The Vacation

T.M. Logan

What better way to celebrate summer than a luxurious villa in the south of France. In a vineyard. With your three best friends in the world. And all of your families. It’s a sun-drenched paradise — except when it’s not. And in this case, it’s really, really not.

Kate and her three best girlfriends have spent a weekend away together for decades. But this year, they’ve extended their holiday to a full week and included their spouses and kids. It’s a chance to unwind with a crisp bottle of white and give their favorite people a chance to really connect with each other.

But after a long drive through the French countryside, Kate makes a chilling discovery: Her husband is having an affair, and one of her trusted friends is the other woman. As her misgivings overwhelm her, everything she thought was true — about her confidantes, her husband, her children, maybe even herself — begins to unravel.

This story is a layer cake of secrets and suspicions, and it is delicious. T.M. Logan’s lush descriptions of the Mediterranean setting — green vineyards, sweltering sun, cobbled alleys, and the straight-from-Architectural-Digest villa — make for a satisfying contrast with the ugly goings-on among the characters.

And oh, these characters! Their decades-long relationships have engendered grudges and misunderstandings and secret alliances that hide beneath the surface of every conversation. The plot is as twisty as the streets in the nearby village, and just when the action — and relentless sunshine — are about to push everyone over the edge: a roaring thunderstorm.

This is a perfect end-of-summer read (or steamy diversion in the bleak midwinter) — a delighful melodrama of eavesdropping, peeking around corners, and assuming the worst at every turn. It’s an illicit treat! But it’s not all fireworks and brooding silences. Even at its soapiest, there’s a heartfelt exploration of just how far people will go to protect the ones they love.

Note: This novel is called The Holiday in the U.K. because British English is fancy like that.

I opened my door and stepped out, stretching my arms after the journey, the air-conditioned chill vanishing instantly as the late July heat enveloped me like a blanket. The air smelled of olives and pine and summer heat baked into the dark earth. There was no sound – no traffic, no people – except for the gentle swishing of the breeze high up in the cypress trees, the car engine ticking quietly as it cooled. We stood there, stretching and blinking in the dazzling sun, taking in the villa… three wide storeys of whitewashed stone and terracotta tiles, the parking circle shaded by olive trees, broad stone steps leading up to a double front door in dark, studded oak. — T.M. Logan

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