Author:
Wendy Francis
ISBN:
9781525895982
Publication
Date: April 6, 2021
Publisher:
Graydon House Books
Buy
Links:
Book
Summary:
Sip cocktails in the lounge, bask in the summer sun
by the pool, and experience the drama of the rich and famous firsthand in Wendy
Francis’s newest novel, SUMMERTIME
GUESTS (Graydon House; April 6, 2021; $16.99 USD). With its rich history
and famous guests, The Seafarer is no stranger to drama. But the bustle at the
social hotspot reaches new heights one weekend in mid-June when a woman falls
tragically to her death from the tenth floor, unwittingly intertwining her life
with the lives of the hotels’ guests and staff.
Claire O’Dell, reeling from the loss of her husband
and possibly her job, has gone to The Seafarer for a little vacation…and to
reconnect with a long-lost-love.
Jean-Paul, the hotel’s manager, is struggling to keep his marriage and
new family afloat. Bride-to-be Riley is at the hotel to plan her wedding with
her fiancé ... or, she’s at the hotel with her fiancé while her mother-in-law
tells them how to plan their wedding. Jason, whose romantic getaway with his
girlfriend has not exactly gone the way he'd hoped and instead has him facing
questions about his past that he can't bring himself to answer.
As their truths and secrets come to light, the lives
of these four will collide in tragic, beautiful ways none of them could have
expected that will teach them about the love they deserve and the strength they
possess to change their lives for the better.
Join Wendy at her launch event at
An Unlikely Story @ April
6th 8 p ET, in conversation with Kristy Harvey Woodson
Friday
June 11th, 2021
ONE
It
wasn’t as if Riley could have anticipated what would happen later that day.
None of them could. Because when you’re at a tasting for your wedding reception
at one of Boston’s ritziest hotels, trying to decide between crab cakes or
lobster quiches, no one thinks of anything bad happening. Or at least, this is
what Riley tells herself later. Why she—and no one else there—could possibly be
to blame.
At the moment, though, Riley is sitting at a table by the
window, half-listening to her future mother-in-law while she sips gazpacho the
color of marigolds. Something about wanting to know if the outdoor terrace can
be transformed into a dance floor, assuming the weather cooperates. If Riley
were asked to gauge her interest in planning her own wedding, she would characterize
it as mild at best. Her only requirement being that she and Tom marry in
July—and that the flowers are pale pink peonies from Smart Stems, the shop
where she has worked for the past three years.
It was Tom who’d suggested the Seaport District for their
reception, Boston’s new up-and-coming neighborhood, and Riley had happily
agreed. It’s an easy spot for guests to travel to, and the setting is
over-the-top gorgeous with views of both the city and the water. Not to mention
the promise of fresh seafood—an almost impossible request if they were to wed
in Riley’s hometown of Lansing, Michigan, where everything remains hopelessly
landlocked.
But she hadn’t counted on Tom’s mother wanting to be so,
well, involved. Maybe it’s the fact
that Riley’s own mother passed away a few short years ago, and so Marilyn feels
compelled to step up and fill her mother’s shoes. A retired schoolteacher, her
mother-in-law-to-be still tackles each new day with the necessary energy for a
classroom of boisterous second-graders, a gusto which she now seems to be
funneling into her son’s nuptials. At first, Riley was grateful, but while she
sits listening to the hotel’s wedding coordinator drone on about the Seafarer’s
rich history, she’s beginning to feel as though she has stepped into one of
those horrible, never-ending lines at Disney for a ride she doesn’t
particularly want to go on.
Riley is well aware that the Seafarer is one of the most
coveted venues for weddings, especially in light of its recent renovations.
It’s no secret that New England’s most glamorous, its most fashionable clamor
to stay here and that the Seafarer’s well-appointed rooms are typically booked
months in advance. She should be grateful that they’re even considering it as
an option. Rumor has it that everyone from Winston Churchill to Taylor Swift
has been a guest (as the saying goes, if you want to appear in the society
pages of the Boston Globe, then spend
a few hours at the Seafarer’s exclusive summer cocktail hour from four to six).
As for out-of-towners hoping to take in the full scene that Boston can be—with
its attendant snobbishness and goodwill and weird accents wrapped into one—the
Seafarer, Riley understands, puts you in the heart of it.
Not that she has anything against tradition, but if it were
up to her alone, she would probably choose a smaller, more modest setting, a
wedding with no more than fifty guests. There’d be a justice of the peace and
rows of white chairs lining the harbor, the wind whipping her veil in front of
her face. Naturally, she’d want a reception afterward, but Riley counts herself
as the type of girl who’d be equally content with trays of fish tacos and
margaritas under a tent as with oysters on the half shell served in a tony
hotel restaurant.
“I can’t reveal everyone,” the coordinator is saying in
hushed tones, “but it’s no secret that some of Boston’s greatest legends have
celebrated their nuptials with us.” Riley shoots Tom a sideways glance, as if
to say Is she for real? but her
fiancé’s chin rests firmly in his hand, his attention rapt. He’s eating up
every word.
“Well, Gillian, it’s all very impressive,” Tom’s mother
says, slipping her reading glasses back into her pocketbook after a review of
the menu. Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, her lips coated in her
trademark color, fuchsia. “It’s no wonder Boston’s finest flock here for their
special occasions. The view alone is to die for.” She gestures toward the
expanse of crystalline water out the window, the romantic outline of the city’s
financial district in the distance. “Kids, wouldn’t it be something to come
back here every year to toast your anniversary?”
Marilyn shoots Riley a wink, as if the two of them are in
cahoots to convince Tom that this is
the spot, meant to be. There’s no need to point out that she and Tom could
never afford such a venue. They already discussed it over dinner the other
night when Marilyn revealed that she’d gone ahead and booked an appointment for
a tasting at the Seafarer on Friday and how she hoped Riley wouldn’t mind. “I don’t
want you to worry about money, dear,” she instructed. “Tom’s dad and I would be
honored to host. Tom is our only child after all.”
And Riley had breathed a tiny sigh of relief while
swallowing her pride. Not because she wants an extravagant wedding but because
it means that she and Tom can now channel the nest egg they’ve been building
toward a mortgage on a new home instead of toward an elaborate one-day
celebration. It’s a much more sensible use of their money, and Riley, having
grown up poor verging on destitute, is nothing if not sensible.
Can she really imagine herself celebrating her marriage
here, though? Tom keeps missing her not-so-thinly veiled comments about the
food on the menu, which leans toward the bite-size variety that he hates
(precisely because it never fills him up), but he has said nothing. Maybe he’s
just being polite. Riley quickly scans the room for other future newlyweds, but
most of today’s diners appear to be here for business lunches—buttoned-up men
in suits and women in sharp blazers with silk shifts underneath. A few couples,
perhaps away for a romantic long weekend, and a group of older women sharing a
bottle of wine, sit wedged into the corners. It’s a lovely space, but is it too lovely?
She shifts in her seat and tries to picture her dad here,
wearing his familiar old sports coat that’s nearly worn through at the elbows,
his khaki pants and penny loafers, pretending to feel comfortable when he
wouldn’t know which fork to reach for, which glass to use.
When Marilyn turns toward to her and says, “Don’t you agree,
Riley?” Riley feels her cheeks flushing because she hasn’t been paying
attention. She has no idea what her future mother-in-law is referring to.
“I’m sorry. What was the question again?” She’s slightly
annoyed that Tom can’t—or won’t—decide on a few things himself or at the very
least rein his mother in. Especially because they talked about this very
thing—not letting Marilyn take over the tasting—last night! They’re discussing
the appetizers, apparently, and all Riley knows is that she doesn’t want
crudités. If there’s one rule she’s abiding by, it’s that her wedding menu will
include only those foods that she can pronounce.
It seems there should be a box on a list that they can check
for the Standard Reception—something not overtly cheap but not insanely
expensive, either. Tom squeezes her knee beneath the table, though it’s unclear
if it’s meant as encouragement or as a reprimand for her not giving this
conversation one hundred percent. What Riley really wants to know is this: How
can she avoid attending any more tastings with Marilyn? Should she just agree
to the Seafarer right now and be done with it?
“Mom was wondering,” Tom says in complete seriousness, “if
you thought it would be better to have cold and hot hors d’oeuvres or just cold
since the wedding will be in July?”
“Oh, right.” Riley pretends to consider her options. “Good
point. It’s bound to be hot, so I wonder—”
But somewhere between the words so and wonder, a loud
whistle of air followed by a deafening blast socks through the room like a
fist, sending Riley to grab the table and Tom to reach for her hand. Marilyn’s
fork drops from her elongated fingers, clattering onto her plate, and the room
seems to shake for a brief moment. There are shouts followed by an eerie hush
while the dining room settles back into itself. Riley watches the other diners
who begin to mumble to each other across their tables, asking if they’re okay
and spinning in their seats to better determine the source of the blast. The
woman at the adjacent table hovers on the edge of her chair, as if considering
diving underneath the table.
When Riley glances over at Gillian, she looks equally
alarmed and as surprised as the rest of them, which means this isn’t some kind
of bizarre emergency testing by the hotel. Whatever they heard was real.
Significant. Riley’s eyes slide toward Tom, then Marilyn, whose face has turned
a shade as pale as milk, then back to Tom.
“What on earth was that?” Marilyn gasps, her voice an octave
too high, her fingers fluttering to her necklace. It’s a silver chain studded
with azure stones, the kind of jewelry that Riley has come to associate with
women of a certain age.
“I’m not sure.” Gillian’s voice cracks. “It almost sounded
like some kind of explosion, didn’t it?” And then, as if remembering her
wedding-coordinator cap, she rushes to reassure them. “But I’m sure it’s
nothing like that. Maybe a blown transformer?
But both Riley and Tom exchange glances because no matter
how ill-versed they are in loud noises, that definitely was not a transformer.
It wasn’t so much a popping sound as a crash, she thinks. Did the massive
chandelier in the lobby fall? Did it come from the kitchen? Construction work
outside maybe? It’s hard to tell.
“Not to be overly dramatic, but it almost felt like an
earthquake,” Riley says. “The table actually shook, I think.” And although she
understands that the curiosity sparked inside her is somehow inappropriate, she
wants an explanation. “Whatever it was,” she says, lowering her voice, “it
sounded awfully close.”
“Yes, very close,” Marilyn agrees, still fiddling with her
necklace.
And that’s when the screams begin. Not from the kitchen at
the back of the restaurant, not from the lobby, but from outside, just beyond
the elegant bay windows peering out onto the terrace that fronts the water, the
ocean seemingly close enough to dip a hand into. Riley’s glance swivels toward
the small crowd that’s beginning to form outside near the firepit and hot tub.
“If you’ll excuse me?” Gillian says, as if emerging from a
fog, and rises awkwardly to her feet before heading toward the row of windows.
Riley’s gaze follows her, and suddenly, she, too, feels
compelled to get up, as if an invisible string tugs her toward the window. She
hurries forward and angles around Gillian for a better view. But when she does,
she immediately regrets her decision. Because it’s not a collapsed scaffolding
or an awning or even construction work that has caused the sudden shaking, the
loud blast.
But a woman, lying facedown on the terrace, several yards
beyond the window.
The body lies completely still, the woman’s legs scissored
like a rag doll’s, her left leg angled upward awkwardly. A curtain of muddy
blond hair shields her face from view. Riley watches while a few bystanders
move hesitantly toward the woman, as if afraid of startling her, until someone
kneels down and grasps her wrist, presumably to check for a pulse. A man in
blue running shorts and a Red Sox T-shirt yells for someone to call 9-1-1.
To Riley, it looks as if the woman was perhaps reaching for
a glass that slipped from her hand, her arms still outstretched above her head.
Her body is long, lean, even elegant. Riley holds her breath, waiting, and
feels Gillian stiffen beside her when a youngish man, nicely tanned and
formally dressed, parts the crowd and gently encourages everyone to take a few
steps back. He assures them that an ambulance is on the way and speaks with an
authority that suggests his importance.
“That’s Jean-Paul, our manager,” Gillian says quietly as
they watch him crouch down next to the woman and brush her hair away from her
face.
Just then, a young man in the crowd throws his hand to his
mouth and rushes off, and Riley stands on her tiptoes for a better view. And
that’s when she sees it, too—the wild splash of bright red she hadn’t noticed
earlier that lies at the far edge of the woman’s hair. And in that awful
moment, Riley—and everyone else watching—understands. An image of a woman in
her yellow summer dress, cartwheeling through the air from somewhere up high,
perhaps her hotel balcony, spirals through her mind.
“Oh, my God.” It hits her all at once, a hollow pit forming
in her stomach.
“Jesus,” says Tom, who has come up beside her to rest a hand
on her shoulder. “She’s not moving.”
“No.”
It’s obvious to them both, but somehow still needs to be
said, as if by acknowledging it aloud, the woman might hear their words through
the open window, might somehow will herself to move an inch, if only to give
them a sign—a flutter of a hand, the shifting of a foot—that she’s going to be
all right.
But her body remains completely, horribly still.
Published by Graydon House Books
Author
Bio:
Wendy Francis is a former book editor and the author of the novels The Summer Sail, The Summer of Good
Intentions, Three Good Things, and
Best Behavior. Her essays have
appeared in Good Housekeeping, The Washington Post, Yahoo Parenting,
The Huffington Post, and WBUR's Cognoscenti. A proud stepmom of two grown-up
children, she lives outside Boston with her husband and eleven-year-old son.
Social
Links:
Twitter: @wendyfrancis4
Instagram: @wendyfrancisauthor
Facebook: @wendyfrancisauthor
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