Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel

by James Markert

  Neither woman responded; he’d spoken the words aloud, but somehow for himself. “What’s it called now, that creek? William changed it. Not the River of Forgetfulness.”

  Violeta said, “We call it the River of Life now. People cross the bridge, Daddy, and that’s just what they do. They live—right down to their last day.”

  He stared at her, into her green eyes. “You play the violin. And piano.” He remembered now, her voice every evening at last call, so different than Juba’s but no less lovely and demanding. “And you sing.”

  “Yes, Daddy. All of those things.”

  The woman who had pushed his wheelchair to the cliff leaned toward his ear again. “And she’s in charge of our music and art therapy programs here, while William runs the more clinical aspects of the hotel. They’re both doctors, just different kinds.”

  Violeta stepped closer, and the closer she got the more familiar she looked, although Vitto wasn’t quite clear why. “Enough about me,” she said. “Tell me how your day has gone so far.”

  Vitto didn’t know, so he held up his orange juice and sipped from it, which made his daughter chuckle. Without knowing why—possibly he did the same every day—he blurted out, “Violeta, tell me a story.”

  And, without hesitation, she did.

  A Note from the Author

  Tell me a story . . .

  This simple line is mentioned more than once in the novel, as the telling of stories plays such a crucial role. Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel is an example of that rapidly growing genre of post-WWII, historical, Renaissance Art, Greek god, and magical realism mashup! Okay, so maybe that’s not a thing. Until now. Perhaps it will catch on? Who knows? The bottom line is, I don’t always adhere to a specific genre, and, even though all of my novels are rooted in history, I tend to oftentimes fall under the spell of that childhood bedtime precept: tell me a story! Regardless of what genre walls it crosses. And so I’ve told you a story, and if you’ve made it this far, hopefully you enjoyed it, as I’ve done my very best to tell it.

  The story, for me, began percolating decades ago, in my childhood, without me even being aware the seeds had been planted: the seeds of my artistic upbringing, raised in a loving house where creativity and art and music and books thrived. My dad was for decades, and still is, a creator of stained glass, with thousands of beautiful windows all over the country. Also a sculptor and painter and poet, his creative influence trickled down to his children. When his turn-table wasn’t spinning album after album, my sister’s piano music echoed perfectly off the walls and down hallways—walls adorned with framed paintings and hallways where sculptures easily lurked. It was a house where my brothers were allowed to draw on their bedroom walls, not mere scribbles but sketches and world-building that, even at young ages, had the quality of storybooks. On every end table and floor-to-ceiling bookshelf there seemed to be books on art and art history, on Renaissance sculptors and painters and the ancients, and by high school I’d flipped through them all, developing not only an appreciation for the arts, humanities, and history but for books and the written word in general.

  All of this helped conjure the fictional Tuscany Hotel, make it real, and inspire the writing of the novel. Although Gandy, California, is a fictional place, the foundling hospital in Florence, where Magdalena was left abandoned, was real and is now a popular museum. I tried to make Magdalena’s stay in Pienza as realistic as possible, and likewise with all my mentioning of the Greek gods, which was a daunting task. Any mistakes are certainly mine. Many of the war memories and post-war trauma experienced by both Vitto and Johnny Two-Times were directly inspired by my grandfather’s time in Europe during the war, which is why this novel was dedicated to him. As stated at the beginning, to me he was a god of bravery and courage. And his son, my father, is still, in my eyes, a god of creativity and art. Aspects of both men inspired the fictional father and son combo of Robert and Vittorio Gandy. I’d always assumed, and I’m sure my father wouldn’t deny, that in fifty-plus years of marriage, my mother was and still is his muse, just as my artistic upbringing and my wife will forever be mine.

  Thanks for reading!

  James

  Discussion Questions

  There are plenty of flawed characters in Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel. Pick a couple of your favorites and discuss how redemption plays a role for them by the end of the story.

  As a glass half-full kind of guy, I’ve always looked toward the positive side of life. How do the themes of optimism and hope play out in the novel?

  At the end of the story, Juba, one of my favorite characters, leaves the hotel under mysterious circumstances. Where might he have gone? And why did he leave at that point?

  As with the water inside the piazza fountain at the Tuscany Hotel, things in life aren’t always as perfect as they seem. If given the difficult choice thrust upon the guests at the hotel, what would you do? Drink or no? Stay or go?

  The Tuscany Hotel was a place of dreams and beauty and lore. Imagine yourself there in its heyday. I certainly did. Who would you most like to meet, whether it be an imagined character from the book or a person of history from the time period? What would you spend your day doing at the Tuscany Hotel?

  If you had one story to tell at Last Call, what would it be? Truth or lies?

  Young William Gandy might not be considered a major character, but how is his role in the novel no less significant than the other, older characters?

  The parent/child theme in Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel is an important one. Discuss the various relationships, namely Vitto and Robert, Vitto and William, Juba and Valerie, and Magdalena and Vitto. How are they similar? How are they different?

  When writing a novel, I also like to visualize it as a movie. Who would you have playing the parts of Robert, Vitto, Valerie, Magdalena, Juba, and Johnny Two-Times?

  During troubling times, especially when dealing with the difficulties of a disease like Alzheimer’s, humor, as stated in the book, can be the universal language. I made sure to add plenty of humor to the goings on at the Tuscany Hotel. What were some of the more humorous scenes? Many for me involved Johnny Two-Times, a true barrel of sunshine.

  In the novel, the Tuscany Hotel is almost a character in itself. Discuss examples of how it not only comes to life but seems to conjure it.

  Memories can be a double-edged sword. While some memories can heal, others hurt. Discuss examples of both.

  Acknowledgments

  Without the help of others, most novels wouldn’t get off the runway, and Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel was no different. In a sense, I’d been conceptualizing this story for years but couldn’t figure out the best way to build it, until I decided to do what Robert Gandy did with his construction of the Tuscany Hotel and start with the piazza fountain. And after Dr. John Markert gave me some inspiring ideas, I was off and running. But then, after plowing through the first half of the novel quite quickly, things suddenly screeched to a halt, and I was hammered with the dilemma—I know where I want to go with this, but how to get there? I needed a bridge, something to connect all this talk of Greek gods and art and memory together, and so I then leaned heavily on my editor, Kimberly Carlton, who read the first half and saved me from bagging it altogether. Instead, after a few brainstorming phone calls, I renewed writing, with gusto, and ended up with possibly my favorite novel to date. So, thank you! To Anne Buchanan for another outstanding line edit. I know this one, especially with the convoluted timelines, wasn’t easy. To Laura Wheeler for taking the novel to the editorial finish line. At the risk of leaving someone out, which is why I both enjoy and hate writing acknowledgments, thank you to EVERYONE at Thomas Nelson who worked on this novel, before and after publication, from marketing and editorial to proofreading and publicity and cover design! Thank you to my friends and family for the continued support, and for showing up at every book release party at 3rd Turn Brewing to drink beer. To my parents for instilling in me the drive to be creative. To Dan Lazar at Writers House for givin
g me the start I so readily needed. Onward, upward, and thank you! To Kim Lionetti, thanks so much for championing my work; the future looks bright! To my children, Ryan and Molly, you continue to impress and inspire. To Tracy, my wife of nearly twenty years—I always save the best for last—thank you for paying my bills when needed and for putting up with my #writerslife.

  Before

  1908

  Southern plains

  The train ride out west was free.

  Paid in full by the brand-new state of Oklahoma in hopes of encouraging settlement in the land once occupied by bison and Indians. Wilmington Goodbye knew the truth of it. They’d been killed off—the bison, for sure, and too many of the Indians to count. Those that survived the cowboys and Rangers got squeezed together into reservations. The state had earmarked the rest of the land for homesteading. And no place looked more promising than Majestic, Oklahoma.

  Wilmington studied the pamphlet for the tenth time in the last hour—glorious pictures of elegant buildings, paved roads edged by flowers, show houses where finely dressed couples wandered about. And that fountain in the town center looked majestic in itself.

  With each choof of the train, Wilmington and his pregnant wife, Amanda, inched closer to becoming landowners, with fresh soil to plow up and a fortune to be made in a state just one year old.

  He folded the pamphlet and slid it back into his suit pocket. He teased the corners of his mustache and straightened the fresh rose he’d pinned to his lapel that morning.

  “Health, wealth, and opportunity, love.”

  Amanda was bathed in sunlight nearly the color of her hair. She smiled. They’d repeated the slogan often enough, as had the rest of the men and women on the train. He’d met half of them already and was proud to call them future neighbors.

  Citizens of Majestic.

  He had a notion to look at the pamphlet again but resisted. Instead he watched his wife as miles of grassland flashed in the background. The doctor back east said the air would be better for her out here, away from the city pollution. Her breathing had already become less labored. The swell of her belly pressed tight against her blue dress. She has to have an entire brood in there. She’d laughed the idea off at first, but had recently admitted she felt more than one baby kicking around.

  Tall prairie grass swayed alongside the speeding train. Miles of velvety blades, moving like something Wilmington couldn’t quite put a finger on. Ocean waves, maybe. They had to be getting close. But where were the buildings? Where were the roads? And that town center? Shouldn’t they see it over the horizon?

  Two minutes later the train slowed and then screeched to a halt.

  “Why are we stopping?” asked a man Wilmington now knew as Orion Bentley, a fancy gentleman in a suit as sharp as his wit and a bowler hat straight from the newest catalogues. They’d befriended each other minutes after boarding the train and had engaged in meaningful, optimistic dialogue for much of the trip.

  “Must be something on the tracks,” said Wilmington.

  Everyone crowded near the windows. A man in a brown suit and matching hat stood in the shin-high grass holding a clipboard and pen. The doors opened. People hesitated, but then, beckoned by the man’s hand gesture, they exited the train.

  There were twenty-two of them in all, dressed to the nines in their Sunday best—long, colorful dresses, pressed suits, and polished shoes for the special occasion.

  Wilmington stepped in front of the group and faced the suited man. “What’s the meaning of this? We’re supposed to be escorted to Majestic, Oklahoma.” He removed the pamphlet from his coat, as most of the others had already done. “See? Right here.” Only then did he notice the rippling white flags spaced out across the prairie land, staked like the homesteading of virgin land instead of one already expertly developed.

  The suited man said, “I’m sorry, sir. But there is no Majestic, Oklahoma.”

  Wilmington showed him the pamphlet, pointed hard enough to crinkle the paper. “There sure is. It has paved roads and buildings and plots of land to grow wheat on.”

  “Well.” The man chuckled. “The land we got.” He reached his hand out for a shake, but Wilmington didn’t bother. “My name is Donald Dupree. I work for the state government. I’m sorry to say, folks, but you’ve been swindled, same as the folks just west of here, in what was supposed to be Boise City. Except it looks much like this.”

  Wilmington pointed to the pamphlet again, this time with a little defeat. “The buildings? The town fountain . . . with all that marble.”

  “All made up, sir. A horrible fiction, I’m afraid. But I’m happy to say the developers who conned you have been arrested and will be held in Leavenworth until their trial.”

  The newcomers eyed one another. Tears mingled with the wind. Husbands held their wives as prairie grass whipped to a frenzy around ankles and knees. All those white flags. Miles upon miles of desolation cut by a blazing sun. The orange sky looked to be bleeding in places, swirling just along the horizon.

  Grass as far as the eye could see.

  “We want to help right this wrong,” said Donald. “We’ve staked the land, and we’re prepared to sell it for next to nothing.” He forced a smile, the tips of his mustache fluttering. “Health, wealth, and opportunity. Right at your fingertips.”

  Wilmington studied the land, inhaled the air, and turned to where Amanda and his new friend Orion stood. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

  The two men locked eyes. Amanda looked from one to the other and knew.

  “We’re not going back, are we?”

  About the Author

  Photo by John Markert

  James Markert lives with his wife and two children in Louisville, Kentucky. He has a history degree from the University of Louisville and won an IPPY Award for The Requiem Rose, which was later published as A White Wind Blew, a story of redemption in a 1929 tuberculosis sanatorium, where a faith-tested doctor uses music therapy to heal the patients. James is also a USPTA tennis pro and has coached dozens of kids who’ve gone on to play college tennis in top conferences like the Big 10, the Big East, and the ACC.

  * * *

  Learn more at JamesMarkert.com

  Facebook: James Markert

  Twitter: @JamesMarkert

  Acclaim for James Markert

  “Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel is a moving novel of artistic inspiration, love, death, and the nature of memory. Markert expertly weaves the many threads of this narrative together and creates characters that soon come to feel like old friends. Filled with magic, myth, and the spirit of the Renaissance, readers will want to check into the Tuscany Hotel for a long stay.”

  —Alyssa Palombo, author of The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

  “Beautifully detailed descriptions of what life was like during the Dust Bowl, the desperation and feelings of helplessness, are contrasted with small tokens of beauty and bonds of friendship and family. Though heavily spiritual, Markert’s (All Things Bright and Strange, 2018) nondogmatic approach to the unknown will also appeal to mainstream readers. Historical fiction at its finest that makes the reader want to learn more about the time and the people who lived there, and those who left.”

  —Booklist, STARRED review, on What Blooms from Dust

  “In this enchanting allegory, Markert (All Things Bright and Strange) crafts an imaginative tale of the Dust Bowl . . . Markert creatively portrays the timeless battle between good and evil, making for a powerful story of hope and redemption.”

  —Publishers Weekly on What Blooms from Dust

  “This is an exorcist story on well-written steroids resembling the best of Stephen King without the nihilism. By the end, I expect readers may be emotionally drained yet ultimately uplifted. Recommended.”

  —Historical Novel Society on All Things Bright and Strange

  “This magical novel warns us to be careful what we wish for. We may get it.”

  —BookPage on All Things Bright and Strange

  “Screenw
riter Markert (The Angels’ Share) conjures an apocalyptic page-turner that blends Frank Peretti–style supernatural elements with the fine detail of historical novels.”

  —Publishers Weekly on All Things Bright and Strange

  “Markert’s latest supernatural novel is captivating from the beginning . . . Readers of Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker will love Markert’s newest release.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4 stars, on All Things Bright and Strange

  “A haunting tale of love, loss, and redemption.”

  —Booklist on All Things Bright and Strange

  “Folksy charm, an undercurrent of menace, and an aura of hope permeate this ultimately inspirational tale.”

  —Booklist on The Angels’ Share

  Also by James Markert

  What Blooms from Dust

  All Things Bright and Strange

  The Angels’ Share

  A White Wind Blew

  Copyright

  Midnight at the Tuscany Hotel

  © 2019 by James Markert

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

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