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The Guncle

Part of THE GUNCLE

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Paperback
$18.00 US
5.5"W x 8.19"H x 0.81"D   | 10 oz | 24 per carton
On sale Apr 05, 2022 | 368 Pages | 9780525542308
Winner of the Thurber Prize for American Humor
National Bestseller • Wall Street Journal Bestseller • USA Today Bestseller
An NPR Book of the Year
Finalist for the 2021 Goodreads Choice Awards

From the bestselling author of Lily and the Octopus and The Editor comes a warm and deeply funny novel about a once-famous gay sitcom star whose unexpected family tragedy leaves him with his niece and nephew for the summer.


Patrick, or Gay Uncle Patrick (GUP, for short), has always loved his niece, Maisie, and nephew, Grant. That is, he loves spending time with them when they come out to Palm Springs for weeklong visits, or when he heads home to Connecticut for the holidays. But in terms of caretaking and relating to two children, no matter how adorable, Patrick is, honestly, overwhelmed.

So when tragedy strikes and Maisie and Grant lose their mother and Patrick's brother has a health crisis of his own, Patrick finds himself suddenly taking on the role of primary guardian. Despite having a set of "Guncle Rules" ready to go, Patrick has no idea what to expect, having spent years barely holding on after the loss of his great love, a somewhat-stalled acting career, and a lifestyle not-so-suited to a six- and a nine-year-old. Quickly realizing that parenting--even if temporary--isn't solved with treats and jokes, Patrick's eyes are opened to a new sense of responsibility, and the realization that, sometimes, even being larger than life means you're unfailingly human.

With the humor and heart we've come to expect from bestselling author Steven Rowley, The Guncle is a moving tribute to the power of love, patience, and family in even the most trying of times.
One of:
Oprah Daily's Best Beach Reads to Help You Escape

Washington Post’s Feel-Good Books to Brighten Your Summer
CBS's Best Summer Beach Reads 2021 & 2022
Vogue's 12 Beach Reads to Get Lost in This Summer
Real Simple’s Blockbuster Beach Reads

Country Living’s 32 Can’t-Miss Beach Reads for This Summer
Southern Living’s Beach Reads Perfect for Summer 2021
Bustle's 40 Best New Books to Read This May 
E! News's 18 Best Books to Check Out in May
PopSugar’s 45 Best Summer Reads of 2021
USA Todays 5 Books Not To Miss
CNN’s 20 Books That Are Essential Reading this Pride Month
Reader's Digest's 75 Best Summer Reads of All Time
Parade’s 15 New LGBTQ+ Books to Pick Up This Summer

New York Post’s 30 Best Books On Our Summer Reading List
iHeart Radio’s 15 Best Beach Reads for Summer 2021

Christian Science Monitor's Best Books of May 
PureWow’s 10 Books We Can’t Wait to Read in May
Travel & Leisure's Most Anticipated Books of Summer

Women.com's Most Anticipated Summer Beach Reads
SheKnows’s 20 New Books You Need to Add to Your Summer Reading List
Scary Mommy’s Most Anticipated Books of Summer
Frolic's 25 Best Books of Spring 2021
Brit + Co’s 17 Beach Reads That Make the Perfect Summer Escape
NewNowNext's 17 Exciting Queer Books to Savor This Summer
Bibliolifestyle's Quintessential Summer 2021 Beach Reads
LAMBDA Literary's Most Anticipated LGBTQ Literature of May
Washington Post’s 12 Titles to Get You to the End of Summer
CNN.com’s Essential Reading for Pride Month
Book Riot’s Best LGBTQ+ Books to Read for Pride Month

"It’s one of my favorite books. . . . When I’m in a mood I go back to it because it makes me feel better. . . . It’s one of the best you can read. . . . It’s heavenly." —Whoopi Goldberg, The View

"Steven Rowley strikes a harmonious balance between the endearing gay uncle archetype and the existential dilemmas that resonate with so many readers." —Women.com

"Rowley delivers the perfect summer read: The Guncle is relentlessly witty, sweet, and heartbreaking.” –Elin Hilderbrand

"Wise and hilarious." People

"A laugh-out-loud heartwarmer." Oprah Daily

“Rowley’s depth and humor will warm even the most jaded hearts.” Washington Post

"A formerly famous gay sitcom star is suddenly tasked with raising his niece and nephew in this sweet, saucy novel." Vogue

“Deeply entertaining.” Real Simple

“Gay Uncle Patrick is given custody of his young niece and nephew for the summer, and struggles to integrate his lifestyle as an actor with his new charges.” Entertainment Weekly

“The author of Lily and The Octopus and The Editor delivers arguably his funniest and most poignant novel yet.” E! News

“[A] brilliant tale of loss and love.” GMA.com

“[A] heartwarming, hilarious tale of family ties that even the deepest grief can’t shake.” Southern Living

"An all-around charmer, this book is equally humorous and heartwarming, making it the perfect beach read.” –Today.com

“A moving tribute to love, patience, and family in even the most trying of times.” Country Living

“Rowley’s third book explores [the] bond between Guncles and their nieces (and nephews) with astute, heartwarming observations, while illustrating how the term 'parent' expands beyond traditional mom and dad roles.” —PrideSource

“A big-hearted, laugh-out-loud-funny kind of book that’s sure to stay with you long after you turn the final page.” PopSugar

“Beach read alert.” PureWow
 
“[A] funny and heartwarming beach read.” CNN
 
“[A] moving, feel-good summer escape.” Newsweek

“Cue some family growing pains and humorous antics, and you get this heartwarming novel you’ll devour in a flash.” theSkimm

“[A] feel-good story, perfect for summer.” AARP

“Often hilarious, sometimes devastating, and genuinely touching.” New York Daily News

“In his heartwarming, humorous new novel, Steven Rowley shows readers the true meaning of family, reminding us that everyone—even parents—is only human.” Travel & Leisure

"A heartwarming story...Quirky and fun...Light and sassy and warm—like an Aperol spritz atop a pink flamingo floatie. The perfect book for the upcoming summer season." –KMUW-NPR 

“Rowley hits the sweet spot between hilarity and heart in this endearing charmer.” Christian Science Monitor

“As hysterically funny as it is profound, The Guncle is the perfect summer read for anyone who’s looking for a good time with amazing characters without forfeiting deep and meaningful discussions that will feel like a balm to the soul for anyone who’s ever lost someone.” The Nerd Daily

“[A] heartwarming story.” –WBUR

"Chronicles grief in a way that offers a lot of comfort to the reader, and while at various points is a definite tearjerker, it often unlocks the humor and joy that can still be found after those we loved are gone. . . . Wistful, warm, and very funny." –Fodor’s Travel

“A warm and deeply funny novel…With the humor and heart we’ve come to expect from bestselling author Steven Rowley, The Guncle is a moving tribute to the power of love, patience, and family in even the most trying of times.” Frolic

"Rowley uses the juxtaposition of lifestyles and situations for an enormous comic harvest without once forgetting the sorrow and tragedy that have resulted in the situation. The characterizations are rich and wonderful, and Rowley writes with a tenderness, affection and empathy about life, sorry and family that's the stuff of pure heart." The Day (CT) 

“A sweet story of family, with plenty of laughs and even a few tears.” Parkersburg News & Sentinel

“Equal amounts of heartache and witty bon mots.” Palm Springs Life
 
“One of the hottest beach reads of the year.” SheReads

“The Palm Springs-set tale promises plenty of kaftans as well as family drama.” NewNowNext
 
“This hilarious and heartfelt story will make you laugh, cry, and want to be a better person.” BookRiot
 
“Hilarious and heartwarming…Auntie Mame-like laughs, lessons and hijinks ensue as Patrick—a once-famous gay sitcom star—deals with a midlife crisis while launching a second act.” Boston Spirit

“Warm and funny…[Rowley] continues bringing the hits with this feel-good read that still has depth and meaning.” Scary Mommy

The Guncle is a story that deftly balances humor with deep sentimentality. Perfectly folded into the lines of Rowley’s narrative is some of the wittiest banter mixed in with some of life’s most philosophical lessons….Rowley creates a wholesome narrative that digs deep beyond the surface, past the drollery, pulling at heartstrings and keeping the reader hooked with his tactful intuition for a beautifully balanced dramedy.” Paperback Paris

The Guncle is a love letter to the gay uncles (guncles) and their love for their nieces and nephews and will keep the reader entertained from beginning to end. . . .Rowley brilliantly taps into the loss of a loved one and the grieving that comes after.” Instinct Magazine

“A heartwarming and delightful story of love, loss, and the bonds of family.”BookBub

“Heartwarming, hilarious…Rowley finds humor and poignancy in the snappy narrative….Readers will find this delightful and illuminating.” Publishers Weekly
 
“Patrick is a memorable character, and it’s genuinely thrilling to read screenwriter-turned-novelist Rowley’s take on the mechanics of stardom....There’s true insight here into the psychology of gay men, Hollywood, and parenting. A novel with some real depth beneath all its witty froth.” Kirkus Reviews

“Influenced by comic dialogue that would make Neil Simon jealous, the novel’s serious undercurrent of loss gives way, in the end, to a warmth that will make readers smile....A funny, gentle tale of family and friends, and a salve for the wounds they often cause.” Library Journal
 
“Rowley’s sensitive and witty exploration of grief and healing soothes with a delectable lightness and cunning charm.” Booklist

“Never going too dark, The Guncle is a sweet family story that offers an unexpected yet inevitable ending.” BookPage

"A joyous Auntie Mame spritz! A reading pleasure; pour yourself a tall glass and enjoy, preferably poolside. You deserve it!" –Andrew Sean Greer, winner of the 2018 Pulitzer Prize for Less

“Patrick, the hero of Steven Rowley’s effervescent, utterly charming, and affecting novel, is the dearest friend you haven’t met yet. You’ll root for his two adorable charges as they navigate a terrible loss, and for Patrick’s own heart to make a long-overdue comeback. A cleverly subversive story about what makes a family.” –Christopher Castellani, author of Leading Men

The Guncle is super funny, charming, and tender. Love, loss, and Palm Springs are the perfect ingredients for a delightful cocktail.” –Gary Janetti, author of Do You Mind If I Cancel?

“Steven Rowley has triumphed again with his new novel The Guncle, an exuberant but tender story about life, death, family, and love. Rowley’s protagonist is a modern-day Auntie Mame with every bit of that unflappable flapper’s sharp wit and fabulous wisdom. This book is a dazzling banquet of laughter and insight; with it Rowley has proven himself to be one of the great comic novelists of our time.” –Camille Perri, author of The Assistants and When Katie Met Cassidy

“Patrick is a famous bon vivant, caftan-wearing gay uncle with a fabulous house in Palm Springs. He’s an unlikely family member to help his niece and nephew work through their feelings of raw grief after their mother dies, but it turns out he’s exactly who the kids need—just as he needs them to help him address his own, less recent loss. Steven Rowley’s assured and moving page-turner is studded with laugh-out-loud humor and moments of profound feeling and insight. This book hit every note on my emotional register, and I savored it like an Aperol drunk poolside with friends on a hot, desert day.” –Christina Clancy, author of The Second Home

“Delightful, sharp, and very funny, The Guncle is the cocktail equivalent of the fourth sip of your martini while you sit poolside at sunset. I loved lingering in this world (and loved reading the dialogue out loud). A novel as much about family and friendship as it is about style and sass, it’s a divine mix of Terms of Endearment and The Birdcage.” –Timothy Schaffert, author of The Perfume Thief and The Swan Gondola
© Afonso Salcedo Photography
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. View titles by Steven Rowley

ONE

At 8:38 a.m., the temperature was already hovering in the high eighties, on its way north of one hundred-unusual perhaps for May, but not unheard of. The desert sky was cloudless, a vibrant cobalt blue you wouldn't believe was real until you spent enough time underneath it to ensure it wasn't some sort of Hollywood effect. Patrick O'Hara stood curbside in front of the small airport, lost. The mountains surrounding Palm Springs were herculean; they worked overtime to hold back all kinds of weather-clouds, rain, humidity-everything except for wind, which accounted for the majestic windmills that stood like palace guards at the entrance to the Coachella Valley. The palm trees waved gently in the breeze, but did not so much as bend. In this moment, Patrick wished he had even a fraction of their strength.

An old Chevrolet convertible in robin's egg blue eased past him, pausing at the speed bump, the driver taking extra care not to scrape the automobile's low carriage. It hiccuped over the barrier, and then resumed a reasonable speed around the corner away from the terminal, following a line of dignified palm trees toward the airport exit like it was driving into an antiquarian postcard. It's something Patrick loved about Palm Springs, the city's timelessness. The days were long, and so clean with sunlight it was impossible to distinguish one from the next. For four years now he'd been holed up in his midcentury desert estate, the one he'd purchased with his TV money (handsome compensation for costarring in nine humiliating seasons of The People Upstairs, plus syndication, plus streaming, plus a surprisingly robust run in France), in the aptly named Movie Colony neighborhood south of Tamarisk Road. It wasn't his intent to cut himself off from the world so completely, but the city invited it. In the old studio days, actors who were under contract were not allowed to travel more than one hundred miles from Los Angeles in case a picture needed them on short notice. Palm Springs sat exactly on that line, one hundred miles as the crow flies; it became an escape-as far away as actors dared go.

When he first relocated, Patrick invited friends to visit, people in the industry mostly-oddballs he'd collected over a decade and a half in Hollywood. Sara once brought the kids for a week and they laughed and splashed in the pool like no time had passed; she made fun of him and his celebrity in the way only old friends could. Then, slowly over time, he stopped reaching out. And people stopped coming. Sara had legitimate reasons, but others just seemed to forget he existed at all. Those who observed his trickling visitors, like JED, the gay throuple who lived in the house behind his, went so far as to call him a recluse. John, Eduardo, and Dwayne would pop their grinning faces over the wall that divided their properties with friendly (but barbed) taunts, like a Snap, Crackle, and Pop who fucked. His housekeeper, Rosa, encouraged him to meet someone. "Mr. Patrick. Why you have this house all alone?" The answer was complicated and he skirted around it, knowing if he moped she would feel sorry for him and make his favorite ceviche. But to Patrick, his situation wasn't that dire. He was simply . . . done. For nine years he had given a side of himself to the world, and what he had left he owed no one.

Patrick slung his baseball cap low over his eyes as a man pulled his Lexus into a white zone, hopped out of his idling car, and said goodbye to a friend or business associate with a hearty handshake. Patrick nodded to the friend as he walked past, and was rewarded with a smack from the man's three-racket Wilson tennis bag as he slung it over his shoulder. Patrick was invisible. Anonymity, as it turns out, was easy enough; it had been just long enough since he'd been in the public eye. As for the rest, the trick was not to overdo it. A disguise had to be ordinary. Hat and sunglasses. Navy shirt, not too fitted. (A physique always drew eyes.) Anything more looked like you were trying to hide, and that invited attention. Nod hello, look the other way. It almost always did the trick.

Patrick pulled out his phone and texted his brother, Greg. I'm on my way.

The calls began just after midnight, but he'd had his phone set to do not disturb. He awoke early to thirteen missed calls (never a good number) from his parents and a fourteenth from Greg; no one left a message longer than "Call me," and Greg had not left one at all. It was a fight he'd had with his mother years back when she phoned at some ungodly hour to inform him his father was having a stroke; he returned her call in the morning.

"Where were you last night when I needed you?" his mother had asked.

"In bed, where most people are."

"The phone doesn't wake you up?"

"I have it programmed not to ring before seven a.m."

"What if there's an emergency?"

"If there's an emergency, I'll deal with it better on a full night's sleep." The logic seemed infallible to Patrick. And almost as if to prove his point, his father's "stroke" turned out to be a mild case of Bell's palsy.

Last night, however, the calls were warranted. After a valiant two-and-a-half-year battle, Sara had quietly slipped away. A loud roar rumbled then pierced the sky as a plane took off down the runway. Patrick rattled as the sidewalk vibrated, but he was otherwise numb. This wasn't happening. Not a second time. Not after Joe. And this loss of Sara was coupled with guilt. He promised when they'd met that he would never let her go. And then life intervened. She went north and married his brother. He went west and found fame on TV. And slowly, over time, he did.

Let go.

Patrick glanced down at his suitcase, almost surprised to see it there. He had no memory of packing it. Here he was, about to board a plane for the first time in years, something he used to do all the time. Even the network's private plane once or twice when they needed the cast in New York to appear together on Good Morning America or, god help him, The View. Now he was nervous, his stomach brittle. He told himself it was the occasion as much as the flight, not that it mattered. Patrick adjusted his aviators; he turned and walked inside the airport, letting the sliding glass doors open for him then close, reflecting the mountains behind him.

Baggage claim. PatrickÕs eyes scanned right past Greg to a cluster of gossiping flight attendants before recognition set in. He was expecting his father to fetch him in Hartford and so was surprised to find his brother on the other side of the glass. Greg looked depleted, thin; even from fifty feet away Patrick could read his distress-the younger brother suddenly older, as if heÕd passed through some weird vortex and aged a decade in the however many years it had been since heÕd seen him last.

When Greg spotted him, Patrick's carry-on slipped off his shoulder, the strap catching on his elbow, the bag stopping mere inches from the ground; he attempted a feeble wave. They stood there, two brothers, confused, a glass wall between them, like Patrick might bang on the glass and reenact the ending to The Graduate. But he didn't. Patrick knew; he'd seen the movie dozens of times. It might feel good in the moment, but the harsh realities of life lay ahead.

Patrick made his way through the sliding doors, past the sign that said no reentry, straight for his younger brother, hugging him tight, holding the back of his head, his fingers buried deep in Greg's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Greg was trembling. He squeezed his brother until Greg fell limp, free of emotion, for a fleeting second at least. "I'm here."

They waited for Patrick's checked bag in silence; the parade of black luggage moved at a funereal pace along the conveyor belt, town cars full of mourners in procession. They would be in such a motorcade in a few days' time. Neither brother said much on their way to the parking garage, not when Greg struggled to find the parking ticket at the prepay machine, except to usher those in line behind them to go ahead (he had absentmindedly tucked the ticket in his wallet), nor when he couldn't remember on which level he had parked the car. Patrick stayed calm and even grabbed his brother's hand when he started to turn like an animal, in rapid, panicked circles.

"Shhhh. We'll find it," he whispered.

"THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!" The voice came from around a concrete pylon, some idiot, breaking their moment. Patrick reflexively waved as if that were the first time anyone was clever enough to shout that at him and not the eleventy millionth. That's how you do it! was the catchphrase that made him a breakout character on his ABC sitcom in the back half of season two. He'd delivered it faithfully at least once an episode since, and the studio audience-usually shapeless Midwesterners in oversized clothing who couldn't get into The Price Is Right-always went wild; the second banana, for a time at least, eclipsing in popularity the top. "You're that guy, right? What happened to you?"

The question reverberated through the parking structure. The People Upstairs was the last sitcom that defined the era of network television; a special season three episode aired after the Super Bowl. The cast was on the cover of People magazine. Even a Golden Globe, for Patrick. Now people watched television in three-minute increments on their phones, if they watched anything at all. More often than not they preferred to watch themselves, making videos with filters that softened their ruddy complexions, or gave them whiskers and noses like cats.

"Yeah. I'm that guy," Patrick agreed calmly.

"Hey, say it. Say your line."

"Now is not the appropriate time."

"C'mon! Do it," the man urged.

"Okay, that's ENOUGH!" Patrick let go of his rolling suitcase and charged three steps toward the stranger, angry enough to hit him. It was Greg who pulled him back, suddenly aware they were holding hands.

The man shook his head and fished his keys out of his pocket. "Dick."

Patrick quickened their pace in the other direction, ushering Greg along before anyone overheard the altercation. It's not like he knew where the car was parked, but the last thing he needed was to attract a crowd. He kicked open a stairwell door and, once they were safely through, put his hands on his knees while he collected his breath.

A guy in a UConn hoodie came bounding up the steps two at a time like it was an Olympic track-and-field event. Patrick moved to the left to let him pass. He listened as the man ascended two more flights and kept his ears perked until the footsteps faded entirely.

"She, she just . . ." Greg began.

"I know." He wanted the safety of the car before they did this, but if it had to be in the stairwell, then so be it. "Mom told me."

"Three weeks ago she told me she wanted Steely Dan's 'Reelin' in the Years' played at her memorial and I told her to shut up. I couldn't believe the end was this close. But she knew."

Patrick turned slightly so Greg wouldn't see his own pain. "She knew everything." He should have come earlier. He should have been there to say goodbye. But he reasoned she was no longer his and hadn't been in years. Every moment he spent at her side stole a moment from Greg or the kids.

Greg shook his head. Patrick focused on the window in the stairwell; someone had etched their initials with their keys. Beyond, planes were taking off and coming in, lights in formation dotting the evening sky.

"The doctor said that after a-" A car screeched around the corner just outside the door. Greg looked at each raw concrete wall as if noticing this prison for the very first time. "I guess it doesn't matter what the doctor said. I was there with her, but she was gone before the kids could arrive." He retched three times before doubling over, bracing his hands on his knees. Patrick pushed his suitcase back, stepped forward, held his brother by the hood of his sweatshirt, and winced.

"Come here," he said after it was clear there was nothing in Greg's stomach to empty. He helped his brother up half a flight to the next landing, away from this scene and, maybe, hopefully, closer to the car. He dragged his suitcase behind him, disgusted by what he might be dragging it through, knowing already he would burn it and buy new luggage upon his return home.

Greg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grabbing the railing to steady himself. "How did you survive this? With Joe?"

Patrick stopped cold, as if caught in a horrible lie. He pinched the bridge of his nose (where he could still feel the scar from the accident that took his boyfriend) and inhaled sharply. I didn't, he thought. Survive. That was always his first response. But he was here, wasn't he? He was the one still standing in the face of loss anew. He pointed up the rest of the stairs. "Let's look for the car up there."

They walked the aisles of this new level, Patrick having relieved Greg of the key fob and clicking it every few feet to listen for a telltale honk or to spot a set of flashing taillights. They ambled up one aisle and down the next for four or five rows before either of them said another word.

"What are you doing here?" Patrick asked.

"Huh?"

Patrick stopped to look at his brother. Why wasn't he with the kids? "Greg."

Greg stopped, turned back to face him, but didn't answer.

"I thought Dad was picking me up."

"I'm a drug addict."

The cross talk was almost comical; Patrick tried hard not to laugh. It was one thing for Greg to employ humor as a coping mechanism for grief, but it was another for Patrick to come off in any way cavalier. So instead he just said, "Is this where you meet your dealer?" He looked up at the nearest post, which said 4e. "Should we pick up some catnip before we go home?"

"It's not a joke." Greg sat himself down on the bumper of a white passenger van, gently, so as not to set off an alarm.

About

Winner of the Thurber Prize for American Humor
National Bestseller • Wall Street Journal Bestseller • USA Today Bestseller
An NPR Book of the Year
Finalist for the 2021 Goodreads Choice Awards

From the bestselling author of Lily and the Octopus and The Editor comes a warm and deeply funny novel about a once-famous gay sitcom star whose unexpected family tragedy leaves him with his niece and nephew for the summer.


Patrick, or Gay Uncle Patrick (GUP, for short), has always loved his niece, Maisie, and nephew, Grant. That is, he loves spending time with them when they come out to Palm Springs for weeklong visits, or when he heads home to Connecticut for the holidays. But in terms of caretaking and relating to two children, no matter how adorable, Patrick is, honestly, overwhelmed.

So when tragedy strikes and Maisie and Grant lose their mother and Patrick's brother has a health crisis of his own, Patrick finds himself suddenly taking on the role of primary guardian. Despite having a set of "Guncle Rules" ready to go, Patrick has no idea what to expect, having spent years barely holding on after the loss of his great love, a somewhat-stalled acting career, and a lifestyle not-so-suited to a six- and a nine-year-old. Quickly realizing that parenting--even if temporary--isn't solved with treats and jokes, Patrick's eyes are opened to a new sense of responsibility, and the realization that, sometimes, even being larger than life means you're unfailingly human.

With the humor and heart we've come to expect from bestselling author Steven Rowley, The Guncle is a moving tribute to the power of love, patience, and family in even the most trying of times.

Praise

One of:
Oprah Daily's Best Beach Reads to Help You Escape

Washington Post’s Feel-Good Books to Brighten Your Summer
CBS's Best Summer Beach Reads 2021 & 2022
Vogue's 12 Beach Reads to Get Lost in This Summer
Real Simple’s Blockbuster Beach Reads

Country Living’s 32 Can’t-Miss Beach Reads for This Summer
Southern Living’s Beach Reads Perfect for Summer 2021
Bustle's 40 Best New Books to Read This May 
E! News's 18 Best Books to Check Out in May
PopSugar’s 45 Best Summer Reads of 2021
USA Todays 5 Books Not To Miss
CNN’s 20 Books That Are Essential Reading this Pride Month
Reader's Digest's 75 Best Summer Reads of All Time
Parade’s 15 New LGBTQ+ Books to Pick Up This Summer

New York Post’s 30 Best Books On Our Summer Reading List
iHeart Radio’s 15 Best Beach Reads for Summer 2021

Christian Science Monitor's Best Books of May 
PureWow’s 10 Books We Can’t Wait to Read in May
Travel & Leisure's Most Anticipated Books of Summer

Women.com's Most Anticipated Summer Beach Reads
SheKnows’s 20 New Books You Need to Add to Your Summer Reading List
Scary Mommy’s Most Anticipated Books of Summer
Frolic's 25 Best Books of Spring 2021
Brit + Co’s 17 Beach Reads That Make the Perfect Summer Escape
NewNowNext's 17 Exciting Queer Books to Savor This Summer
Bibliolifestyle's Quintessential Summer 2021 Beach Reads
LAMBDA Literary's Most Anticipated LGBTQ Literature of May
Washington Post’s 12 Titles to Get You to the End of Summer
CNN.com’s Essential Reading for Pride Month
Book Riot’s Best LGBTQ+ Books to Read for Pride Month

"It’s one of my favorite books. . . . When I’m in a mood I go back to it because it makes me feel better. . . . It’s one of the best you can read. . . . It’s heavenly." —Whoopi Goldberg, The View

"Steven Rowley strikes a harmonious balance between the endearing gay uncle archetype and the existential dilemmas that resonate with so many readers." —Women.com

"Rowley delivers the perfect summer read: The Guncle is relentlessly witty, sweet, and heartbreaking.” –Elin Hilderbrand

"Wise and hilarious." People

"A laugh-out-loud heartwarmer." Oprah Daily

“Rowley’s depth and humor will warm even the most jaded hearts.” Washington Post

"A formerly famous gay sitcom star is suddenly tasked with raising his niece and nephew in this sweet, saucy novel." Vogue

“Deeply entertaining.” Real Simple

“Gay Uncle Patrick is given custody of his young niece and nephew for the summer, and struggles to integrate his lifestyle as an actor with his new charges.” Entertainment Weekly

“The author of Lily and The Octopus and The Editor delivers arguably his funniest and most poignant novel yet.” E! News

“[A] brilliant tale of loss and love.” GMA.com

“[A] heartwarming, hilarious tale of family ties that even the deepest grief can’t shake.” Southern Living

"An all-around charmer, this book is equally humorous and heartwarming, making it the perfect beach read.” –Today.com

“A moving tribute to love, patience, and family in even the most trying of times.” Country Living

“Rowley’s third book explores [the] bond between Guncles and their nieces (and nephews) with astute, heartwarming observations, while illustrating how the term 'parent' expands beyond traditional mom and dad roles.” —PrideSource

“A big-hearted, laugh-out-loud-funny kind of book that’s sure to stay with you long after you turn the final page.” PopSugar

“Beach read alert.” PureWow
 
“[A] funny and heartwarming beach read.” CNN
 
“[A] moving, feel-good summer escape.” Newsweek

“Cue some family growing pains and humorous antics, and you get this heartwarming novel you’ll devour in a flash.” theSkimm

“[A] feel-good story, perfect for summer.” AARP

“Often hilarious, sometimes devastating, and genuinely touching.” New York Daily News

“In his heartwarming, humorous new novel, Steven Rowley shows readers the true meaning of family, reminding us that everyone—even parents—is only human.” Travel & Leisure

"A heartwarming story...Quirky and fun...Light and sassy and warm—like an Aperol spritz atop a pink flamingo floatie. The perfect book for the upcoming summer season." –KMUW-NPR 

“Rowley hits the sweet spot between hilarity and heart in this endearing charmer.” Christian Science Monitor

“As hysterically funny as it is profound, The Guncle is the perfect summer read for anyone who’s looking for a good time with amazing characters without forfeiting deep and meaningful discussions that will feel like a balm to the soul for anyone who’s ever lost someone.” The Nerd Daily

“[A] heartwarming story.” –WBUR

"Chronicles grief in a way that offers a lot of comfort to the reader, and while at various points is a definite tearjerker, it often unlocks the humor and joy that can still be found after those we loved are gone. . . . Wistful, warm, and very funny." –Fodor’s Travel

“A warm and deeply funny novel…With the humor and heart we’ve come to expect from bestselling author Steven Rowley, The Guncle is a moving tribute to the power of love, patience, and family in even the most trying of times.” Frolic

"Rowley uses the juxtaposition of lifestyles and situations for an enormous comic harvest without once forgetting the sorrow and tragedy that have resulted in the situation. The characterizations are rich and wonderful, and Rowley writes with a tenderness, affection and empathy about life, sorry and family that's the stuff of pure heart." The Day (CT) 

“A sweet story of family, with plenty of laughs and even a few tears.” Parkersburg News & Sentinel

“Equal amounts of heartache and witty bon mots.” Palm Springs Life
 
“One of the hottest beach reads of the year.” SheReads

“The Palm Springs-set tale promises plenty of kaftans as well as family drama.” NewNowNext
 
“This hilarious and heartfelt story will make you laugh, cry, and want to be a better person.” BookRiot
 
“Hilarious and heartwarming…Auntie Mame-like laughs, lessons and hijinks ensue as Patrick—a once-famous gay sitcom star—deals with a midlife crisis while launching a second act.” Boston Spirit

“Warm and funny…[Rowley] continues bringing the hits with this feel-good read that still has depth and meaning.” Scary Mommy

The Guncle is a story that deftly balances humor with deep sentimentality. Perfectly folded into the lines of Rowley’s narrative is some of the wittiest banter mixed in with some of life’s most philosophical lessons….Rowley creates a wholesome narrative that digs deep beyond the surface, past the drollery, pulling at heartstrings and keeping the reader hooked with his tactful intuition for a beautifully balanced dramedy.” Paperback Paris

The Guncle is a love letter to the gay uncles (guncles) and their love for their nieces and nephews and will keep the reader entertained from beginning to end. . . .Rowley brilliantly taps into the loss of a loved one and the grieving that comes after.” Instinct Magazine

“A heartwarming and delightful story of love, loss, and the bonds of family.”BookBub

“Heartwarming, hilarious…Rowley finds humor and poignancy in the snappy narrative….Readers will find this delightful and illuminating.” Publishers Weekly
 
“Patrick is a memorable character, and it’s genuinely thrilling to read screenwriter-turned-novelist Rowley’s take on the mechanics of stardom....There’s true insight here into the psychology of gay men, Hollywood, and parenting. A novel with some real depth beneath all its witty froth.” Kirkus Reviews

“Influenced by comic dialogue that would make Neil Simon jealous, the novel’s serious undercurrent of loss gives way, in the end, to a warmth that will make readers smile....A funny, gentle tale of family and friends, and a salve for the wounds they often cause.” Library Journal
 
“Rowley’s sensitive and witty exploration of grief and healing soothes with a delectable lightness and cunning charm.” Booklist

“Never going too dark, The Guncle is a sweet family story that offers an unexpected yet inevitable ending.” BookPage

"A joyous Auntie Mame spritz! A reading pleasure; pour yourself a tall glass and enjoy, preferably poolside. You deserve it!" –Andrew Sean Greer, winner of the 2018 Pulitzer Prize for Less

“Patrick, the hero of Steven Rowley’s effervescent, utterly charming, and affecting novel, is the dearest friend you haven’t met yet. You’ll root for his two adorable charges as they navigate a terrible loss, and for Patrick’s own heart to make a long-overdue comeback. A cleverly subversive story about what makes a family.” –Christopher Castellani, author of Leading Men

The Guncle is super funny, charming, and tender. Love, loss, and Palm Springs are the perfect ingredients for a delightful cocktail.” –Gary Janetti, author of Do You Mind If I Cancel?

“Steven Rowley has triumphed again with his new novel The Guncle, an exuberant but tender story about life, death, family, and love. Rowley’s protagonist is a modern-day Auntie Mame with every bit of that unflappable flapper’s sharp wit and fabulous wisdom. This book is a dazzling banquet of laughter and insight; with it Rowley has proven himself to be one of the great comic novelists of our time.” –Camille Perri, author of The Assistants and When Katie Met Cassidy

“Patrick is a famous bon vivant, caftan-wearing gay uncle with a fabulous house in Palm Springs. He’s an unlikely family member to help his niece and nephew work through their feelings of raw grief after their mother dies, but it turns out he’s exactly who the kids need—just as he needs them to help him address his own, less recent loss. Steven Rowley’s assured and moving page-turner is studded with laugh-out-loud humor and moments of profound feeling and insight. This book hit every note on my emotional register, and I savored it like an Aperol drunk poolside with friends on a hot, desert day.” –Christina Clancy, author of The Second Home

“Delightful, sharp, and very funny, The Guncle is the cocktail equivalent of the fourth sip of your martini while you sit poolside at sunset. I loved lingering in this world (and loved reading the dialogue out loud). A novel as much about family and friendship as it is about style and sass, it’s a divine mix of Terms of Endearment and The Birdcage.” –Timothy Schaffert, author of The Perfume Thief and The Swan Gondola

Author

© Afonso Salcedo Photography
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. View titles by Steven Rowley

Excerpt

ONE

At 8:38 a.m., the temperature was already hovering in the high eighties, on its way north of one hundred-unusual perhaps for May, but not unheard of. The desert sky was cloudless, a vibrant cobalt blue you wouldn't believe was real until you spent enough time underneath it to ensure it wasn't some sort of Hollywood effect. Patrick O'Hara stood curbside in front of the small airport, lost. The mountains surrounding Palm Springs were herculean; they worked overtime to hold back all kinds of weather-clouds, rain, humidity-everything except for wind, which accounted for the majestic windmills that stood like palace guards at the entrance to the Coachella Valley. The palm trees waved gently in the breeze, but did not so much as bend. In this moment, Patrick wished he had even a fraction of their strength.

An old Chevrolet convertible in robin's egg blue eased past him, pausing at the speed bump, the driver taking extra care not to scrape the automobile's low carriage. It hiccuped over the barrier, and then resumed a reasonable speed around the corner away from the terminal, following a line of dignified palm trees toward the airport exit like it was driving into an antiquarian postcard. It's something Patrick loved about Palm Springs, the city's timelessness. The days were long, and so clean with sunlight it was impossible to distinguish one from the next. For four years now he'd been holed up in his midcentury desert estate, the one he'd purchased with his TV money (handsome compensation for costarring in nine humiliating seasons of The People Upstairs, plus syndication, plus streaming, plus a surprisingly robust run in France), in the aptly named Movie Colony neighborhood south of Tamarisk Road. It wasn't his intent to cut himself off from the world so completely, but the city invited it. In the old studio days, actors who were under contract were not allowed to travel more than one hundred miles from Los Angeles in case a picture needed them on short notice. Palm Springs sat exactly on that line, one hundred miles as the crow flies; it became an escape-as far away as actors dared go.

When he first relocated, Patrick invited friends to visit, people in the industry mostly-oddballs he'd collected over a decade and a half in Hollywood. Sara once brought the kids for a week and they laughed and splashed in the pool like no time had passed; she made fun of him and his celebrity in the way only old friends could. Then, slowly over time, he stopped reaching out. And people stopped coming. Sara had legitimate reasons, but others just seemed to forget he existed at all. Those who observed his trickling visitors, like JED, the gay throuple who lived in the house behind his, went so far as to call him a recluse. John, Eduardo, and Dwayne would pop their grinning faces over the wall that divided their properties with friendly (but barbed) taunts, like a Snap, Crackle, and Pop who fucked. His housekeeper, Rosa, encouraged him to meet someone. "Mr. Patrick. Why you have this house all alone?" The answer was complicated and he skirted around it, knowing if he moped she would feel sorry for him and make his favorite ceviche. But to Patrick, his situation wasn't that dire. He was simply . . . done. For nine years he had given a side of himself to the world, and what he had left he owed no one.

Patrick slung his baseball cap low over his eyes as a man pulled his Lexus into a white zone, hopped out of his idling car, and said goodbye to a friend or business associate with a hearty handshake. Patrick nodded to the friend as he walked past, and was rewarded with a smack from the man's three-racket Wilson tennis bag as he slung it over his shoulder. Patrick was invisible. Anonymity, as it turns out, was easy enough; it had been just long enough since he'd been in the public eye. As for the rest, the trick was not to overdo it. A disguise had to be ordinary. Hat and sunglasses. Navy shirt, not too fitted. (A physique always drew eyes.) Anything more looked like you were trying to hide, and that invited attention. Nod hello, look the other way. It almost always did the trick.

Patrick pulled out his phone and texted his brother, Greg. I'm on my way.

The calls began just after midnight, but he'd had his phone set to do not disturb. He awoke early to thirteen missed calls (never a good number) from his parents and a fourteenth from Greg; no one left a message longer than "Call me," and Greg had not left one at all. It was a fight he'd had with his mother years back when she phoned at some ungodly hour to inform him his father was having a stroke; he returned her call in the morning.

"Where were you last night when I needed you?" his mother had asked.

"In bed, where most people are."

"The phone doesn't wake you up?"

"I have it programmed not to ring before seven a.m."

"What if there's an emergency?"

"If there's an emergency, I'll deal with it better on a full night's sleep." The logic seemed infallible to Patrick. And almost as if to prove his point, his father's "stroke" turned out to be a mild case of Bell's palsy.

Last night, however, the calls were warranted. After a valiant two-and-a-half-year battle, Sara had quietly slipped away. A loud roar rumbled then pierced the sky as a plane took off down the runway. Patrick rattled as the sidewalk vibrated, but he was otherwise numb. This wasn't happening. Not a second time. Not after Joe. And this loss of Sara was coupled with guilt. He promised when they'd met that he would never let her go. And then life intervened. She went north and married his brother. He went west and found fame on TV. And slowly, over time, he did.

Let go.

Patrick glanced down at his suitcase, almost surprised to see it there. He had no memory of packing it. Here he was, about to board a plane for the first time in years, something he used to do all the time. Even the network's private plane once or twice when they needed the cast in New York to appear together on Good Morning America or, god help him, The View. Now he was nervous, his stomach brittle. He told himself it was the occasion as much as the flight, not that it mattered. Patrick adjusted his aviators; he turned and walked inside the airport, letting the sliding glass doors open for him then close, reflecting the mountains behind him.

Baggage claim. PatrickÕs eyes scanned right past Greg to a cluster of gossiping flight attendants before recognition set in. He was expecting his father to fetch him in Hartford and so was surprised to find his brother on the other side of the glass. Greg looked depleted, thin; even from fifty feet away Patrick could read his distress-the younger brother suddenly older, as if heÕd passed through some weird vortex and aged a decade in the however many years it had been since heÕd seen him last.

When Greg spotted him, Patrick's carry-on slipped off his shoulder, the strap catching on his elbow, the bag stopping mere inches from the ground; he attempted a feeble wave. They stood there, two brothers, confused, a glass wall between them, like Patrick might bang on the glass and reenact the ending to The Graduate. But he didn't. Patrick knew; he'd seen the movie dozens of times. It might feel good in the moment, but the harsh realities of life lay ahead.

Patrick made his way through the sliding doors, past the sign that said no reentry, straight for his younger brother, hugging him tight, holding the back of his head, his fingers buried deep in Greg's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Greg was trembling. He squeezed his brother until Greg fell limp, free of emotion, for a fleeting second at least. "I'm here."

They waited for Patrick's checked bag in silence; the parade of black luggage moved at a funereal pace along the conveyor belt, town cars full of mourners in procession. They would be in such a motorcade in a few days' time. Neither brother said much on their way to the parking garage, not when Greg struggled to find the parking ticket at the prepay machine, except to usher those in line behind them to go ahead (he had absentmindedly tucked the ticket in his wallet), nor when he couldn't remember on which level he had parked the car. Patrick stayed calm and even grabbed his brother's hand when he started to turn like an animal, in rapid, panicked circles.

"Shhhh. We'll find it," he whispered.

"THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!" The voice came from around a concrete pylon, some idiot, breaking their moment. Patrick reflexively waved as if that were the first time anyone was clever enough to shout that at him and not the eleventy millionth. That's how you do it! was the catchphrase that made him a breakout character on his ABC sitcom in the back half of season two. He'd delivered it faithfully at least once an episode since, and the studio audience-usually shapeless Midwesterners in oversized clothing who couldn't get into The Price Is Right-always went wild; the second banana, for a time at least, eclipsing in popularity the top. "You're that guy, right? What happened to you?"

The question reverberated through the parking structure. The People Upstairs was the last sitcom that defined the era of network television; a special season three episode aired after the Super Bowl. The cast was on the cover of People magazine. Even a Golden Globe, for Patrick. Now people watched television in three-minute increments on their phones, if they watched anything at all. More often than not they preferred to watch themselves, making videos with filters that softened their ruddy complexions, or gave them whiskers and noses like cats.

"Yeah. I'm that guy," Patrick agreed calmly.

"Hey, say it. Say your line."

"Now is not the appropriate time."

"C'mon! Do it," the man urged.

"Okay, that's ENOUGH!" Patrick let go of his rolling suitcase and charged three steps toward the stranger, angry enough to hit him. It was Greg who pulled him back, suddenly aware they were holding hands.

The man shook his head and fished his keys out of his pocket. "Dick."

Patrick quickened their pace in the other direction, ushering Greg along before anyone overheard the altercation. It's not like he knew where the car was parked, but the last thing he needed was to attract a crowd. He kicked open a stairwell door and, once they were safely through, put his hands on his knees while he collected his breath.

A guy in a UConn hoodie came bounding up the steps two at a time like it was an Olympic track-and-field event. Patrick moved to the left to let him pass. He listened as the man ascended two more flights and kept his ears perked until the footsteps faded entirely.

"She, she just . . ." Greg began.

"I know." He wanted the safety of the car before they did this, but if it had to be in the stairwell, then so be it. "Mom told me."

"Three weeks ago she told me she wanted Steely Dan's 'Reelin' in the Years' played at her memorial and I told her to shut up. I couldn't believe the end was this close. But she knew."

Patrick turned slightly so Greg wouldn't see his own pain. "She knew everything." He should have come earlier. He should have been there to say goodbye. But he reasoned she was no longer his and hadn't been in years. Every moment he spent at her side stole a moment from Greg or the kids.

Greg shook his head. Patrick focused on the window in the stairwell; someone had etched their initials with their keys. Beyond, planes were taking off and coming in, lights in formation dotting the evening sky.

"The doctor said that after a-" A car screeched around the corner just outside the door. Greg looked at each raw concrete wall as if noticing this prison for the very first time. "I guess it doesn't matter what the doctor said. I was there with her, but she was gone before the kids could arrive." He retched three times before doubling over, bracing his hands on his knees. Patrick pushed his suitcase back, stepped forward, held his brother by the hood of his sweatshirt, and winced.

"Come here," he said after it was clear there was nothing in Greg's stomach to empty. He helped his brother up half a flight to the next landing, away from this scene and, maybe, hopefully, closer to the car. He dragged his suitcase behind him, disgusted by what he might be dragging it through, knowing already he would burn it and buy new luggage upon his return home.

Greg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grabbing the railing to steady himself. "How did you survive this? With Joe?"

Patrick stopped cold, as if caught in a horrible lie. He pinched the bridge of his nose (where he could still feel the scar from the accident that took his boyfriend) and inhaled sharply. I didn't, he thought. Survive. That was always his first response. But he was here, wasn't he? He was the one still standing in the face of loss anew. He pointed up the rest of the stairs. "Let's look for the car up there."

They walked the aisles of this new level, Patrick having relieved Greg of the key fob and clicking it every few feet to listen for a telltale honk or to spot a set of flashing taillights. They ambled up one aisle and down the next for four or five rows before either of them said another word.

"What are you doing here?" Patrick asked.

"Huh?"

Patrick stopped to look at his brother. Why wasn't he with the kids? "Greg."

Greg stopped, turned back to face him, but didn't answer.

"I thought Dad was picking me up."

"I'm a drug addict."

The cross talk was almost comical; Patrick tried hard not to laugh. It was one thing for Greg to employ humor as a coping mechanism for grief, but it was another for Patrick to come off in any way cavalier. So instead he just said, "Is this where you meet your dealer?" He looked up at the nearest post, which said 4e. "Should we pick up some catnip before we go home?"

"It's not a joke." Greg sat himself down on the bumper of a white passenger van, gently, so as not to set off an alarm.