The Summer Song

By Lindsay Detwiler

A sweet, beachy romance by International and Award-Winning Bestselling Author Lindsay Detwiler, The Summer Song is perfect for fans of Emily Henry, Jane Green, and Debbie Macomber. 

 

They always say you can't go home again, but let me add to that advice. If you do return home to live with your stoic, lawyer father and meddling mother, make sure you're not thirty with a bankrupt business and a failed romance. 

 

At thirty, Mathilda "Tillie" Ashby's life is in shambles. After a failed business attempt in New York City and a deep betrayal, she's forced to return home to Ocean City, Maryland, the beach town she tried to escape. Trying to sort out her next career move and her finances, she finds herself working at a boardwalk restaurant called Tino's and living in her childhood bedroom with her helicopter parents.

 

When Tillie's life collides with Leo Turner, a UK pop sensation who's hiding from the pressures of fame for the summer, her life might just take a different turn. An injury causes Tillie to slow down, and she'll start to rediscover who she really is. Together, Leo and Tillie escape their difficult pasts as they explore Ocean City together. Will they find new dreams as they build their summer romance–or are their vastly different worlds and past heartbreaks too much to overcome?

 

A sweet, friends-to-lovers beach read, The Summer Song is a powerful story about how love can help us uncover who we really are.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsay Detwiler
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223885184

Lindsay Detwiler

A high school English teacher, an author, and a fan of anything pink and/or glittery, Lindsay's the English teacher cliché ; she love cats, reading, Shakespeare, and Poe. She currently lives in her hometown with her husband, Chad (her junior high sweetheart); their cats, Arya, Amelia, Alice, and Bob; and their Mastiff, Henry. Lindsay's goal with her writing is to show the power of love and the beauty of life while also instilling a true sense of realism in her work. Some reviewers have noted that her books are not the “typical romance.” With her novels coming from a place of honesty, Lindsay examines the difficult questions, looks at the tough emotions, and paints the pictures that are sometimes difficult to look at. She wants her fiction to resonate with readers as realistic, poetic, and powerful. Lindsay wants women readers to be able to say, “I see myself in that novel.” She wants to speak to the modern woman’s experience while also bringing a twist of something new and exciting. Her aim is for readers to say, “That could happen,” or “I feel like the characters are real.” That’s how she knows she's done her job. Lindsay's hope is that by becoming a published author, she can inspire some of her students and other aspiring writers to pursue their own passions. She wants them to see that any dream can be attained and publishing a novel isn’t out of the realm of possibility.

Book preview

Prologue

They always say you can’t go home again, but let me add to that advice. If you do return home to live with your stoic, lawyer father and meddling mother, make sure you’re not thirty with a bankrupt business and a failed romance.

These were the TED Talk-like thoughts running through my mind as I hunched over boxes in the mildewy basement of Tino’s Italian restaurant, thankful there wasn’t a mirror for me to peruse the assuredly disastrous state of my hair. I rolled my eyes at my senseless inner monologue as the wind howled outside, threatening to send the ancient boardwalk restaurant crumbling.

Let’s face it, I said aloud, admittedly like someone who was one incident shy from a complete meltdown. No one’s calling your disastrous self for a TED Talk anytime soon.

My shirt covered in food and my mood as low as it gets from what happened before retreating to the basement, I moved box after box, looking for the mysterious serving dish. Plumes of dust and probably death-inducing mold wafted into the air, but I was a bit thankful for the escape. The Italian music blasted up above, and there were footsteps dashing about as the dinner rush was on. My own feet ached from waitressing all night–and not well if I was to be honest. Still, it felt good to have a moment away from the hustle and bustle of Tino’s, of spilled drinks, and of the constant reminder that everything had fallen apart.

I finally found the box I was looking for, the single bare bulb in the basement illuminating the scrawled words Serving Dishes. Apparently, there was a wedding scheduled the next day, and Tino wanted to class it up. Semi-microwaved Italian dishes needed more than a silver platter, in my opinion, to even hint at anything classy.

I stood for a moment holding the box, sighing dramatically. I needed to get it together. This cranky, salty woman wasn’t who I was, not really. Still, after a failed business that left me crawling back to my oceanside hometown and to my parents’ condo at the age of thirty to hear I told you so, it was no wonder the sparkle had lost its shine a little bit. Add to that the situation with Brad and Scarlet—I shuddered, my stomach dropping at the mere thought of it—and it was no wonder all the motivational podcasts in the world weren’t really helping. I was stuck in a deep hole and couldn’t see the sunshine anymore. I was broke, alone, and living in my childhood bedroom my mother had maintained as a mausoleum for the pretty-in-pink girl she’d raised. In short, my life was messier than the basement of Tino’s.

I heard the familiar 6:00 p.m. blast of a trumpet and rolled my eyes again. It was free margarita time, and the mariachi music alerted the guests. Clapping and cheers ensued. I could picture Grace, stone faced, passing out the tray of margaritas, wondering where I was. I felt a little bad about not being up there, but not enough to rush back for the most nonsensical part of the Italian restaurant. No one really understood why Margarita Hour was a tradition at all, let alone the bizarre line dance that accompanied it. No one dared question Tino, though. Except sometimes Grace.

Thinking about Grace made me consider how before I came down to the filth-blanketed basement, she’d wanted to tell me something. She looked excited, but in fairness, the twenty-two-year-old was typically happy, the foil to who I’d become. I decided to face the literal music and head back out there, if for no other reason than to see what she wanted to reveal.

I marched to the top of the basement steps, the bulky box precariously balancing on my hip. I was trying to sort out exactly how, uncoordinated on a good day, I was going to pull off holding the box and twisting the rusty doorknob on the basement door. But I didn’t have to worry, at least not about that.

Because just as I was sorting out how to make it work, the door burst open. A tall figure blasted through, dashing over the small landing at the top of the stairs where I was standing. I instinctively stepped backward—except there wasn’t enough room on the landing to do that.

And just as I had told myself life couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did.

Because as I stepped backward, I lost my balance. The bare bulb shined brightly, now illuminating what I imagined was a horrific face as I tumbled down the stairs, the box and heavy silver platters clanging on top of me. I crumpled down, down, down, thinking this was where it all ended—on the dingy steps of Tino’s basement. Maybe they could use the silver platters at my funeral.

When I finally landed at the bottom of the stairs, time warping back to normal speed, everything was fuzzy and fading. My entire body hurt, and I felt myself slipping away. But before it all went black, I heard what I thought was a distinctively British voice yell out a punctuated and startled, Oh no.

Oh no, indeed, I mused as everything turned inky.

Chapter One

Three days before the fall that changed everything

Itook off my black apron, which was splattered with the remnants of spaghetti sauce and congealed bits of chicken parmesan. I’d managed to only drop two plates during my shift, which sadly was an improvement. If Tino didn’t know my dad, he probably would have fired me already for lackluster performance. Waitressing wasn’t exactly turning out to be my strong suit, at least not in Tino’s restaurant, which was annoying. Tino’s wasn’t my dream job anyway. It was frustrating to be bad at something you didn’t even like. Still, with my finances in their current state, I wasn’t in a position to let pride get in the way.

Doing anything tonight? Grace Baylor asked, swiping her short blond hair she’d just had cut out of her eyes. With bright blue eyes, a nose ring, and tattoos up her arms, she had such a fun vibe going. At twenty-two, she was just back for the summer now that college had left out. I was glad for it, though, because out of all Tino’s staff, she was the most fun to talk to.

Nothing worth mentioning, I said.

That’s depressing. Why don’t you come out with us? she asked, taking her apron off, too, as we both walked to the back to clock out.

What time are you going? I asked, knowing the answer.

She shrugged. It’s going to be an early night. We’ll probably head out at nine.

And that, my friend, is when thirty-year-olds like me are in their pajamas sipping chamomile tea.

She rolled her eyes, smiling at me. You’re not a grandma. You could come.

I feel like a grandma, I admitted. Truer words had never been spoken.

Well, spend time with me. We’ll change that.

Maybe I will sometime, I said. I’ve got to get going, though. It’s peak hours.

Grace nodded. Good luck! Smile big! she said as she nudged me with her shoulder.

Grace was one of the few people who knew about my side hustle, mostly because I trusted she wouldn’t judge me. As a working college student, she’d had her share of side hustles, as she’d confessed, to make rent and tuition payments. Still, heading out to the boardwalk carrying my bulky bag, I sighed. How had it come to this?

I went out and sat on the cement wall by the boardwalk for a moment, letting the busy day at Tino’s fade away as I watched the waves crash. Despite the reasons for being back, I could appreciate the beauty in Ocean City, Maryland, in ways I hadn’t when I was younger. Growing up, I took it all for granted a little bit—the ocean view, the excitement of the tourist town. I inhaled the salty air as the wind whipped my long brown locks. There was something magical there.

But the magic faded as I realized I needed to get to work. If I ever wanted to get back on my feet again and get out of my parents’ house, I needed to save more money than I earned waitressing at Tino’s.

I headed to the public bathroom to get into character. There was no way I was letting Tino see me leave his restaurant like that. I always made sure I picked a spot down at the first few blocks of the boardwalk, far away from Tino and his Margarita Hour mayhem.

Once the princess costume was on and my hair was braided, I headed out to my spot. I waved to the banjo man who set up a half block from my place and then gave a nod to the magician who was to my left a distance. We never talked, but there was a friendly camaraderie between those of us working the boards. I put up my sign, tip jar, and permit. And then my work began.

I spent the next two hours smiling and waving as children begged their parents for a picture with the recognizable character I was playing. The tip jar slowly filled up as my pride died a mortifying, odorous death. Still, it wasn’t terrible work, I realized, seeing the smiles on the children’s faces. It could be worse.

I doubted my father would think that if he ever got word. I was surprised I’d made it this long without one of his friends telling him they saw me on the boardwalk hustling the crowd for photo op money. I’d have to face that when it happened. But for now, the money was good, the job was easy, and my bank account was expanding. That was all I could ask for.

After a few hours, my feet ached. I decided to call it a night and head out. I shoved the costume into the tote bag in the public restroom, unbraided my hair, and dragged myself to the bus stop.

WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE building my parents lived in, I paused at the front door. Closing my eyes, I braced myself for another family dinner.

It wasn’t that I was trying to be ungrateful. I was blessed to have parents swoop in and save the day for me when I literally had nowhere to go after the business failed. And my parents did mean well, I supposed. However, for the past five months, it felt like every dinner conversation went the same way.

Mom pitied me for working at Tino’s and begged me to get a job with her in the hotel she worked at down the street. She then peppered in comments about friends who had single, eligible bachelors for sons who would be a great match. Dad made gruff remarks about law school and the degree I should have earned. Both then heatedly discussed my future, one they didn’t bother asking my opinion about. I pushed the pork chops or meatloaf or spaghetti around on my plate, wanting to disappear into the ground, shame and grief cloaking any hope of rising from the ashes.

I decided I was already late for dinner, so at least I could fortify myself for my parents’ inevitable disappointment with a quick stop first at Dorothy’s.

Dorothy was an older widow who lived on the first floor of the building. I’d met her in my late teens when I was sitting on the bench outside of the building. She’d been getting some sunshine, too; her kitten, Marvin, was in his cat harness meowing at a bird that day. We’d become instant friends, our love for cats and coffee bringing us together. Visiting her was the one good thing about being back in Ocean City.

I knocked on door 113, and Dorothy answered the door so quickly, I thought she’d been standing there waiting for someone.

Tillie, get in here. You know you don’t have to knock, she said, wrapping her arms around me as soon as I was in. I realized how much I needed to see a friendly face after the long, exhausting day.

Sorry, Dorothy, I’m probably sweaty and smell like the restaurant, I apologized.

Nothing wrong with a little sweat and hard work, she said, ushering me to the table. I smiled. Dorothy never made condescending comments about my failed business or asked hard, pointed questions about what was next. Perhaps that was why I liked visiting her so much.

Marvin meowed, now much, much older than the first day I met him but still energetic. He made his way out of the living room to rub my legs. His sparkly blue collar shimmered as I reached down to stroke the overly pampered cat. Dorothy’s husband, Harry, died twenty years earlier. They didn’t have kids, and she’d never remarried. Marvin was, thus, the most spoiled cat I knew. He lived a life of luxury and of being Dorothy’s entire world.

What’s new today? I asked as Dorothy slid a glass over to me. She got out the mimosa ingredients. I tried to cover my glass when she got out the champagne, but she batted my hand away. I gave in with an embarrassingly weak fight.

Every day’s worth celebrating, she said, smiling. I shook my head but decided a mimosa after the day I had wasn’t the worst idea. Anyway, there’s nothing much new. Belinda was being her usually coy self today, trying to run to William and accuse me of not putting my trash in the correct receptacle. But luckily for me, I was ready. I recorded a video as proof.

I smirked. Belinda and Dorothy had a rivalry to rival all rivalries. Belinda was also a widow and had lived in the building before Dorothy and her husband had moved in. I didn’t know what had started the fierce competition between the two, although Dorothy would assuredly accuse Belinda of being a terrible, rotten person if given the chance to divulge the details.

Well, I’m glad you had proof, I said, wondering if William was tired of the incessant tattling yet or if it was something he just succumbed to as part of his job.

How about you? How was Tino’s today? she asked.

I shrugged. Tiring. The same old, same old.

Dorothy sipped her mimosa, letting me bask in the silence for a moment. It felt good to be in someone’s company but also leave room for my thoughts to filter out.

I’ll have to come down sometime to see you. Do they still do that ridiculous Margarita Hour? she asked.

Of course, I replied, grinning. Complete with the line dance to kick it off. Dorothy shook her head and rolled her eyes at this.

Anything else new? Have you heard from those wretches from New York? she continued after sipping her mimosa.

My stomach dropped at the mere thought of the two of them. She’s tried to call. I ignored her.

What nerve. Some people, she said. Dorothy patted my hand. Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up the past. Onward and upward from here, Darling. You’ll see.

I glanced out the window in Dorothy’s unit. She had a side view, the building next to her gleaming white. I wanted to believe Dorothy’s words, but it was hard to feel like anything was looking up, in truth.

Well, I better get to my parents’. I’m already late for dinner. I thought about the wording. I guess it’s my home now, too, again. And it was. In some ways, it felt like I’d never left. The walls were still hot pink from my teenage years, posters of my old celebrity crushes plastered on the wall, the corners peeling from time. The closet still had some of the clothes I’d left behind when I’d moved out, a museum of my old sense of fashion and of the girl I used to be. A girl with dreams. A girl who was going places. A girl with crazy whims, an entrepreneurial glow, and a heart that hadn’t been shattered.

I wish it was under better circumstances, but I must admit, it’s been wonderful having you back. You’ll find your way, Dear. You will. Don’t let this one setback define the rest of your years. You’re young. You’ll find your path, and you’ll find someone who deserves you. I swear.

I stood at the table. Do you want to come up for dinner? I’m sure my mother made enough for a small army as always.

Dorothy blushed. Thanks, Dear. Normally, I would. But, well, I have dinner plans.

I raised my eyebrows. Really?

She twirled her glass in her hands, uncharacteristically shy. Yes. Fred from down the hall invited me out for dinner.

I gasped. You mean the guy who just moved into 125?

That’s him.

I smirked. Tall with stunning silver hair, he was the talk of the condo, especially amongst the mature residents of the Seaside Condos.

That’s amazing!

It’s just a friendly dinner. We got to talking the other day when we were getting our mail.

Look at you, Dorothy. Well, I’ll be expecting full details tomorrow. Now you better get ready. Make sure you wear the red lipstick, I commanded.

Oh, I’ve been waiting for a day to break that out, she replied, grinning.

I gave Marvin one more pat on the head, put my glass in the sink, and strolled out. I took a deep breath in the hallway, heading for the elevator and bracing myself for my mom’s questions about why I was late. I rode the elevator up, thinking about how strange it was to be back. I thought about being in the elevator years ago, riding down with my final suitcase, heading to New York with my friend, my dreams, and my dad’s disdain. I thought I’d never look back.

Little did I know my life was just going to be a giant U-turn bringing me right back in my thirties. Life really didn’t go as planned, sometimes, I considered with melancholy as I breached the condo door and was instantly faced with my mother’s barrage of questions.

Chapter Two

D arling, where were you? I was getting ready to send the police out, my mother proclaimed as I walked through the door of 312. She perched near the door as if she’d been waiting for me. She probably had been poised to pounce as she often was.

Sorry, Mom. I got held up at work, I said. Pickles, my hairless cat who was my saving grace in the debacle that was my life, ran to the door at the sound of my voice. I picked him up, petting his smooth skin and giving him a kiss on the forehead. Most of my belongings from New York had stayed behind but not Pickles. He was non-negotiable. And even though my dad claimed to hate cats, I’d caught him talking to Pickles, slipping him food, and even cuddling with him on the couch frequently. He’d even bought Pickles a new sweater last week; the cat was often chilled in the air conditioning in the condo.

You’re putting in enough hours that you could be in law school, my dad yelled from the dining room, ruining the moment with my cat. I put him down and inhaled deeply. There was no bracing myself, though, for the nightly, incessant discussion of my crumbling future.

Now, hush, my mother yelled toward the dining room. She turned to me, whispering but in a voice he assuredly could hear. My mother only had one volume: headache-inducing loud. Your father’s just in one of his moods. Long day at the office. There, there. You’ll find your way, she said, patting my arm as if I was a child who fell off her bike and not an adult whose life had imploded. I wasn’t sure which was worse: my father’s pushiness about my career or my mother’s pity.

Besides, Mom added. There are so many eligible, steady bachelors at the hotel. We’ll have you set up with a nice, stable guy in no time. I always knew Brad...

Mom, please, I implored. One of the worst parts of coming