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Informationen zum Autor Steven Rowley is the bestselling author of five novels including, Lily and the Octopus, a Washington Post Notable Book; The Editor, an NPR Best Book of the Year; The Guncle, winner of the 22nd Thurber Prize for American Humor and Goodreads Choice Awards finalist for Novel of the Year; and The Celebrants . His fiction has been translated in twenty languages. He resides in Palm Springs, California. Klappentext From the nationally bestselling author of The Guncle comes the much-anticipated sequel, in which Patrick O’Hara is called back to his guncle duties…at a big, family wedding in Lake Como, Italy. Patrick O’Hara is finally in a league of his own…professionally. Inspired by his stint as Grant and Maisie’s caretaker after their mother’s passing, Patrick has "un-stalled" his acting career with sit-com, Guncle Knows Best . Still, some things have had to take a back seat. Looking down both barrels at fifty, Patrick is single and lonely after breaking things off with Emory. But at least he has family, right? When his brother Greg announces his big, second wedding in Lake Como, Italy, Patrick feels pulled toward Grant and Maisie and flies to Europe to attend the lavish event, only to butt heads with a newfound Launt (Lesbian Aunt), curb his sister Clara from flirting with guests, and desperately restore himself to the favored relative status in the eyes of the kids, as they struggle to adjust to a new normal. But is it Patrick’s job to save the day? Or is simply celebrating love enough to quell the family chaos? Gracing the page with his signature blend of humor and heart, Steven Rowley delivers the long-awaited sequel to a beloved story, all about the complicated bonds of family, love, and what it takes to rediscover yourself, even at the ripe age of fifty. Leseprobe ONE Patrick mustered the last of his patience to smile warmly at the Claridge's doorman before slumping against the revolving door into the hotel to jump-start its spin. Nothing. Even employing his full weight he didn't have the strength to nudge the London hotel's door from a dead stop, and he looked pathetically at the doorman for an assist. Over his weeks-long stay he had come to find the doorman's commitment to the top hat to be, well, a tad over the top-a bit of a bad habit-dashery-but as the man tipped his brim with a wink and sprang to help, Patrick was charmed in spite of himself. At last he was inside the hotel. "Evening, Pip." Patrick waved as he emerged from the door at last. The night clerk looked up from his paperwork with wide eyes; instead of the string bean his name might suggest, Pip was squat and muscular and filled out his classic uniform quite nicely. Claridge's was a London institution situated between Hyde and Green Parks, triangulating it perfectly with Buckingham and Kensington Palaces, and everyone who worked there was seemingly named after a Dickens character, even Pip, who had moved to England just three years prior from Jaipur. During Patrick's first week in residence at the hotel, he amused himself by assigning names to the people he did not know. Mr. Bumbleporridge. Jiminy Pocket. Madame Squeers. But no such made-up name was required for his favorite employee. "Have anything for me?" "Evening, sir. Nothing for you, I'm afraid, but I do have an envelope for Jack Curtis." Patrick chuckled as he accepted his mail. Jack Curtis was the name he used when he didn't want to attract attention (a combination of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis from the movie Some Like It Hot). He used the envelope to salute Pip. "I see you're leaving us on Friday," Pip said. "The party had to end sometime." Shooting a film wasn't exactly a party, and certainly not this one, which had been plagued by both poor weather and endless rewrites, but Patrick was committed to use the last of his energy ...
