Erika Montgomery’s upcoming debut “is an unforgettable tale of love, loss and finding your place that glitters as brightly as the golden age of Hollywood.” A SUMMER TO REMEMBER (on sale May 11, 2021; $27.99; St. Martin’s Press) is set against the salty air of a Cape Cod summer and tinged with old Hollywood nostalgia. Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from the third chapter!
SYNOPSIS
For thirty-year-old Frankie Simon, selling movie memorabilia in the shop she opened with her late mother on Hollywood Boulevard is more than just her livelihood–it’s an enduring connection to the only family she has ever known. But when a mysterious package arrives containing a photograph of her mother and famous movie stars Glory Cartwright and her husband at a coastal film festival the year before Frankie’s birth, her life begins to unravel in ways unimaginable.
What begins is a journey along a path revealing buried family secrets, betrayals between lovers, bonds between friends. And for Frankie, as the past unlocks the present, the chance to learn that memories define who we are, and that they can show us the meaning of home and the magic of true love.
Experience the salty breeze of a Cape Cod summer as it sweeps through this sparkling, romantic, and timeless debut novel tinged with a love of old Hollywood.
When her mother would say that Frankie’s father was a blank space on her birth certificate, Frankie always thought she was speaking metaphorically.
After all, there were no photographs of her father in their albums, no books on the shelf with his name scribbled inside the cover, so it was entirely believable that he didn’t exist. Especially since Frankie had been relentless in her search for him from the time she was old enough to understand that the man whose Malibu beach house she and her mother had been living in for the past two years—Jacob— was a master at pancakes and set construction, but wasn’t, in fact, her biological father.
So when her mother asked what she wanted for her eighth birth- day, Frankie naturally said: “To see my birth certificate.”
Her mother bristled but acquiesced.
“See. Just like I said,” she told her when Frankie stared at the empty line where her father’s name should have been. And when Frankie continued staring at the space, her mother dropped a kiss on her temple and said tenderly, “It’s not written in invisible ink, baby. It won’t appear no matter how long you wait.”
But she kept waiting, anyway.
Not for a name on a blank line, but for other proof.
She waited for a song to come on the radio and her mother to grow misty-eyed, or a fragrance to spark a sigh or a blush—even for a double take at a stranger on the street. Something damning that would reveal some clue, however tiny, to her father’s identity.
In the meantime, her mother moved them in and out of the houses and lives of men she met on film sets: Foley artists and key grips, PAs and set builders. And after several more years, Frankie eventually figured out who her father was. Not a name, nothing that satisfying; rather, she deduced that whoever her father was, he had been the love of her mother’s life. Why else would Maeve Simon pathologically— but politely—reject every proposal she received, if not because her heart was forever spoken for? And why else would her mother never allow them a real home if not because she knew there could be no such thing so long as Frankie’s father could never join them?
So by the time she neared the end of high school, Frankie may not have had a name or a face for her father, but she had an under- standing.
And it became enough.
But sitting here now, working her way through a square of cold lasagna and staring at a photograph of her mother with Mitch Beckett, she’s not sure anymore.
She studies the photograph, trying to decide how old her mother was when it was taken. Early twenties? Late twenties? With no date on the back, it’s impossible to know for sure.
Or is it?
Her eyes train on the banner: Fourth Annual.
Clicking her laptop awake, she searches the Stardust Film Festival website and learns that the first festival was held in 1985, which means the photo was taken in June of 1988.
She pulls her fingers off the keyboard as if it’s a detonated bomb, her heart hammering as possibility flares.
More, she thinks. I need to know more.
Her hands tremble as she punches in a new search. Mitch Beckett: died of heart failure . . .
She clicks on the link for Glory Cartwright’s page, scanning the intro paragraph until she reaches the end: In 1989, she died on the Outer Banks where she was making the movie that was to be her return to film after a decade away. A note was left by Cartwright’s bedside. To protect her privacy, Cartwright’s husband declined an autopsy and the death was ruled suicide—
Frankie sits back, overcome with sadness. Suicide.
Returning to the screen, she scrolls on.
She and Beckett had one child, a son, Gabe Beckett—
To My Beloved Gabe.
Possibility sizzles down her arms, flaring like a rash. Could she have a half-brother?
—who was adopted by the couple soon after their move to Beckett’s hometown of Harpswich, Massachusetts . . .
As quickly as her skin warmed with hope, it cools again. Did that mean Mitch Beckett couldn’t have children?
She clicks back to the actor’s Wiki page and skims madly through his bio, finding nothing on the subject. Maybe his wife couldn’t conceive? Or maybe they simply wanted to adopt? The possible explanations settle her doubt so quickly that she has to wonder if she hopes Mitch Beckett is her father.
Does she?
She ponders the question as she carries her empty plate back to the kitchen and pours a glass of merlot, adding an extra splash for good measure, then another, then just deciding to bring the whole bottle. Who knows how long she’ll be up hunting now?
Back at her screen, she reads Mitch Beckett’s page more closely, sure there must be other clues. In the paragraph on his personal life, a link is offered for Gabe Beckett and she clicks it, opening a spare-looking website for Beckett Boat Building and Restoration. So their son still lives in Harpswich?
Clicking back to the previous page, she finds his age—thirty- nine—and then a photograph of a tall man with messy chestnut hair caught stepping out of a store: Son of Hollywood legends is all smiles running errands in his hometown of Harpswich. Frankie decides the author of the caption must need glasses, because all she can see is a man scowling at having his picture taken. She’s never been much for the rugged type, but she finds herself compelled to look closer, feeling the blush of interest brush her skin as she scans the photo. Or maybe it’s just the wine. Reds always make her warm.
Not that it matters if he’s attractive or not—she has a connection now, someone she can reach out to for answers.
And say what?
She sits back, stymied.
Hi, there! I think your father and my mother had an affair, so let’s share a Lyft to the next family reunion?
Frankie sighs into her wine.
Obviously she can’t get right to it just like that. She needs to build slowly, gently.
She can start by offering him the letters. A brief, flattering email. Nothing aggressive or demanding, just a quick but genuine note to build trust, which will be easily won, since he’ll be so grateful for the gift of the letters.
Then, after a few more exchanges, she can dig—gracefully, of course—about Mitch Beckett and how well he knew her mother and let things just sort of . . . unfold.
