Summertime Guests Read online

  “Jason, come on,” Gwen urges, her eyes wide with fear, her little purple purse with tassels jingling against her waist. “Let’s get out of here.” He shakes his head, as if to dispel the reality of what’s occurred, and follows her through an exit opposite the gathering crowd. They hurry down the stairs and out the museum’s front doors.

  In the taxicab’s back seat, she turns to him, breathing hard. Red blotches bloom on her face and her neck. “What the hell was that all about?” There’s a faint line of perspiration above her upper lip, and she’s pushing her rings up and down her fingers, her tell-tale sign of distress. Seeing this sends an immediate pulse of regret through him. Defending Gwen has only served to frighten her further.

  It’s not the first time he’s had no answer for her. “I don’t know,” he says and shakes his head, staring out the window. He understands he should try to reassure her, tell her everything’s all right. But is it? His bloodied hand is wrapped in the hem of his shirt. The sound of the guy’s nose cracking echoes in his ears. What on earth was he thinking? Whatever happened back there, he knows he’s going to have to find the words sooner or later to explain it to Gwen.

  Or else risk losing her forever.

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  THIRTEEN

  Jean-Paul likes the mornings the best, when the hotel is quiet and the day still ripe with possibility. Before the hotel wakes up. He’ll walk the property, check the lobby, stroll through the public spaces, rearrange the chairs on the porch and say good-morning to the staff, who are readying themselves for the onslaught of summertime guests—those out-of-towners who arrive to partake of the city’s shows and restaurants and general swagger, hoping perhaps that some of the ephemeral glitter might rub off on them. That this exquisite building falls under his watch and key still amazes him. Every day it seems he discovers something new. A particular painting he’s never noticed before. Crown moldings on the ceiling of the men’s bathroom. A sketch of the Boston skyline that has been hiding in the pantry for who knows how long. The way the colors of the harbor appear to morph into different shades of blue throughout the day.

  Sometimes he’ll stand in the oak hallway leading to the dining room—known affectionately among the staff as the Walk of Fame—and study the photos of the New England greats who’ve stayed here. Pictures of E. B. White in a rocking chair on the porch. An autographed photo of Mick Jagger, picking at the guitar. Prince Rainier III of Monaco and Red Sox superstar Ted Williams. Elizabeth Taylor, floating down the ornate staircase, and Lauren Hutton, beaming her impishly gap-toothed smile. Rumor has it that the poet Robert Lowell once checked in for a week while working to meet a deadline, and his portrait hangs alongside authors like Louisa May Alcott, Oliver James, Emily Dickinson and John Updike. That Jean-Paul gets to be the steward of a place so steeped in history both awes and slightly terrifies him.

  Around seven thirty, guests will typically start to filter down for breakfast. At eight o’clock, he’ll call his brief, stand-up meeting with the staff outside the lobby, where he receives updates from his director of Housekeeping, the director of Food and Beverage and the director of the Front Office. They fill him in on what happened overnight and what to expect for the day. Were there any incidents at the bar last night? Are any VIPs checking in today? What’s the number of arrivals and departures forecasted for the day? Because even though Jean-Paul can’t be on the premises 24/7, the hotel, like a hospital, never sleeps.

  What started out as a fairly normal Friday morning, however, has turned out to be anything but a typical day. More like a catastrophe. A full-blown disaster. He checks his watch. One thirty-five. So far, he has dealt with the immediate crisis: the paramedics have come and removed the body from the premises. The directly affected area has been cordoned off, and a small tent has been erected to hide the blood splotches from view. The police remain on-site to question anyone who might have been a witness. He has exchanged a few cursory words with their PR company and hosted an ad hoc staff meeting, passing along the warning that no one, under any circumstances, is allowed to speak to the press, which is sure to be descending like a kettle of vultures any minute. A fair amount has been accomplished, but mountains of work remain.

  At the top of his list is a task he’s especially dreading but that can’t be postponed any longer: a call to Gerald Manley. Gerald is the patriarch of the Manley family and the owner proper of the Seafarer.

  It’s Jean-Paul’s duty to alert him to the so-called situation. He imagines Mr. Manley lounging innocently by his pool this morning, maybe checking on a trade with his stockbroker while he basks in the Florida sunshine. Later, he’ll head to the park to play pinochle with his pals. Jean-Paul knows this routine because once, before Isabella was born, he and Marie were invited to spend a weekend at Mr. Manley’s mansion in Naples, Florida—a sunny yellow stucco with turrets on either side that sits maybe fifty yards back from the beach. And although Mr. Manley’s wife has been dead for maybe ten years, it hadn’t prevented him from hosting attractive young women who circled his pool at all hours of the day. Marie had joked it was a little like stumbling onto the Playboy Mansion.

  So, no, interrupting Mr. Manley’s pleasant day is not high on the list of items Jean-Paul would like to do. But it’s his job.

  When he calls, Manley answers as if in midsentence. “Yeah, hello? Jean-Paul?”

  “Hello, sir. Yes, it’s me, Jean-Paul.” He knows that his name is included in Mr. Manley’s Favorites list on his phone, should Jean-Paul need to reach him at any time, night or day. Likewise, Jean-Paul has Mr. Manley on speed dial.

  “Well, what is it, son?” That Mr. Manley speaks to him as if he’s part of the family (which includes two sons and one daughter) makes Jean-Paul feel proud, but he also can’t help but detect a hint of condescension in this particular nomenclature. Mr. Manley is seventy-two to Jean-Paul’s thirty-nine. If nothing else, the man gets straight to the point.

  Jean-Paul manages a deep breath before launching in. “Well, forgive me, sir, for bothering you—”

  “Nonsense,” he interrupts. “No bother at all. I’m paying you to run my hotel, aren’t I? I expect you to call me. Now what is it?”

  He begins again. “Well, sir, I’m afraid there’s been an incident at the hotel this afternoon.”

  “What sort of incident?”

  “An unfortunate one.”

  “Well, hell,” Manley says. “What happened now? Somebody croak by the pool?”

  His boss’s cavalier attitude catches Jean-Paul by surprise. Maybe this won’t be such a big deal after all. “Um, no, sir. Not exactly. But a woman did fall—or maybe jump—from her balcony.” He hurries to get the last sentence out and waits for Manley’s reaction. Silence.

  “Sorry. Say that again?”

  Jean-Paul repeats his news.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s a new one. No fault of ours, though, I hope?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, sir. Although, that’s for the police to decide, of course. At the moment, they’re combing rooms, trying to figure out where she jumped from.”

  “Well, that’s silly. Weren’t there any witnesses?”

  “Yes, but unfortunately, only on the ground as far as we know. She, um, landed right outside the dining room on the terrace, near the firepit and hot tub.”

  A sigh. “Well, that’s damned unfortunate. What a mess.” Jean-Paul can almost see Mr. Manley shaking his head while he sips his mimosa. “Any idea who it is?”

  “Not yet, sir. We’ve narrowed it down to a couple of floors, though.”

  He sighs into the phone. “Probably a suicide. The world can be a damn depressing place.”

  Jean-Paul isn’t sure how to respond to this comment and waits in an uncomfortable silence for Manley to say more.

  “Any press yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure they’ll be here momentarily.”

  �
�You can count on that. They’re like a pack of hyenas, scavenging wherever they can get their next meal. Have you spoken to Julie yet?”

  “Briefly. She’s writing up a statement for release.”

  “Good, good. Julie’s smart. She’ll run it by our lawyers. She’ll know how to handle this. Do whatever she says. And, Jean-Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure you tell that staff of ours that no one is to speak to the press. Under any circumstances. Or there’ll be hell to pay—both for them and us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks for ruining my nice day here.”

  “Sorry, sir. I thought you’d want to know.”

  He makes a sound like a grunt. “Keep me posted.” And the phone goes dead.

  When Jean-Paul looks up from his desk, Oliver is poking his head in the doorway. “You said you wanted to know when the TV crews showed up. Well, WBZ-TV is parked outside right now. Get ready, boss.”

  Jean-Paul feels the blood draining from his face.

  “Want a shot of whiskey, a little jolt, before you face the cameras, maybe?” Oliver asks.

  What Jean-Paul really wants is to crawl back home and into bed with his wife and child. Managing human tragedy is not his bailiwick. “Thanks, but I’d better not.” He scoops the phone off his desk, grabs the printout of Julie’s email and heads for the lobby, his heart leaping around in his chest. He’ll need to get the police commissioner on board for this press conference before he does anything else.

  Because Jean-Paul is damned if he’s going to talk to the press alone.

  Earlier that week

  FOURTEEN

  On Thursday, Riley places the last sprays of freesia in the delivery for Mount Auburn Street. One of the store’s forty-eight signature bouquets, the Sunshine arrangement brims with cheerful yellow daisies. This one, in particular, is for a young woman named Joan, who’s celebrating her thirtieth birthday. The flowers are from her parents, which Riley interprets as meaning Joan has no boyfriend. Not that she’s judging, because Riley thinks it’s sweet whenever parents send their kids flowers. Especially when they send them to their office. It surprises her, though, how often people order flowers for delivery to someone’s house, when no one is home to receive them in the first place. Or gawk over them, which is really more than half the point.

  Since Smart Stems always tucks the message card discreetly into an envelope, Joan can tell her coworkers whatever she pleases, such as that a secret admirer sent them. The bouquet will also serve to remind her superiors (in the likely event that they’ve forgotten) that today is Joan’s birthday and that they should take her out for lunch or a post-work cocktail. It’s the whole reason why Riley got into this business: the power to make people happy, to improve their lives just a touch, even if it’s only for one day.

  She walks the bouquet over to the front counter so it’s waiting for the next delivery run. Smart Stems is located in the off-center of Harvard Square, which isn’t really a square at all. More like a wheel, with the spokes of various streets shooting off from it haphazardly. A fixture in Cambridge, the store has been fulfilling the floral needs of its customers since 1953. It’s a classic, a throwback, in the best sense of the word. Every arrangement has its own, slightly hokey name. A Summer’s Day. Starry Night. Springtime Song. Sometimes in the shower Riley will invent new names, ones that carry a whiff of irony—It’s Freesia-n Outside! Glad(iola) You’re Okay! So far none has been adopted.

  Her boss, Rick, is an avuncular, gray-haired man with a trim mustache, prone to wearing cardigans even in the summertime. His eyes crinkle upward at the edges, which gives him the look of someone who’s always about to smile and which, Riley thinks, is entirely appropriate for someone in the flower business. Oftentimes, he’ll recite poetry out loud, a sliver of Wordsworth here, a little John Donne there. Gentle, kind and knowledgeable, Rick has proven a wonderful mentor over the last few years, a sort of stand-in father or uncle. He’ll definitely be invited to the wedding.

  Across the street is Slices, a popular late-night pizza hangout for students. Whenever Riley closes on Tuesday nights, she watches the college kids file in, a blend of artsy teens, notable for their dyed hair and body piercings, and burly, athletic types. Pizza and sauce are apparently the ultimate unifier, and she thinks someone should tell that to today’s politicians. Although only six years have passed since Riley graduated from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, in some ways it feels like decades. These kids aren’t worrying about whether to hire a band or a DJ for their wedding, about whether they should limit their invites to a hundred guests (and risk offending distant family members) or invite two hundred people, many of whom are merely far-flung acquaintances. Sometimes she has to stop herself from stepping into Slices just to slip into one of its social circles and eavesdrop. A few sweet minutes of pretending she’s back in school, where the most important concerns are tomorrow’s exam or Friday’s party.

  Working in the Square, next to Harvard Yard, makes her job even more enjoyable because there’s something appealing about being so close to all that brainpower. In theory, it seems she should be getting smarter through osmosis. Often a professor or a student will wander into the store looking for flowers and strike up a conversation. Usually, they’re hopeless when it comes to knowing what they want, but Riley is only too glad to help.

  She likes to think of herself as a matchmaker, bringing the right bouquet together with the right customer. Even those shoppers who have a good sense of what they want are often hard-pressed to tell a petunia from a begonia. That’s where Riley comes in. “My wife, who’s home sick, could use a little pick-me-up,” a professor might say, and Riley will hurry to suggest massive pink peonies or a bouquet of cheerful yellow and white tulips. She’s forever trying to steer customers away from roses (a popular choice), which, in her opinion, are the world’s dullest flowers. Why on earth would anyone choose roses when so many other gorgeous blooms abound—colorful dahlias, lilies, lilacs or snapdragons?

  Riley is tidying up the counter, discarding the chopped-off remnants of stems, when the bell on the front door jingles. When she glances up, it’s not a customer, but Marilyn, her mother-in-law-to-be, and Riley’s sunny mood instantly evaporates. As lovely as she seems, Marilyn is, Riley has learned, the kind of woman who often arrives under false pretenses. It takes a while before the true purpose of her visit reveals itself.

  “Riley! So nice to see you,” Marilyn says as if she’s surprised to find her daughter-in-law here, at Riley’s place of work, in the middle of the day. That she says this even though Riley and Tom had dinner at her house last night makes it even stranger. A dinner where Marilyn sprung the news that she’d booked lunch reservations at the Seafarer for this Friday to sample wedding-reception menus. Riley nearly spit out her shrimp scampi, knowing full well that she and Tom could never afford a wedding venue as lavish as the Seafarer. But Marilyn was quick to add, “Hugh and I insist on paying for the reception. Really. You kids should save your money for a house.” And maybe for the first time in the entire stretch that she has known Tom’s parents, Riley found herself agreeing with the woman.

  “Hi, Marilyn,” Riley says now with fake cheer. Her mother-in-law strides over and gives her a kiss on both cheeks. “What a nice surprise. What brings you in?”

  “Well,” Marilyn sets her purse down on the counter and glances around the store before continuing. Riley braces herself for whatever bomb she might be about to drop. “I’m so glad you asked, sweetheart. I was hoping to grab you for a minute, maybe a quick bite to eat?” She pauses when Riley doesn’t respond. “But if you’re too busy...”

  As her voice trails off, Riley scrambles to come up with an excuse. Except for the two of them, the store is painfully empty. “I’m sorry,” she says, inventing her story as she talks. “But I can’t step out right now. I’m the only one here.” Rick will be back any second; he’s around the
corner grabbing a coffee. “But we can talk here, can’t we?”

  Marilyn sighs heavily, as if this is a huge disappointment, but plows ahead nonetheless.

  “All right. Well, after dinner last night, Hugh and I got to talking.” Riley can only imagine what Marilyn’s latest plans are for her wedding. Swans parading across the lawn? Acrobats? The Boston Symphony set up on the terrace of the Seafarer? “And we both agreed that Tom seemed awfully quiet. It’s not like him. And, well, we were wondering if everything’s all right between you two?”

  Riley feels her eyes widen in surprise. As if it’s not bad enough that Marilyn is trying to orchestrate their wedding day, she now has the audacity to stick her nose where it most definitely does not belong. And to bring it up at Riley’s workplace? How dare she!

  It’s all Riley can do not to send Marilyn on her way, banish her from the store forever. But it’s her mother-in-law, she reminds herself. A certain decorum is required. Riley can almost hear her own mother’s voice whispering in her ear: Relax, honey. She means well. As a matter of fact, Tom and Riley had fought before dinner. Over Marilyn! Riley had inquired if Tom thought his mom might be getting a teensy bit overinvested in their wedding day, especially since they’d always intended to keep things simple.

  But Tom insisted that his mother was only trying to help, that she was excited, and shouldn’t they be happy about that? Riley got it. It was hard to criticize Marilyn’s efforts without sounding like an ingrate. Which was why she’d brought up the issue delicately over a glass of merlot before they’d headed to his parents’ brownstone on Newbury Street last night.

  “I mean, do you think Tom is doing okay?” Marilyn, never one to intuit facial expressions, asks now. “Maybe all this wedding planning is stressing him out?” If the concern in Marilyn’s face weren’t so genuine, Riley would howl with laughter. Meredith’s precious son has done almost nothing so far in terms of planning. If anything, Tom is doing perfectly fine as far as Riley can tell. Aside from looking at wedding invitations, he has shown little interest in the details of their wedding ceremony or reception, which Riley finds vaguely unfair and, at times, verging on sexist.