Summertime Guests Read online

  Now he rolls onto his back, hands on his stomach, and stares up at the ceiling. She stirs slightly, her leg crisscrossing his. He’s pretty much convinced himself that now might be a good time to start packing up, load the car with their bags. But then Gwen rolls over and moans, “Mmm...good morning, birthday boy.” Her lips linger on his ear, her naked body, pressed up against his, is warm and smooth. The sheets rustle, and he can feel her hand searching beneath them until she finds what she’s looking for.

  And Jason, wonderfully surprised, lets out a soft moan. Of relief. Of wonder. Is it possible that she’s forgiven him yet again? If that’s the case, he’ll resolve to be the best boyfriend ever for the rest of the weekend. He’ll buy her flowers, give her hour-long back rubs, do whatever she wants. They can have dinner at the Capital Grille or buy theater tickets for tomorrow night. She can go to the spa, and he’ll relax by the pool. He’ll do whatever it takes.

  He only wishes that the little voice in the back of his head would shut up. The voice that keeps whispering he’s only a few short steps away from becoming his father. Because Jason will not let that happen under any circumstances. Not when he’s worked so hard to escape his past! Not when he studied his ass off in college to graduate summa cum laude. Genetics aren’t everything he has told himself a million times. Maybe he can’t outrun his genes, but he can sure as hell shape them to the best of his ability. He will not become the violent man that his father was.

  When Gwen crawls on top of him he wraps his arms around her, but his busted-up hand still aches with regret.

  Friday, June 11, 2021

  SEVENTEEN

  Jean-Paul punches the button that will take him up to the tenth floor. He’s on his way to meet with the police commissioner, who has summoned him for a few questions. As soon as he steps off the elevator, the yellow tape that cordons off the room under investigation draws his eye. Already, Gillian has seen to it that the guests staying in this wing—more than a few of them arriving any hour for the Saltonstall wedding this weekend—have been transferred to another floor or even another hotel (in this case, to the Four Seasons across the river). And, it’s a very good thing. Because the tenth floor is currently overrun with men and women in blue. Jean-Paul steers his way over to the room in question, where a policeman stands guard and introduces himself.

  “Hello. I’m Jean-Paul Savant, manager of the Seafarer. I understand the commissioner asked to see me?”

  The officer shoots him an appraising once-over, says, “One minute” and steps into the room. His black work boots are covered in what appear to be plastic baggies. When he returns, another man, hefty and red-faced, accompanies him.

  “Mr. Savant,” he says, extending his hand. “We met briefly downstairs, I think, right after the incident. Detective Lazeer. Thanks for coming up. The commissioner is busy at the moment, so he asked me to bring you on in.”

  Jean-Paul accepts the offer of his hand and shakes it. “Right, of course,” he says. “Any idea what happened yet?”

  “That’s what we’re working on. We were hoping you could take a look around, see if anything looks out of place to you. Or anything strange at all. We’ve already had the housekeeper by to see if anything struck her as out of the ordinary.” He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  “I’ll try,” says Jean-Paul. “Though, I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

  The detective hands over two plastic baggies. “First, I’ll have to ask you to put these on over your shoes. Can’t risk contaminating the scene. And some gloves for your hands.”

  “Right.” Jean-Paul takes them and slips them on, feeling the snap of the elastic across his ankles. Then he tugs on the yellow plastic gloves. Detective Lazeer ushers him into the room, where the bedsheets are pulled down and a suitcase remains open on the luggage stand at the foot of the bed. It’s crazy, but Jean-Paul’s first instinct is to be embarrassed. The room is in such a state of disarray that it looks as if Housekeeping has been negligent. There are trays of unfinished food leftover from room service, soiled towels scattered across the carpet. One chair, on its side, lies pushed up against the wall.

  “Well, I can assure you that, typically, Housekeeping would have cleaned up all of this this morning, after the guest had left the room. That chair most certainly does not belong on its side.” He steps over to right it before the officer stops him.

  “Whoa, whoa. Hang on there. Remember we’re treating this as a potential crime scene so we’re not touching anything.”

  Jean-Paul nods. “Right. Sorry.” Then he realizes the import of the officer’s words. “A crime scene? Really? You think someone threw her off the balcony? Made her jump?”

  The detective shrugs. “Right now anything is possible. We’ll know more after the autopsy report.”

  Jean-Paul has been assuming all this time that it’s a suicide they’re dealing with. If it’s a homicide, well, that will be another matter. Because there’s no covering that up. He imagines the swift downtick in reservations if it’s true and word gets out. The Seafarer, just back on its feet after renovations, having to somehow re-create itself yet again—a nightmare!

  His eyes swiftly scan the room. A few different items of clothing lay scattered across the bed. The door to the balcony is pulled shut, but two officers stand outside. One has his back turned, and the other snaps photos, in particular, of a chair that has been pushed up against the railing. Jean-Paul’s gaze lands on a white sweater, lying in a puddle next to the chair, and a pair of pink flip-flops. He swallows hard.

  “Take all the time you need,” the detective says. “It’s never easy walking into these situations, especially when it’s not your job.”

  Jean-Paul nods, remembers to breathe. There are a couple of abandoned plastic cups on the bureau next to the television. His eyes scour the room for any evidence of alcohol, but other than some half-empty water bottles, there don’t appear to be any empties.

  He pauses. “No suicide note, then?” Then hurries to add, “Since you’re treating it as a potential homicide, I mean.”

  The detective seems to weigh whether or not to answer but finally says, “No, but that information doesn’t leave this room, understood?”

  Jean-Paul nods solemnly, gives him his word. Detective Lazeer continues. “Listen, I’m gonna want the video footage of the hallway from you. I need to see who entered the premises last night and this morning. And also any video you might have of the balcony—are there cameras out there?”

  “We have a few,” Jean-Paul says. “I’ll have to check if they cover this room, though. As for the hallway footage, that’s easy to secure.” Already he’d been thinking the director of Security should be his next stop.

  “Care to peek into the bathroom? See if anything looks off to you?”

  “All right.” Jean-Paul gingerly makes his way over. He doesn’t know why he expects to see blood splattered across the floor (too much television probably), but that’s what leaps to mind. Lots and lots of blood. Of course, the real crime scene is ten floors below. The bathroom that he walks into is floor-to-ceiling white tile, pristine.

  On the vanity there’s an assortment of items: a makeup bag, a comb, a tube of toothpaste. A jar of Vaseline. Nothing looks out of place, however. The magnifying face mirror is still on its swivel handle. A man’s blue blazer hangs on the back of the door, as if someone was using the shower steam to get the wrinkles out.

  “Nothing seems to be missing or broken,” Jean-Paul says, stepping out of the bathroom, and realizes that the detective, who nods but says nothing, has been watching him the entire time. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Goose pimples have popped up on his skin, and he’s feeling slightly queasy. There’s plenty of work to be done, including writing up his official hotel report from memory. He’d like to finish it while the timeline of events remains fresh in his mind. There are a million little details, a
thousand headaches ahead of him.

  Lazeer flips through his notebook and asks, “And remind me, Mr. Savant, where were you exactly when the deceased fell?” It’s apparent that the detective doesn’t care to identify the guest by name, which is fine by Jean-Paul. Somehow it’s easier this way.

  “I was in the front lobby, talking to Tabitha at the front desk. We were checking the band schedule on the terrace for tonight when we heard the crash—and then the screaming.” His heart twists into a knot at the visceral memory of those screams.

  The detective shuts his notebook, a long, narrow pad that flips open at the top, much like a reporter’s notebook. “Right, okay. Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Now, if you can get me the video footage and the hotel manifest of guests as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Absolutely.” That part will be easy. Jean-Paul is good at taking orders. He’s been on the other side of them for so long, it’s almost comforting to be told what to do. “I’ll get those for you straightaway.” When he steps out of the room, the guard helps him remove the plastic covers from his wing tips and tosses them into a canvas bag. Jean-Paul yanks off his gloves, hands them over and offers his thanks.

  On the elevator, he forces himself to count to twenty, taking deep breaths while he does so. But as he watches the floor numbers creep by, all he can think is that the elevator can’t carry him away fast enough. Because what he wants more than anything is to be back home with Marie and Isabella, cradling them both in his arms. To smell the scent of Marie’s shampoo, like apples, and the sweet baby smell of Isabella’s skin. He wants to race up the stairs to their brownstone and double-bolt the door behind him so that nothing bad can get in. To keep the monsters out. To keep the news of this horrible day far, far away. He wants nothing less than the whole day to rewind and start over.

  What if he’d stayed home today, he thinks? What if, instead of stepping out onto her balcony around twelve thirty, the victim had decided to go for a walk in the bright afternoon sunshine? There are so many maybes and what-ifs. If only he could get a do-over for today! A chance to get it right. An opportunity to keep a closer watch on his property. He thinks back to when he woke this morning, the foreboding feeling that had taken hold of him, as if something were off-kilter. Maybe the universe had been sending him a sign, and he’d chosen to ignore it.

  But, no, Jean-Paul mustn’t blame himself. It will get him nowhere. When he steps off the elevator, though, the impulse to keep on walking straight home to his wife and daughter is almost unbearable.

  Earlier that week

  EIGHTEEN

  On Thursday night, Riley and Tom are stretched out on their sofa. Five cartons of Chinese food lay scattered across the TV table alongside an almost-empty bottle of Cabernet. Beef and broccoli for Tom, chicken lo mein for her, an assortment of dumplings and egg rolls. Typically, they save ordering in for Sunday nights, but after a long day, Riley suggested it as a stopgap measure for tonight’s dinner. After Marilyn had left Smart Stems, there’d been a steady stream of customers at the store, and Riley hasn’t had a moment off her feet since approximately eleven thirty this morning. Exhaustion rolled over her as soon as she walked in the door and kicked off her clogs.

  “I’m sorry my mom ambushed you at the store,” Tom says now, raking his fingers through her hair. She’s leaning back against him while they watch Lester Holt deliver the news on their wide-screen TV above the mantel. “I don’t know what she was thinking. Or what’s gotten into her. It’s like she’s reliving her own wedding day or something.”

  After a glass and a half of red wine and a liberal helping of lo mein, Riley is feeling slightly more magnanimous toward her mother-in-law. The recent chain of events—from dinner at Tom’s parents’ house last night to his mom’s unexpected visit at the store today to the already planned tasting at the Seafarer tomorrow afternoon—have been annoying, for sure. But maybe, she allows, it’s not the worst thing having her mother-in-law so invested in their big day.

  “It’s okay. Do you think maybe she’s having trouble dealing with the fact that her little boy is getting married?” This is the theory that Hannah floated past her after Riley had texted her about Marilyn’s sneak attack at the store.

  “Hmm...not likely,” he says. “My mother has never been the sentimental type.”

  “But she was a teacher!” Riley protests. “A second-grade teacher,” she says, as if to emphasize her point. “Aren’t teachers supposed to be all touchy-feely and emotionally in touch with their students?”

  He shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? All I know is that she was never the hugging type. More of a kiss-on-the-cheek mom.”

  Riley lifts her head to better read his eyes, see if he’s kidding or not. But there’s zero mirth there. “But that’s so sad,” she says. She thinks back to her own mother, whose love had been all-encompassing, almost to the point where Riley couldn’t breathe. Literally. She remembers coming home from summer camp one year and having to tell her mom to stop hugging her so hard because her ribs felt as if they were about to break in half. Whenever Riley’s friends would come over, Libby Thorton would settle herself at the kitchen table, fix them a sandwich and say, “Now, sit here a few minutes and tell me about what’s happening in your life.” The running joke in the neighborhood was that Riley’s mom was the block’s den mother. If you needed help—like a Band-Aid, a cool glass of lemonade or just a pat on the back—the Thorton house was where you went. She can’t imagine growing up with a mother who didn’t hand out hugs as if they were candy.

  “I can’t imagine,” she says finally. “That must have been such a lonely childhood.”

  Another shrug. “I didn’t know any better. And she’s really not so bad once you get to know her.”

  Riley laughs despite herself.

  “What?”

  “Well, I’ve known her for almost a year now.”

  “And your point is?” His eyes are playful, almost jolly.

  “And...well...I think I’ll stop right there.”

  “Wise decision,” he kids. “Honestly,” he says a bit more sincerely, kissing the top of Riley’s head, “you’ll learn to love her. Trust me. She grows on you.”

  Riley reaches for the ravaged carton of pork dumplings on the table. There’s half a dumpling left, stuck on the bottom in a congealed mess. Undeterred, she fishes it out with her fingers and plops it in her mouth. “Promise?” she asks, mouth full.

  Tom nods. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Does that even count if you were never a Boy Scout?”

  He grins. “Couldn’t tell you.”

  She tosses the carton back on the table, an old trunk they’d purchased at a flea market on a weekend getaway in Maine, and slides her feet over the burnished wood, inadvertently knocking the pink wedding manual onto the floor. It lies open to a page with another checklist, no doubt for something Riley was supposed to do months ago. But when she picks it up, she sees it’s only an initial Q&A for the bride and groom, entitled “Are You on the Same Wedding-Day Page?”

  “Okay, ready?” she asks, suddenly game, and grabs a pencil. “If you had to pick a song for our wedding at the church, what would it be?”

  Tom doesn’t even stop to think. “Guns N’ Roses, ‘Paradise City,’ definitely.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You can’t have Guns N’ Roses at the church! That’s equivalent to sacrilege. Not to mention it’s not very romantic.”

  “Yeah, well, what else have you got?”

  “I don’t know.” She’s chewing on her pencil eraser, an annoying habit, she knows, and Tom reaches over to gently tug it from her mouth. “Maybe something from Broadway. Or James Taylor’s ‘How Sweet It Is’.” She can sense his internal groan building. “Anyway, definitely something more romantic. Your mom would die if we played Guns N’ Roses. I’ll ask Hannah for some ideas.” For the time being, she pencils in a questi
on mark on the line next to Church Music/Song. “All right, moving on. For the guys, suits or tuxes?” She refrains from revealing that her decided preference is the more relaxed look of suits and is relieved when Tom replies, “Definitely suits. Tuxes are way too uncomfortable.”

  “Suits, it is, then,” Riley says, thinking See, I can be agreeable!

  “Band or DJ for the reception?”

  “Tough one.” Tom ponders it for a moment. “I like the idea of a band, but I’m sure it’s more expensive than a DJ, so maybe just a DJ?”

  She writes DJ, cheaper? on the line for reception music.

  They continue on like this—Chicken or fish or steak for an entrée? Wedding cake or cupcakes? Toss the bouquet or not? Bride and groom’s dance song?—for another fifteen minutes. When they get to the daddy–daughter dance, Riley pauses. What would her dad, who hates to dance, acquiesce to for a song? He’s always been a Willie Nelson fan, and she combs her memories for his favorites. “On the Road Again,” though, won’t exactly hit the right note for a wedding dance. Then she remembers “Always on My Mind.” She’ll need to check the lyrics to be sure, but she pencils it in for the moment. The title, at least, fits. And the question jogs her memory: she should call her dad and check in on him. She hasn’t talked to him since Sunday night when he’d sounded kind of down.

  Lester Holt is wrapping up with the good-news story for the end of the day, Riley’s favorite part of the newscast. Tonight features a young couple who recently married across borders, the groom from Edmonton, Canada, the bride from Maine. “Wow, thank goodness we don’t have that extra hurdle to cross,” she says. “Can you imagine if we were trying to corral our families and friends from different countries for this thing? What a logistical nightmare.”

  “Mmm.” Without looking up, she can tell that Tom has checked out of their conversation. Over the past few weeks she has come to understand that if she wants his involvement in planning their big day, then she needs to include him in small, manageable ways, as if she’s administering Novocain to a small child. Too much in one dose, and it will knock him out.