Summertime Guests Read online

  Praise for Wendy Francis

  Summertime Guests

  “At first glance, Summertime Guests is a riveting mystery set in a newly restored Boston hotel where a guest falls to a gruesome death. But in the chorus of voices exploring who died and what led to the plunge, Francis explores the myriad facets of marriage—the little joys and banal failures, the kindnesses and physical attraction, the ways we neglect and support each other. A smart read with plenty of meat for book clubs.”

  —BARBARA O’NEAL, Washington Post bestselling author of When We Believed in Mermaids

  “In prose as glittering as the hotel in which the novel is set, Francis shines as a master storyteller. A must-read for anyone who could use an escape.”

  —KRISTY WOODSON HARVEY, USA TODAY bestselling author of Feels Like Falling

  “The best kind of page-turner... This seductive novel will draw you into the fascinating backstories of characters sipping cocktails poolside, and you won’t stop reading until you know what really happened... Kept me guessing until the end.”

  —BROOKE LEA FOSTER, author of Summer Darlings

  Best Behavior

  “With warmth and humor, Best Behavior delivers a delicious family drama; look no further for your perfect poolside read!”

  —JAMIE BRENNER, bestselling author of The Forever Summer

  “Francis writes with grace, depth and humor about complex family dynamics and the joy and heartache of watching young adults spread their wings and fly from the nest.”

  —MEG MITCHELL MOORE, author of The Islanders

  “Wendy Francis captures all the joy and pain of being an (almost) empty-nester in her latest novel. A terrific summer read.”

  —AMY POEPPEL, author of Small Admissions

  Also by Wendy Francis

  Three Good Things

  The Summer of Good Intentions

  The Summer Sail

  Best Behavior

  Summertime Guests

  Wendy Francis

  “Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me, those have always been the most beautiful words in the English language.”

  —Henry James

  “Blameless people are always the most exasperating.”

  —George Eliot, Middlemarch

  A former book editor, WENDY FRANCIS is the author of four novels and has written for Good Housekeeping, The Washington Post and WBUR’s Cognoscenti, among others. A proud stepmom of two grown-up children, she lives outside Boston with her husband and eleven-year-old son.

  Contents

  Newspaper Article

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Earlier that week

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Earlier that week

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  Chapter Thirteen

  Earlier that week

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  Chapter Seventeen

  Earlier that week

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Earlier that week

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Questions for Discussion

  A Conversation with Wendy Francis

  The Boston Globe

  April 6, 2021

  Seafarer Hotel Reopens

  after Winter Overhaul

  Boston’s legendary hotel, the Seafarer, reopens this spring after having shuttered its doors since last November for a major overhaul of its interior. The hotel, established in 1886, has long been one of Boston’s finest gems, attracting world dignitaries, Hollywood darlings and New England’s literati. Now with new general manager Jean-Paul Savant at its helm, the landmark has been refurbished with modern flair while maintaining its historic elegance. New linen-upholstered sofas round out the oak lobby while the wraparound porch (a perennial favorite) sports a fresh coat of white paint and comfortable new chaise lounges. Guest rooms boast warm blue and cream hues, creating the effect of being suspended in the sky while overlooking the sparkling harbor below.

  Says Savant, “We were striving to maintain the historic features that so many of our guests have come to know and love over the years while bringing the accommodations into line with modern expectations for hotel comfort.” Perhaps it’s Savant’s French roots that we have to thank for the elegant touches, such as fresh flowers in every room, but whatever his secret is, we have to say it’s working.

  Friday, June 11, 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 ren
ovations. 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 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.