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 Francisβs newest novel, Summertime Guests (Graydon House; April 6, 2021; $16.99 USD).
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Summertime Guests
by Wendy Francis
ISBN: 9781525895982
Publication Date: April 6, 2021
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Blurb:
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 hotelsβ guests and staff.
Claire OβDell, reeling from the loss of her husband and possibly her job, has gone to The Seafarer for a little vacationβ¦and to reconnect with a long-lost-love.Β Jean-Paul, the hotelβs 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 fiancΓ© … or, sheβs at the hotel with her fiancΓ© 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.
HarlequinΒ | Barnes & Noble |Β Amazon |Β Books-A-Million |Β Powellβs
*****
Excerpt:
Friday June 11th, 2021
ONE
It wasnβt as if Riley could have anticipated what would happen later that day. None of them could. Because when youβre at a tasting for your wedding reception at one of Bostonβs 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 sheβand no one else thereβcould 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 Julyβand that the flowers are pale pink peonies from Smart Stems, the shop where she has worked for the past three years.
It was Tom whoβd suggested the Seaport District for their reception, Bostonβs new up-and-coming neighborhood, and Riley had happily agreed. Itβs 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 seafoodβan almost impossible request if they were to wed in Rileyβs hometown of Lansing, Michigan, where everything remains hopelessly landlocked.
But she hadnβt counted on Tomβs mother wanting to be so, well, involved. Maybe itβs the fact that Rileyβs own mother passed away a few short years ago, and so Marilyn feels compelled to step up and fill her motherβs 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 sonβs nuptials. At first, Riley was grateful, but while she sits listening to the hotelβs wedding coordinator drone on about the Seafarerβs rich history, sheβs beginning to feel as though she has stepped into one of those horrible, never-ending lines at Disney for a ride she doesnβt 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. Itβs no secret that New Englandβs most glamorous, its most fashionable clamor to stay here and that the Seafarerβs well-appointed rooms are typically booked months in advance. She should be grateful that theyβre 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 Seafarerβs exclusive summer cocktail hour from four to six). As for out-of-towners hoping to take in the full scene that Boston can beβwith its attendant snobbishness and goodwill and weird accents wrapped into oneβthe 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. Thereβd 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, sheβd want a reception afterward, but Riley counts herself as the type of girl whoβd 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.
βI canβt reveal everyone,β the coordinator is saying in hushed tones, βbut itβs no secret that some of Bostonβs greatest legends have celebrated their nuptials with us.β Riley shoots Tom a sideways glance, as if to say Is she for real? but her fiancΓ©βs chin rests firmly in his hand, his attention rapt. Heβs eating up every word.
βWell, Gillian, itβs all very impressive,β Tomβs 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. βItβs no wonder Bostonβs finest flock here for their special occasions. The view alone is to die for.β She gestures toward the expanse of crystalline water out the window, the romantic outline of the cityβs financial district in the distance. βKids, wouldnβt it be something to come back here every year to toast your anniversary?β
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. Thereβs 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 sheβd gone ahead and booked an appointment for a tasting at the Seafarer on Friday and how she hoped Riley wouldnβt mind. βI donβt want you to worry about money, dear,β she instructed. βTomβs dad and I would be honored to host. Tom is our only child after all.β
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 theyβve been building toward a mortgage on a new home instead of toward an elaborate one-day celebration. Itβs 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 heβs just being polite. Riley quickly scans the room for other future newlyweds, but most of todayβs diners appear to be here for business lunchesβbuttoned-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. Itβs 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 thatβs nearly worn through at the elbows, his khaki pants and penny loafers, pretending to feel comfortable when he wouldnβt know which fork to reach for, which glass to use.
When Marilyn turns toward to her and says, βDonβt you agree, Riley?β Riley feels her cheeks flushing because she hasnβt been paying attention. She has no idea what her future mother-in-law is referring to.
βIβm sorry. What was the question again?β Sheβs slightly annoyed that Tom canβtβor wonβtβdecide on a few things himself or at the very least rein his mother in. Especially because they talked about this very thingβnot letting Marilyn take over the tastingβlast night! Theyβre discussing the appetizers, apparently, and all Riley knows is that she doesnβt want cruditΓ©s. If thereβs one rule sheβs abiding by, itβs 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 Receptionβsomething not overtly cheap but not insanely expensive, either. Tom squeezes her knee beneath the table, though itβs unclear if itβs 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?
βMom was wondering,β Tom says in complete seriousness, βif you thought it would be better to have cold and hot hors dβoeuvres or just cold since the wedding will be in July?β
βOh, right.β Riley pretends to consider her options. βGood point. Itβs bound to be hot, so I wonderββ
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. Marilynβs 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 theyβre 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 isnβt some kind of bizarre emergency testing by the hotel. Whatever they heard was real. Significant. Rileyβs eyes slide toward Tom, then Marilyn, whose face has turned a shade as pale as milk, then back to Tom.
βWhat on earth was that?β Marilyn gasps, her voice an octave too high, her fingers fluttering to her necklace. Itβs a silver chain studded with azure stones, the kind of jewelry that Riley has come to associate with women of a certain age.
βIβm not sure.β Gillianβs voice cracks. βIt almost sounded like some kind of explosion, didnβt it?β And then, as if remembering her wedding-coordinator cap, she rushes to reassure them. βBut Iβm sure itβs 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 wasnβt 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? Itβs hard to tell.
βNot to be overly dramatic, but it almost felt like an earthquake,β Riley says. βThe table actually shook, I think.β And although she understands that the curiosity sparked inside her is somehow inappropriate, she wants an explanation. βWhatever it was,β she says, lowering her voice, βit sounded awfully close.β
βYes, very close,β Marilyn agrees, still fiddling with her necklace.
And thatβs 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. Rileyβs glance swivels toward the small crowd thatβs beginning to form outside near the firepit and hot tub.
βIf youβll excuse me?β Gillian says, as if emerging from a fog, and rises awkwardly to her feet before heading toward the row of windows.
Rileyβs 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 itβs 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 womanβs legs scissored like a rag dollβs, 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.
βThatβs Jean-Paul, our manager,β 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 thatβs when she sees it, tooβthe wild splash of bright red she hadnβt noticed earlier that lies at the far edge of the womanβs hair. And in that awful moment, Rileyβand everyone else watchingβunderstands. 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.
βOh, my God.β It hits her all at once, a hollow pit forming in her stomach.
βJesus,β says Tom, who has come up beside her to rest a hand on her shoulder. βSheβs not moving.β
βNo.β
Itβs 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 signβa flutter of a hand, the shifting of a footβthat sheβs going to be all right.
But her body remains completely, horribly still.
Excerpted from Summertime Guests by Wendy Francis, Copyright Β© 2021 by Wendy Francis
Published by Graydon House Books
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Author Info:
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.
Twitter: @wendyfrancis4
Instagram: @wendyfrancisauthor
Facebook: @wendyfrancisauthor
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