Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Cece Downing’s Start Over Summer by Soon Wiley, which releases on June 16th 2026.

Recently fired from her dependable career as an actuary, and recovering from a messy breakup with her fiancé, thirty-two-year-old Cece Downing is holed up for the summer in New London, Connecticut, without a plan. Mounting financial debts soon force Cece to take the first job opportunity that comes her way—one she’s wholly unsuited for—as a deckhand on an oyster boat.

Surprisingly, Cece finds herself loving the job: working with her hands, breathing the fresh sea air, and learning the ins and outs of oyster farming. And despite her overbearing mother’s pleas to get a “real” job and reunite with her wealthy fiancé, Cece plunges headlong into an ill-advised romance with her neighbor, a handsome shipyard worker named Morgan.

When a proposal to expand the oyster farm throws the community into an uproar, pitting wealthy waterfront owners against blue collar workers, Cece finds herself caught in the middle. And as a family crisis forces her to reevaluate her reckless choices Cece must come to terms with what she’s willing to sacrifice for the life she wants to live.

EXCERPT

1

Even with the benefit of hindsight, Cece Downing can’t seem to grasp how she’s arrived at this particular  moment—entering an ivy smothered pool house month to month in the backyard of a pleasantly deranged botany professor in New London, Connecticut—and yet, here she is, recently fired, newly single, and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, without a plan.

The property runs parallel to the street, and from her spot on the rickety front deck, Cece has a good view of the road, just be‑ yond the rebellious shrubs and arrowheaded hostas. Bernard, her parents’ ornery three‑year‑old beagle she’s agreed to watch while they’re on vacation, expels a half whimper from underneath her chair, alerting Cece to his desire for dinner, preferably sooner rather than later. But Cece has other ideas.

Of late, she’s been fantasizing about how she can use Bernard to meet a guy who lives six houses down. She’s considered letting the dog dig up the man’s flower beds so she has an excuse to knock on his door and apologize. More than she cares to admit, she’s hoped Bernard might slip the leash on their daily walks and tear after the chipmunk that lives under his deck. And sometimes, when she can’t sleep, the slap of the pool water tedious and dull, her mind drifts to more desperate ideas, like dropping the dog off in the man’s yard, outfitted with a new collar and tag with her address, and waiting for him to show up, Bernard cocooned in his burly arms.

This last stratagem, in all its foolishness, is almost enough to make Cece feel reckless—almost. Cece’s been thinking a lot about risk lately. She’s been thinking about all the preparation, all the calculated decisions she’s made over the years to avoid it, and how they’ve proven ineffective against the yawning chasm of uncertainty and improbability that now spreads out before her like an impenetrable mist.

If everything—all the carefully crafted plans, the necessary sacrifices, the well‑worn paths Cece’s taken—led her to this, what was it all for? What did any of it mean?

Like it was yesterday, Cece can still remember her confusion and anger during an eighth‑grade English class when Mr. Gordon, a stuffy man with smudged glasses and thinning hair, introduced their new poetry unit by reading aloud Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” his voice scratchy and saccharine. With equal parts horror and disbelief, Cece watched as her classmates clamored to agree with Mr. Gordon: Life was best lived when you chose the unfamiliar, the unknown. A life spent following in the footsteps of those who went before you was a wasted one. Cece had disagreed vehemently with Mr. Gordon, not only about his dangerous outlook on life, but with his interpretation of the entire poem, Even so, she’d said nothing, fearful it would negatively impact her current grade of an A.

It’s the first Friday of June, and Cece’s rushed home from her job across the river in Noank to catch a glimpse of this mystery man who cruises by her pool house in his pickup truck every weekday at 5:30 p.m., like clockwork, on his way back from the shipyard that lies at the bottom of the street. Naturally, she’s taken to calling him Mr. Shipyard.

Chilled Pinot Grigio sweats in the early evening heat, and Cece’s day job is a distant memory—the stench of the rubber gloves and waders scrubbed clean (she hopes), the clatter of oyster shells a mere rumor, the persistent cramp in her hands nearly gone. Cece hadn’t been expecting anything glamorous when she’d applied for a seasonal job at the oyster farm, but somehow, she’s still shocked at the toll the menial tasks have taken on her body. The ache in her lower back, the knotted muscle behind her shoulder blades are constant reminders that at thirty‑two, Cece can’t bounce back like she used to, at least not like when she was a D1 athlete, her body a temple, a muscle‑toned missile cutting through water.

She sips her wine judiciously. Nothing good ever comes from drinking on an empty stomach. And yet, here she is. A cool breeze arrives off the Sound, brackish and sweet. Cece loves living near the water, and even though the pool house is shabby, with its musty carpeting, Formica‑topped junior kitchen, and cramped bedroom, she’s grateful to the landlord for renting it out on such short notice.

Bernard’s whines grow louder, and no sooner does Cece head inside to give him his kibble does she hear the low rumble of Mr. Shipyard’s pickup truck. It starts in her chest, and as the horsepower gets closer, tremulous and teasing, Cece swears she can feel the vibrations all the way down to her crotch. She checks her phone: 5:25. He’s early. He’s never early, at least not on any of the eight weekdays she’s been doing this—this stupid, necessary thing. Sensing Cece’s excitement, Bernard abandons his food bowl for the screen door, where he mashes his wet nose against the screen. “Back!” she shouts louder than she intends. No mat‑ ter how authoritative she makes her voice, the commands have no effect, with Bernard only growing more frantic. What the hell, she thinks, clipping the leash onto his collar. A dog can’t hurt her chances. If anything, he’ll make her look normal, less tragic. Less tragic would be most excellent right about now.

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