora from Bewitched out of nowhere.
And at the most random times?
I’m starting to think you and Salomé are in cahoots.
She’s no Lady Darren, but I swear…

PETAL

Oh darling, you’d make a terrible witch.
Far too readable.
But you’d make a fascinating spell.
As for me? I just listen to the humidity.

(She lights something that immediately sparks and hisses. ISADORA jumps.)

ISADORA

Uh, Petal? Is that safe?

PETAL

No.
But clarity rarely is.

(HENRIETTA appears at the door, holding a clipboard and a vacuum nozzle.)

HENRIETTA

Petal, absolutely not! You are not staging another kooky hocus pocus lunar reckoning in a guest suite.
How many times must we tell you — do not disturb the guests!
(pause)
Pardon me, Ms. Quinn. I assure you this won’t happen again.

(PETAL turns to ISADORA.)

PETAL

Now, ‘Dora. Is it Dora or is it Izzy..oh never mind.
Leave. Stay.
But don’t do both at once.

(She exits in a swirl of rose smoke. HENRIETTA gives ISADORA a long look.)

HENRIETTA

Just a reminder, Ms. Quinn—midnight is technically late checkout.
I suggest you decide whether you’re staying with her or leaving.
I’m not resetting the room twice. We have guests waiting.

(She exits.)

ISADORA

(ISADORA stares at the door. Then at the suitcase. Then at the robe.)

Hold on. That robe wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
I should’ve booked the non-haunted suite.

(ISADORA sits on the bed alone. Then she lies on the bed. The light shifts softly as the sea breeze stirs the curtains.)

ISADORA

Rest now, Salome.
(pause)
(tears start to run down Isadora’s face)

SALOME

(seen lying in bed in another room of the resort; She whispers in her sleep)

(at that moment, tears run down Salome’s face)

ISADORA

(She breathes. Closes her eyes. Then—quietly, to herself)
Maybe clarity’s overrated.
(a soft smile through her tears)
But this? This feels real.

End of Act II

---

Act III: “The Truth Is
Never Part of the Itinerary”

Scene 1: “Check-Out Is at Noon, Unless You Stay”

Setting: Suite 3B. Morning. Golden light spills in through the open balcony doors. The bed is unmade. The suitcase is now closed but hasn’t moved. A nearly finished espresso sits on the windowsill. There’s a folded note on the table.

At rise: ISADORA sits in the hotel robe, staring out toward the sea. She looks calm. But that kind of calm you only get when you’ve given up trying to control anything.

ISADORA

(to audience)
I didn’t sleep.
I just… stayed awake quietly.

That’s the difference between heartbreak and growth.
Heartbreak hurts louder.
Growth is sneaky. You don’t even notice it until you realize you’re not crying while brushing your teeth.

(sipping the last of her espresso, barely audible)
The robe fits better today. Maybe because I stopped trying to wear it like armor.
(beat)
It’s just fabric now. Soft. And warm.

(She unfolds the note. Reads. Smiles, then folds it again and tucks it into the inner pocket of the robe. She closes her eyes.)

(A soft knock. PETAL enters holding a tray with espresso, figs, and a tiny vase of lavender.)

PETAL

Many sparkles of the moon, I bring magical caffeination, consolation, and condensed carbohydrates.

ISADORA

That’s dangerously close to love.

PETAL

Don’t get attached. I say that to all the brokenhearted.

(She sets the tray down, then notices the closed suitcase.)

PETAL

So… are you leaving?

ISADORA

I don’t know.

PETAL

Not what I would call the magic words of life.
The best reason to stay isn’t a person.
It’s a you that you actually want to live with.

(ISADORA looks at her. Real, finally.)

ISADORA

How do you know so much?

PETAL

I work here, and I bless rooms with moon salt and low expectations.
Eccentricity is my persona — but not all of me.
(beat)
I trained once. Acting. Ballet. A long time ago.
Before I realized I was performing for others… and forgetting myself.
(beat)
I loved a woman.
Deeply.
And we lived in a time where love like that learned to whisper.
(beat)
I stayed.
She didn’t.
(a breath)
So if I talk to candles and sass the moon —
it’s because being strange was safer than being silent.
(beat, gentler)
And sometimes… it’s how you survive being seen
when loving openly costs too much.

ISADORA

(quietly, after a long pause)
Petal…
I think that might be the most honest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
And I don’t know whether to thank you or cry.

(beat)

But I think… maybe both.

(she looks down at the envelope in her hand, then back at Petal)

For what it’s worth—
you were seen.
And you were loved.
Even if it wasn’t safe to say so out loud.
(beat)
I hope she knew that. I hope you do, too.

(PETAL reaches into her wrap. Pulls out an envelope.)

PETAL

She left this for you.
Didn’t say goodbye.
Didn’t say stay.
Just… this.

(She hands it over. Exits without fanfare.)

(ISADORA opens the envelope. It’s a keycard. And a note.)

(She reads it silently. Then aloud.)

ISADORA

(reading)
“You don’t have to leave.
But if you do, I won’t stop you.
I’ll just wish you’d stayed.
—S.”

(She sets the note down. Looks at the keycard. Then at the door.)

ISADORA

(to audience)
So. What kind of story is this?

Is it the one where she runs after me in the rain?
Is it the one where I go downstairs, she’s gone, and I eat a $19 fig tart alone?

Or is it the one where I finally stop waiting for a sign and just…
walk through the damn door myself?

I planned every moment of this trip. I thought love would show up in prosecco glasses and perfect timing.
But maybe love is the part I didn’t plan.
Maybe the story isn’t about getting what you want—but wanting what makes you brave enough to stay.

(She stands. Picks up the keycard.)

Fuck it. I’ve made up my mind.

End of Act III, Scene 1

---

Act III, Scene 2
“The Room With the Better View”

ISADORA

(to audience)
I left my agent five voicemails.
Said I was off the grid — “in creative restoration.”
Which is a fancy way of saying:
‘I needed to get away from the audition rooms, the wrong scripts, and the woman who still sends me mix CDs.’
(pause)
And yet somehow… here I am. Still acting. Still hoping someone calls me back.
But maybe this time… I won’t answer.

Setting: The lobby of Villa Fiorella. Morning. Sunlight glows off marble floors and glass walls. Bougainvillea spill from white planters. The front desk is clean, empty. A bell waits on the counter.

At rise: SALOMÉ stands alone behind the desk. She is back in uniform. But something’s changed. She’s still composed—but there’s a softness now, like she didn’t sleep much and stopped pretending she did.

(She checks something on a clipboard. Folds it. Places it aside. Takes a breath.)

SALOMÉ

(to audience)
Concierges don’t fall for guests.
That’s the rule.
We observe. We assist. We glide through other people’s stories like elegant ghosts.

And then she walked in.
Asking for prosecco.
Wearing panic under her mascara.

And I made the mistake of looking too long.

Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all.

(The entrance doors open. ISADORA enters. No suitcase. Just herself. Dressed simply. Holding the keycard. SALOME starts to walk over to ISADORA.)

(SALOME and ISADORA lock eyes and see each other. Neither moves at first.)

ISADORA

I checked out.

SALOMÉ

So I see.

ISADORA

But then I checked back in.

SALOMÉ

Do you need assistance with anything?

ISADORA

Yes.
I need you to stop being the concierge for once.

(Silence. Tension. Then—)

SALOMÉ

You scare me.

ISADORA

You make me feel safe. And seen. And stupid.

SALOMÉ

That’s a lot for a weekend.

ISADORA

It doesn’t have to end today.
(pause)
You upgraded my room.
That’s a move.

SALOMÉ

It has a better view.
(looks at Isadora)
Do you always get what you want?

ISADORA

No. But I always ask for it now.

(They lean in. A beat.
A breath.
They almost kiss—then pause, still close.
A half-smile flickers between them.)

HENRIETTA (offstage)

If anyone’s going to kiss in the lobby, they’d better have a reservation!

(They look at each other. Then—like the final drop of a rollercoaster—kiss.)

ISADORA

And I want you in it.

(ISADORA laughs into Salomé’s shoulder. Salomé smiles like she’s remembering how.)

ISADORA

(to audience or voice over)
It’s not the story I planned.
It’s better.

SALOMÉ

(to audience or voice over)
And this time, I’m staying in it.

ISADORA

(to audience or voice over)
No plan. No panic. Just prosecco. And her.

SALOMÉ

(to audience or voice over)
Because the concierge always knows…and we found our fairy tale ending.

To every woman who’s ever longed, waited, watched, and known—this one is for you.