When she’d visited church on that weekday, she’d been surprised by the handful of parishioners already present, their heads bowed in prayer. One woman’s hands threaded through her rosary beads. A few rows ahead, a man rocked back and forth, as if the rhythmic swaying of his body alone might grant him peace. She wondered if, like her, they’d come looking for answers. And as she sat there that day, she’d been surprised to find tears sliding down her cheeks, salt licking at her lips. It was the first time she’d allowed herself to cry. Not even when she’d received the diagnosis with Ben holding her hand had she cried.
Lord, please watch over Amber and Ben and Fiona. Please watch over Jeff and Liv. Lord, please give us the strength to get through this with grace. And if this whole thing happens to be a huge misunderstanding—if, say, the doctors mixed up my charts with someone else’s, I’ll be mad but okay with that. I know you can work miracles, God. If you could spare one for me, I’d be grateful.
Claire has been very clear about her last wishes: no extra measures to be taken, no pumping oxygen to her brain if it means living without awareness for the rest of her life. But how does a person dictate her last wishes if her faculties are fading away in bits and pieces? “Please don’t keep me around when I can no longer recognize you,” she’d told the kids years ago before she had any idea what early-onset Alzheimer’s even was. “Just slip something into my drink or smother me in my sleep.”
She was only partially kidding. She reminds herself of the doctor’s prognosis, that she might still have a decade left before things start to get really bad. Unlikely, but possible. When she talks to Amber tonight, she’ll answer her questions as best she can, hold her hand, let her cry on her shoulder. All the things a mother would do for her child while she’s still able.
She’d hoped that maybe Marty could be convinced to join her on this final leg of her journey, but it’s not to be. And now, while she looks out on the water, she realizes that having him by her side isn’t what she would have wanted, anyway. Because it’s her family whom she wants right now, no one else. Turns out that waving good-night to Marty on that chilly, fateful night so many years ago was not the biggest mistake of her life. She hadn’t been turning down a chance at a family at all. It was Marty she’d said no to.
The realization comes barreling to her through the salty air: Marty was never her one true love. All this time, all these years, through the ups and downs, it’s been Walt. She realizes now that it’s Walt who would have stood behind her on the treadmill to catch her if she fell.
And it’s not just the Bloody Marys talking. Or the last few days. She’s known it all along.
She resolves to stop asking herself the what-ifs? of life. Because what’s the point? Now more than ever, it’s critical that she begin planning for the rest of it. She’ll resign from the paper. Maybe she can spend more time watching Fiona so Amber can get a full-time job. Maybe she’ll ask Amber if she can move in with her and Jeff and Fiona. Not forever but while she still has her wits about her. So she won’t be all alone. Above all, she’s glad that her children will have each other when she’s gone.
She slides her bare feet out of her flip-flops, pushes out of her chair and walks over to the banister. The harbor twinkles in the noonday sun—she’ll have to remember to bring Amber out here tomorrow morning so she can enjoy the view herself. How many others have stood on this very balcony, in this very place? she wonders. If the hotel dates back to 1886, then the number of guests who’ve considered the same view must be in the thousands. Hundreds of husbands and wives, perhaps newlyweds. Shipping captains who’ve stood in this spot, planning their next sojourn at sea. Claire’s fingers trace the wooden railing, the white wood freshly painted, all the way back to the corner where the banister meets the building. There’s a ledge that juts out from the building, about three feet by three feet, and above that hovers a gargoyle, some kind of mythical creature. A Pegasus? A griffin? She’s never been good with mythology. It has enormous wings, a horse’s head. If she slides her chair over, she thinks she could probably climb over the banister and onto the edge of the balcony.
It’s a crazy idea, she knows this. But what’s the worst that could happen, given that the universe already has other plans for her? She drags the chair over, which makes a high-pitched scraping noise, and pushes it up against the banister. It’s almost as if an invisible voice dares her to climb over. Maybe she’ll just test it out, she thinks. See if maybe, when the time comes, this might be a better way to go. A fall. She wouldn’t have to enlist Ben’s help for a magic pill. She’d be no one’s responsibility, no one’s guilty conscience.
Gripping the back of the chair first and then the railing, she stretches one leg over, and then the other, until she can scoot her bottom onto the railing. There’s a good six inches of balcony floor on the other side of the railing, so that when she slides her feet down, her toes land firmly on it. She grips the railing on either side of her. She realizes she hasn’t thought this through very well, though, because she’s not facing the water, which, ideally, would be the direction she’d want to go. Gingerly, she pivots on her toes so that her body faces the harbor and begins to walk, placing one foot in front of the other, her hands grabbing the railing on her right. There’s plenty of room to set her entire foot down on these narrow six inches.
She remembers herself as a young girl walking the balance beam in gymnastics and how her coach would insist she point her toes and always look ahead, not down. Claire conjures up her ten-year-old self now, a remarkably poised girl who had no idea of the myriad trials—and celebrations—that awaited her. A young woman who kept her eyes trained on the end of the balance beam, confident that if she did so, she wouldn’t fall.
Well, there have been a few falls, for sure, but none so terrible that she hasn’t been able to get back up. She thinks of Ben and Amber when they were younger, how they’d grow angry over something small—a broken toy, a slight by a friend, a forgotten assignment—and she’d try to persuade them to focus on the bigger picture. Although your problem might feel Godzilla-size right now, she’d say, in the scheme of things, it probably won’t matter much tomorrow. Up here, with nothing but air surrounding her on all sides, she reminds herself to take the faraway view, to see the bigger picture. Her eyes focus on the water beyond, not the ground below. This disease will not be what defines her, how she is remembered. Rather, it’s her life’s work—her pursuit of truth through journalism, her enduring marriage, her remarkable children, her brilliant grandchild—that define her.
It’s odd, but she’s not at all scared up here. Because what’s to fear when she’s already facing the end? She should probably go back and pull herself up over the banister. Her chair, she knows, awaits her. If only Walt could be here now so that she could show him.
“See, Walt?” she says out loud, her words getting swallowed by the wind. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The sky is a swath of pure blue, the harbor a warm oasis in the sun. And without warning, a flood of unexpected tranquility rushes over her, one that’s so sublime she wishes she could share it with her children—this sudden certainty that everything will be all right.
She’s at the front of the balcony now, her hands gripping the railing behind her. She lets her left hand go and takes a tiny step forward, as if she might grasp a piece of the sky in her fingers. Amber’s face flashes before her, then Ben’s. Then Walt’s. And Walt is saying something to her that she strains to hear. Don’t worry? Maybe that’s it, she thinks. But no, it’s something else. She feels a flutter of annoyance that she can’t make it out. But next thing she knows, Walt is extending his hand to her and she could swear he says I’ve got you.
She balances on the edge of the balcony for a moment. Walt’s always been there, she realizes. Even all those times when she’d doubted it. Her right hand lets go of the railing to reach out for him.
And then suddenly the image of her granddaughter—red curls bobbing,
her sweet face delighted to see her nana—dances before her.
And she cries out, “Oh, no, Fiona! Stop!”
But it’s too late. Claire’s foot is already slipping.
THIRTY-TWO
5 o’clock, Friday
Jean-Paul stands next to the police commissioner on the side porch of the hotel, as far away as possible from the wedding guests, who have been arriving nonstop in the lobby for the past hour. The Seafarer’s atrium brims with the rush and excitement of young love, of a weekend that promises to be filled with romance and music, family and friends. Gillian has offered a complimentary cocktail hour to all wedding guests in the Chantilly Bar on the second floor, while the maintenance crew hurriedly transfers the remainder of tables and chairs that will be needed for tomorrow’s reception from the dining room into the Churchill Banquet Hall, located on the opposite side of the hotel.
The young Miss Saltonstall had been distressed to learn of the tragic events on the premises this afternoon, but she hadn’t let it sway her in terms of going forward with her wedding reception. When Jean-Paul shared the victim’s name with her, she’d insisted that flowers be sent to the victim’s family with sincere condolences from herself and her entire family. It struck Jean-Paul as a class act. Straightaway, Gillian had arranged through a local florist, Smart Stems, for a lush bouquet of lilies to go out to the O’Dell children, along with another enormous mixed bouquet courtesy of the hotel.
The number of news trucks present at five o’clock has dwindled slightly from earlier this afternoon, but four or five still remain with their camera crews in tow. The commissioner addresses them first this time. Jean-Paul is only here to be his wingman, to fill in any details as needed.
“Good afternoon,” Commissioner Fisher begins. “It’s been a long day for all of us, but we promised you folks that we’d have an update for you on the victim’s name later today. As I mentioned earlier, this is being treated as a death investigation, and we’ve now been in touch with the family, who is understandably heartbroken. However, they’ve given us permission to release the name of their family member who passed away so tragically earlier this afternoon.” A hush falls over the reporters while they wait. “That woman’s name is Claire O’Dell. I’ll spell it for you. C-L-A-I-R-E O-’-D-E-L-L. I understand that she was a well-regarded journalist at the Providence Dealer, where she worked for the past thirty-some years. We can also tell you that Ms. O’Dell, a resident of Providence, was sixty-one and, according to her family, was visiting Boston on holiday. She is survived by her two children, Amber Halifax and Benjamin O’Dell, and her three-year-old granddaughter, Fiona, all of Providence. Ms. O’Dell’s late husband, Walter O’Dell, passed away last October.
“This is an ongoing investigation, and so at this time, I’m afraid I can’t comment any further except to say, for the moment at least, there doesn’t appear to have been any kind of foul play involved. Our condolences—and I know Mr. Savant and the Seafarer join the Boston Police Department when I say this—our sincere condolences and prayers go out to Ms. O’Dell’s family on this tragic day.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind giving the hotel and its guests some well-deserved space for the remainder of the weekend, I know that the folks at the Seafarer would really appreciate it.”
Jean-Paul nods beside the commissioner, relieved that nothing is expected of him at this press conference. Because he’s not sure he could offer anything more. He is totally and completely spent, as in he-could-lie-down-and-sleep-for-twenty-four-hours spent. The news reporters shout out questions about whether this means it was a suicide, if Ms. O’Dell was alone when she fell, if the police have any other theories.
“Thank you. That will be all for now,” the commissioner tells them. After talking with the family, both he and Jean-Paul had agreed not to mention Ms. O’Dell’s early-onset Alzheimer’s. It seemed the news had come as a surprise to her daughter when the son first mentioned it to them. Nor did it seem pertinent to address the phone that had been discovered in the jacket pocket of the blue blazer hanging in Ms. O’Dell’s bathroom. It belonged to one Martin Campbell, who, when the commissioner located him at his place of work, explained that he was an old friend of Ms. O’Dell’s and had met her for dinner last night. Apparently, he’d lent her his blazer on the walk back to the hotel and had been searching for his phone all morning. The news of Ms. O’Dell’s death appeared to truly upset him. The hallway cameras further confirmed his story that he’d never set foot in Ms. O’Dell’s hotel room last night or this morning, and so he’d been ruled out as a potential suspect.
The commissioner and Jean-Paul also agreed not to allude to another incident that occurred shortly before the fall. The press hadn’t gotten hold of it yet, and it didn’t appear particularly relevant.
But somewhat curiously, around noon today, a young woman had stepped off the elevator and hurried to the concierge to report that she’d sprained her wrist. Maybe broken it. She’d asked if he could please fetch her a ride to the hospital. Jean-Paul had been summoned and had been surprised by how stoic the woman seemed, cupping her wrist in her other hand like a broken wing. When he’d inquired what happened, she said she’d tripped and landed on her wrist. But when he’d asked where exactly—for purposes of the accident report he was required to file—she’d been vague. “On my balcony, or near it,” she’d said. Jean-Paul chalked it up to her pain. He could ask her more specifics when she returned from the hospital. But now he’s thinking they’ll absolutely need to double-check all the balconies for safety. Yet another task to add to his to-do list.
* * *
When they head back into the hotel, he finds Marie and Isabella waiting for him in the lobby. They’re sitting on one of the new seafoam-colored linen couches, and a handful of guests has crowded around the baby, cooing at her, telling Marie what a gorgeous baby she has. Jean-Paul watches his wife’s face beam under their compliments. There is something about a plump, happy infant that helps to fill the enormous gap left today, and Isabella is playing her part perfectly. He watches his daughter gurgle and smile and kick her bare feet, as if she has finally come under the spotlight she so naturally deserves. Perhaps this has been her problem all along: Isabella has wanted a larger audience than what he and Marie can offer.
When he catches Marie’s eye, she offers him a shrug and a smile, as if to say Who knew our daughter was a natural entertainer? And Jean-Paul nods and smiles back. Maybe, he thinks, Marie will have to start bringing the baby to the hotel more often, not only for Isabella’s sake but also for Marie’s and Jean-Paul’s sakes. For all their sakes, really. Because if today’s tragedy has underscored anything for him, it’s that life needs to be celebrated. That even when death surrounds them—maybe most especially when death surrounds them—they need to push on and celebrate all that they hold dear.
He’s been a fool, he can see that now, to neglect his wife and new daughter for his responsibilities at the hotel. Of course, the Seafarer will continue to demand his attention, but Jean-Paul can work to create slices of time for only him and his family. Oliver can help. And Gillian. And Tabitha and Rachel. And a host of others on his staff. The pressure he has felt to ensure a successful reopening of the Seafarer has been immense. But there’s more to life than this hotel. Much more.
Those simple pockets of joy, he thinks again. Pockets of joy that they can share with one another, if only they take the time to look for them.
And he goes to sit down next to his wife and daughter, Marie scooting over to make room for him.
* * *
Author Note
December 2020
Dear Reader,
If you walk down the streets of Boston’s Seaport District today, you’ll see new luxury apartments and hotels, upscale restaurants and nightclubs, and stores like Lululemon and L.L.Bean. There are lovely parks to linger and play in. The Harborwalk fronts the majestic federal courthouse and, farther down, there
’s the Institute of Contemporary Art. The newest kid on the block, so to speak, the Seaport District has become the place to see and be seen.
It wasn’t always this way. Originally a shipping port back in the late 1800s, the area fell into disrepair a century later. Aside from two landmark restaurants, Anthony’s Pier 4 and Johnny’s Harborside, there was little to see except parking lots and abandoned warehouses. But with the launch of the Big Dig project in the 1990s, which connected the Seaport District to downtown, and a four-billion-dollar cleanup of the Boston Harbor, the seeds for a spectacular rebirth were planted.
A few summers ago, while my family and I strolled along the waterfront and marveled at its transformation, I began to wonder, What if a hotel had existed here over a century ago? Would it still be around? Would it have attracted the famous and fabulous, like those who once flocked to Anthony’s Pier 4? The questions got my mind spinning.
I’d also been wanting to write a modern love story, one that centered on four different couples who were in various stages of a relationship—the promising first blush of new love, the more staid love of a couple trying to find their way back to each other after having a baby, the troubled roller-coaster love between two academics and the stirrings of a thirty-year-old romantic flame in one woman. What better place to bring them all together than at an illustrious hotel?
I knew that the book would begin with a tragedy, one that could unite the guests. I debated if a woman plummeting to her death would be too gruesome, but the more stories that popped up on the nightly news of someone slipping or falling or otherwise meeting their untimely demise from a great height, the more it seemed that such a tragedy, at the very least, would be plausible. It also got me wondering how someone stares down the edge of death. Would drugs or alcohol be involved? How would the witnesses to such a tragic event be affected?
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