Photo: Chicago History Museum, ICHi-073008A

Last week, my novel, The Innkeeper’s Wife: A Novel of Bertha Palmer and Gilded Age Chicago launched into the world. Yep, I can now say I’m a published author!

One question I keep getting asked is: Why did you choose to write the book as historical fiction rather than a biography?

When I was researching Bertha Palmer’s life and Gilded Age Chicago, I was fascinated by the history. The Great Chicago Fire, the rebuilding of Chicago, the World’s Columbian Exposition and learning about Chicagoans who lived at that time. Reading old newspapers, spending hours in museum archives finding interesting facts about that time was not work to me. It was fun. This history geek was in heaven, but the more I learned, the more I wanted to know.

Facts only tell us part of the story. What did it feel like to live through that period of history? To experience the Great Chicago Fire, to rebuild the city, to attend as a guest at the 1893 World Fair, to ride the new invention called the Ferris wheel for the first time?

I wanted to step inside the story. I wanted to know how it felt. I guess that is when I realized I didn’t really want to write a biography, and what I wanted to do was a novel. Historical fiction gave me something biography couldn’t: the freedom to step into the gaps in the historical record and imagine the lives that might have existed there.

Living in Chicago I was fortunate to have the research libraries of the Chicago History Museum, Newberry Library and the Ryerson Library at the Art Institute at my disposal. I was also fortunate to find experts that were generous with their time and knowledge in helping me understand what Bertha’s world was like.

This book has been a fun and exciting (pardon the pun) chapter in my life. I’ve loved getting to know Bertha Palmer, Gilded Age Chicago and chasing down historical facts that brought this world to life for me.

Now that my book has been launched into the world, I hope that you too can feel what it was like to be in that world. And if you learn a little about Chicago history along the way, then this history geek would be very happy.

There are days in your life that you will never forget. For me I will never forget my wedding day, the day each of my children were born, the day the White Sox won the World Series, the day the Cubs won the series (Sorry dear husband, son and brothers who are devoted Sox fans, but it was a big day for me and Chicago).

Now I have another day to add to my memories, and that was yesterday.

Yesterday was the day my book, The Innkeeper’s Wife launched at the Palmer House. The evening was perfect. 250 people had signed up and the launch was in the Honoré room with a large portrait of Bertha Palmer behind me. It was magical.

I’m not going to lie, I was a bit of an emotional mess before the event. Hearing friends and family were attending, some were flying in for event, made it feel even bigger. I realized they weren’t coming to hear about my book, they were coming to share my moment with me.

And then there was the other half of the people attending. People I did not know and met for the first time. They had read/heard about it and were curious enough to come and listen.

When it came time for the talk to begin, I took the stage and looked out at the audience and felt the love in the room. How magical is that?

The idea to write a novel about Bertha Palmer and Gilded Age Chicago came full circle to the place where that idea started, the Palmer House Hotel.

I could not have dreamed when I started this journey years ago, a better way to bring this book into the world.

So now I have a new memory to add to my special days.

The day my book came home.

It’s here! My book launch is today and out in the world.

I woke up at 2 am and checked Amazon to see if my audiobook and paperback were uploaded. They were!

This wonderful journey, which started out with curiosity about a woman who got a hotel as a wedding gift is now entering it’s next chapter. People actually reading it.

Of course I ask myself, I hope they like it? We shall have to wait and see.

My book is available on Amazon and soon in select bookstores.

Shameless plug: If you enjoyed the book, please leave an Amazon and Goodreads review. There are twelve books with the Innkeeper’s Wife title. Every review helps with visibility and makes it easier for readers to find my book.

Thank you!

My launch will be at the Palmer House one week from today. I’m both thrilled and nervous. After eight years of research and writing, I’ll finally be sending my book into the world.

My journey with Bertha Palmer began eleven years ago when I certified as a Chicago Architecture Foundation docent. During training, I learned that the first Palmer House hotel was Potter Palmer’s wedding gift to his young bride, Bertha. I couldn’t stop wondering: What kind of woman inspired such an extraordinary gift?

Later that year, while serving as assistant tour director for a World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893 tour, I discovered another side of her story. Bertha was president of the Board of Lady Managers, the women who made the Woman’s Building at the fair possible.

I’ve always loved the Monets and Renoirs at the Art Institute of Chicago. Discovering that Bertha collected Impressionist paintings before they were popular and donated her collection to the Art Institute made me see her in an entirely new light.

One discovery led to another. Every answer raised new questions, and every question sent me down another rabbit hole. Those rabbit holes eventually became a book.

I hope my book introduces more readers to Bertha Palmer and the remarkable life she lived.

In the weeks that followed, some days getting out of bed felt like more than I could manage. I missed her voice, her advice, and the comfort of knowing I could still pick up the phone and call her.

About a month after her death, I needed to do something, anything, to honor her memory and give my grief somewhere to go. I went to the Missionaries of Charity soup kitchen where I had volunteered with other St. Ignatius School moms. When I arrived, one of the nuns greeted me.

“Where have you been, Siobhan?” she asked.

I told her about my mother’s cancer and her death.

The sister listened quietly and then asked, “Were you with her when she passed?”

“Yes,” I replied.

A smile spread across her face.

“What a privilege,” she said. “You got to be with your mom when she saw the face of God.”

I stared at her. I did not feel privileged. I wanted my mother here. I wanted her laugh, her voice, her presence. I simply wanted more time. But her words stayed with me.

Over time, I began to understand what the sister meant. She wasn’t dismissing my grief. She wasn’t suggesting that losing my mother was anything less than devastating. She was pointing to something I couldn’t see then: that even in the pain, there had been grace in being present.

The following year, I was with my mother-in-law when she passed away. In 2019, I was with my father when he died. Each loss carried its own grief, and each goodbye broke my heart in a different way.

I understand why many people avoid that period of life. Watching someone you love decline can feel unbearable. We often tell ourselves we want to remember people as they were before illness changed them.

But being present in those final days is something else entirely. The things I once thought mattered, like everything waiting on my calendar, simply disappeared. The only thing that mattered was sitting beside her. It is heartbreaking and it is real in a way few other moments are.

Not everyone has this experience. Some deaths come suddenly. Sometimes circumstances make it impossible to be there, but that does not lessen the love that remains. But I know what being there gave me. It gave me the chance to hold my mother’s hand. To tell her I loved her. To accompany her on the final part of her journey.

Whenever I think of that conversation with the sister, I still hear her words: “What a privilege. You got to be with your mom when she saw the face of God.”

Years later, I understand she was reminding me that love does not end at death.

Happy heavenly birthday, Mom.

I still miss you every day.

Photo of Bertha from the Chicago History Museum

People often ask me how I ended up writing a book about Bertha Honoré Palmer. The answer is simple: completely by accident.

Eleven years ago, I became a docent with the Chicago Architecture Center, leading architecture tours through downtown Chicago. Two of my tours included a stop at the Palmer House, and it quickly became one of my favorite places to talk about.

At first, I was simply sharing the stories I had learned during docent training. But the more I talked about the hotel, the more questions I found myself asking.

Who were the people behind the Palmer House, especially Bertha Palmer, the woman whose vision and influence helped shape its legacy? What really happened after the Great Chicago Fire? How did this hotel become such an enduring part of Chicago’s history? One question led naturally to another.

Before I knew it, I was spending evenings reading old newspapers, digging through archives, and chasing one clue after another. I wasn’t looking for a book idea. I was simply trying to understand the story behind the place I was introducing to visitors.

The Palmer House became much more than a stop on my tour. It became a subject I couldn’t stop exploring. The more I learned about Bertha Palmer, the more I realized her story was far larger, more complex, and more fascinating than I had ever imagined. Eventually, the research that began as simple curiosity grew into a book.

Looking back, it’s funny how life works. I thought I was volunteering to share Chicago’s architectural history. I had no idea those tours would eventually lead me to write a book.

For me, it all began with a stop at the Palmer House.

Every time I walk into the Palmer House lobby, I look up.

Above me, twenty-one painted panels inspired by classical mythology stretch across the ceiling. Below them, Tiffany wall sconces cast a warm glow across the marble and gilded ornamentation. For a moment, the noise of downtown Chicago fades away, and I am reminded that some places do not simply preserve the past. They invite you to step inside it.

As a native Chicagoan, I have always believed our city tells stories unlike any other place in America. Rebuilt after the Great Chicago Fire, Chicago has continually been shaped by people determined to build something new. Dreamers, immigrants, entrepreneurs, and visionaries transformed not only the city itself but our nation’s imagination of what a modern city could become.

Few places embody that spirit more fully than the Palmer House Hilton.

As I explored the hotel’s history, I realized its story could not be separated from the remarkable woman who helped shape its legacy, Bertha Honoré Palmer.

When Potter Palmer opened the original hotel in 1870, shortly after marrying Bertha, neither of them could have imagined that the Great Chicago Fire would destroy it not long after it opened. Instead of surrendering to disaster, they rebuilt. That determination became part of the hotel’s identity and, in many ways, part of Chicago’s own story.

Bertha Palmer was far more than the wife of a successful businessman. As president of the Board of Lady Managers for the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, she championed women’s achievements through the Woman’s Building. She also played a pivotal role in building the Art Institute of Chicago’s renowned Impressionist collection and became one of Chicago’s most influential civic leaders.

Yet what fascinated me most was not simply what Bertha accomplished.

It was what history could not tell me.

Official records preserve speeches, philanthropy, and public accomplishments. They rarely reveal the private conversations, quiet doubts, difficult choices, or personal sacrifices that shaped those achievements. I found myself wondering about the moments between the headlines, the emotions, relationships, and decisions that never made it into the historical record.

Those questions eventually became The Innkeeper’s Wife: A Novel of Bertha Palmer and Gilded Age Chicago.

The Palmer House Hilton remains one of those rare places where the past refuses to stay contained. For visitors, it offers a glimpse into Chicago’s remarkable heritage. For me, it became something more. It became the place where curiosity led to research, research sparked imagination, and imagination became a novel.

Every time I walk through its lobby, I am reminded that the past is never as distant as it seems.

Sometimes it waits quietly beneath the painted ceiling, ready to speak.

I took my six-year-old grandson to the Willis Tower, where he stood on The Ledge, 103 stories above Chicago.

Apparently, the experience inspired him.

Very seriously, he announced that when he was 47 years old, he was going to design the tallest building in the world.

Why 47?

I have absolutely no idea.

Not 40. Not 50. Specifically, 47. In his mind, that must be the exact age when architects reach their full potential.

Wanting to be supportive, I smiled and said, “I can’t wait to see it!”

He looked at me very matter-of-factly.

“Grandma,” he said, “you’ll be dead.”

I didn’t laugh.

I took a minute to process what he’d just said. What was more surprising, the matter-of-fact way he said it or the realization that he was probably right?

Finally, I said, “Well, then you’d better design it by the time you’re 30.”

Kids have a way of saying exactly what they’re thinking, without worrying about whether the truth stings. In my grandson’s mind, he wasn’t being insensitive. He was simply stating a fact.

I still think about that moment and smile. Only a six-year-old could casually announce my mortality while standing 1353 feet above Chicago, then make it sound like a perfectly reasonable observation.

There are two types of people in this world.

Those who pack for the vacation, and those who pack for every possible version of it.

I married the first one.

My husband packs in five minutes.

Yep. Five minutes.

He walks into the bedroom, opens a suitcase, throws in a few shirts, pants, underwear, his toothbrush, one pair of sneakers, and zips it closed.

Done.

Then he looks at me and asks the most unreasonable question in the English language.

“Ready?”

Ready?

I’ve barely begun. I haven’t even reached the shoe phase.

Because packing isn’t about what will happen.

It’s about what might happen.

What if it’s hotter than expected?

What if it rains?

What if we end up at a nicer restaurant?

What if we walk ten miles?

What if we don’t?

What if I suddenly become one of those women who looks effortlessly chic while wandering cobblestone streets with a tea in one hand and absolutely nowhere to be?

Vacation Siobhan has incredible potential.

Regular Siobhan is just trying to make sure she has the right sandals when Vacation Siobhan finally shows up.

My husband doesn’t understand this.

To him, shoes have one job.

To me, they’re tiny insurance policies.

The white sneakers are for sightseeing.

The beach sandals are for the beach.

The nice sandals are for dinner.

The comfortable sandals are for when the nice sandals remind me they’re not actually comfortable.

The wedges are for the imaginary evening where I effortlessly glide into a rooftop restaurant looking like I belong there.

The flats are for the walk back to the hotel.

He watches this unfold with the quiet concern of a man wondering whether I’ll be over the airline luggage weight limit.

Then he asks the question.

“Do you really need all those shoes?”

Need?

No.

But “need” is a very low bar.

He packs for the trip.

I pack for the person I think I’m going to be on the trip.

She wakes up early.

She wears linen without wrinkling it.

She strolls through local markets.

She somehow looks put together after a six-hour flight.

I’ve never actually met her, but every vacation, I remain optimistic.

The funny part is that my husband is always right.

He wears everything he packs.

I don’t.

But I have options.

The cute but uncomfortable wedges never leave the suitcase.

The “just in case” dress stays on its hanger.

The extra cardigan never sees daylight.

And yet, next trip, I’ll pack them all again.

Because you never know, Vacation Siobhan might finally show up.

My husband still doesn’t understand why my suitcase weighs twice as much as his.

I still don’t understand how one man can look at one pair of shoes and think, That should cover every possible scenario.

Maybe that’s marriage.

Some marriages are built on communication.

Ours is built on me quietly borrowing the extra space in his suitcase on the way home.

I’ve been lucky enough to go to Florence and Rome more times than I can count.

Over the years, they’ve become places I return to rather than places I check off a list. I know my favorite streets to wander, where to stop for an afternoon glass of wine, and which piazza I will inevitably end up in after telling myself I am “just going for a walk.”

There is something comforting about returning to a place you know. You stop chasing landmarks and start appreciating the slower moments, the morning light on centuries-old stone, conversations that linger over lunch, and the quiet satisfaction of getting just a little bit lost.

But this trip was different.

I was traveling with my two sisters, and it was their first real time in Italy. One of them had briefly passed through Venice on a cruise stop, but this was the first time they were experiencing the country properly.

Somewhere between packing our bags and boarding the plane, I realized I was not just returning to Florence and Rome. I was about to see them again for the first time.

There is something disarming about watching people discover a place you have long known. You notice what you have stopped noticing. The way their faces change when they first see the Duomo. The disbelief that the pasta really is that good. The way every narrow cobblestone street seems to open into another impossible view.

Florence encourages you to slow down.

We only had one day there, and somehow it felt exactly right. We wandered without an agenda, stopped whenever something caught our eye, lingered over lunch, searched for the best dark chocolate gelato for Ann, and let the city set the pace. We were not trying to see everything. We were simply there together.

Rome has a different kind of energy entirely.

It is bigger, louder, and full of moments that interrupt you mid-step.

One of my favorite memories from the trip was taking my sisters to the Vatican. We saw the Sistine Chapel first. I had seen Michelangelo’s ceiling before, but this time I found myself watching them instead of it. Their expressions held everything, excitement, disbelief, awe. It reminded me instantly of my own first visit years ago.

Afterward, we stepped into St. Peter’s Basilica, where scale, detail, and history collide in a way that is almost impossible to absorb all at once.

I had seen these places before.

But I had never seen them like this.

And somehow, that made them new again.

Travel has a way of doing that.

We often think we need new destinations to have meaningful trips. But sometimes the destination stays the same. It is the people beside you that change the experience.

Traveling with sisters also means slipping easily back into old family roles. There is endless laughter, gentle teasing, debates over where to eat, and at least one person insisting we take “just one more photo.”

Those are the moments that stay.

Years from now, I probably will not remember every church we visited or every meal we ate. But I will remember laughing until our stomachs hurt while wandering through Florence. I will remember our unofficial mission to find the best dark chocolate gelato for Ann, comparing gelaterias with the seriousness of a competition we never admitted we were taking seriously.

I will remember Susan ordering her first Italian Negroni and Ann reluctantly agreeing to try a sip. Susan took one taste and immediately understood the appeal. Ann did not. One sip, a face that said absolutely not, and a look of pure betrayal that had us all laughing. It was her first Negroni and very likely her last.

I will remember standing quietly together inside St. Peter’s Basilica, and tilting our heads back beneath Michelangelo’s ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. I will remember the unhurried walks, the conversations that stretched long after meals ended, and the simple ease of sharing places I love with people I love.

Sharing something you have loved for years is a vulnerable thing. You hope the places live up to the stories you have told. This time, they did. And in return, my sisters gave me something I was not expecting: the chance to see Italy with fresh eyes.

People often ask why I keep returning to Italy instead of going somewhere new.

This trip reminded me the answer has very little to do with Italy itself.

Places do not stay the same because we do not.

Each time we return, we arrive slightly different. And when we bring people we love with us, familiar streets become unfamiliar again, familiar landmarks regain their weight, and familiar cities find new ways to surprise us.

Italy did not change.

I did.

And seeing it through my sisters’ eyes, watching Susan discover her new favorite cocktail, and cheering Ann through her search for the perfect dark chocolate gelato made this visit one I will not forget.

I almost didn’t come on this trip.

Not because I didn’t want to and not for any dramatic reason, either. Just for the ordinary, persuasive reasons adult life always seems to provide.

I’m in the middle of a book launch, which means everything at home currently feels urgent. Emails. Publicity. Edits. Timing. The constant feeling that if I step away for even a few days, something important will slip. Something will get missed. Something will lose momentum.

So I told myself I probably shouldn’t go.

There is always a compelling case for not going.

For staying home. For being responsible. For waiting until work is lighter, the calendar is calmer, the timing makes more sense. A version of the argument that sounds wise, mature, impossible to refute.

But this was my sister’s dream trip to Europe, and that mattered.

I didn’t want her to go alone. Not because she couldn’t have. She absolutely could have. But I kept picturing her here with no one to share it with. No one to turn to in the middle of a beautiful square or a perfect meal and say, Can you believe this?

So I came.

And I convinced another sister to come too. She needed the break more than she would have said out loud, which is often how it goes with the people who need it most.

We’re only a few days in, and already it feels like time is doing something different here.

We sit longer at meals. We wander without trying to make the day efficient. We double back down streets for no reason at all. We talk more. Laugh more. There is less urgency in all of us, as if the trip has quietly loosened something we didn’t realize we were holding.

Back home, I am almost always trying to stay ahead of time.

I try to answer the email before it becomes two. Finish the task before it becomes three. Get out in front of my own life so nothing can catch up to me. Even rest can start to feel strategic there, something to optimize, schedule, earn.

Here, I’m not ahead of time.

I’m just inside it.

And that difference feels more revealing than I expected.

Because I keep thinking about how easy it is to confuse urgency with importance when you’re living inside a busy life. How quickly “I can’t possibly step away right now” starts to feel like an objective truth rather than what it often is: a story built from momentum, responsibility, and the fear of dropping the ball.

Some things really can’t wait. Of course that’s true.

But a surprising number of things can.

I don’t know yet what this trip will become in memory. Right now it is still happening. Long dinners, tired feet, and three sisters remembering how easy it is to become versions of ourselves we like better when no one is rushing us along.

But I know this much already:

I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

You can kiss your spouse on the Riverwalk. You can kiss your date under the twinkling lights of Michigan Avenue. You can kiss on the Ledge at Willis, aka Sears Tower, and celebrate the fact that neither of you fainted while looking straight down 103 stories.

All of these make sense.

What I wasn’t prepared for was watching a young woman kiss the Bean as I walked into Millennium Park after my river tour.

Or rather, pose for a kiss with the Bean.

That’s an important distinction. This wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment. There was choreography involved.

She positioned herself, leaned in, puckered up, and waited for the photo.

At no point during this process did anyone say, “You know, several thousand people have touched that thing today.”

The Bean is many things. A Chicago icon. A tourist magnet. A giant mirrored sculpture that somehow makes everyone look shorter and wider at the same time.

What it is not, as far as I know, is sanitary.

Every day, thousands of people put their hands on it. Children run under it. Tourists lean against it. People touch it after riding the CTA, after eating Garrett Popcorn, and after emerging from public restrooms with varying levels of commitment to handwashing.

By mid-afternoon, the Bean has accumulated enough fingerprints to solve several cold cases.

And yet there she was, treating it like the final scene of a romantic comedy.

Maybe she was expressing her love for Chicago. Maybe she was moved by public art. I don’t know.

What struck me wasn’t the kiss itself. It was the complete absence of hesitation.

She looked at an object touched by thousands of strangers and saw a memorable photo. I looked at the same object and saw a public health experiment.

We were looking at the same object and having completely different experiences.

As I walked away, I glanced back one last time.

The Bean reflected the skyline, the crowds, the summer light, and hundreds of people taking photos of themselves.

Maybe that’s why people love it. I know I do.

It reflects exactly what you bring to it.

Some people see a kissing opportunity.

I saw something worth admiring from a respectful distance.

The Bean doesn’t judge. It just reflects.

Anyone who listens to audiobooks knows this: a narrator can make you fall in love with a story or abandon it entirely.

In a March post, I confessed something slightly embarrassing: I became a full-on stage mom while auditioning narrators for my audiobook. I obsessed over tone and pacing, rewinding samples like a director chasing the perfect line reading. It was intense, a little ridiculous, and entirely necessary. When you hand your book over to a narrator, you are not simply hiring a voice. You are trusting someone to interpret your story.

Now that the audiobook is finished, I can say this with certainty: finding the right narrator changes everything.

I got lucky. The narrator I chose, Lily Redfield, was an absolute joy to work with: talented, collaborative, intuitive, and deeply respectful of the material.

One of the unexpected pleasures of recording the audiobook was the rhythm we fell into. Each night, she uploaded completed chapters. Each morning, before the day crowded in, I sat down with my tea and listened.

That ritual became a quiet anchor in my days.

Hearing your own book narrated is entirely different from reading it on the page. Scenes you have revised a dozen times feel newly alive. Dialogue sharpens. Emotional beats land in ways you do not anticipate. Sometimes you catch yourself thinking, Oh. That is what that moment was supposed to feel like.

Those moments reminded me of something I have always believed about historical fiction: it lives or dies by voice, not only accuracy but texture. The cadence of speech. The weight of silence. The subtle shifts that signal class, education, or geography. A skilled narrator does not merely read those elements; she inhabits them. A line can become warmer, sharper, or more guarded than it ever seemed on the page, and suddenly the character feels more fully realized.

What surprised me most was how collaborative the experience became, even from a distance. Trust developed quickly. I relied on her instincts, and she responded to feedback with care and generosity. Over time, the notes stopped feeling corrective and became collaborative, with two people working toward the same understanding of the story.

It was very different from those early days of over-controlling imaginary performances in my head.

Eventually, I stopped trying to manage every line.

I simply listened.

And I enjoyed it.

At its core, this experience reminded me why I wanted an audiobook in the first place. Stories are meant to be heard. There is an intimacy to being read to, a direct line from storyteller to listener that feels both ancient and immediate.

Each morning, as a new chapter played through my headphones, I experienced the book the way a listener would, not as a writer adjusting sentences, but as someone carried along by the story itself.

Now that the recording is complete, I find that I miss hearing from Lily each day. I am deeply grateful for the work we created together.

And soon, readers will be able to hear it for themselves when The Innkeeper’s Wife: A Novel of Bertha Palmer and Gilded Age Chicago launches on September 1.

So yes, I began this journey as a stage mom.

Somewhere along the way, I became something else entirely: a collaborator listening as my story found its voice.

This week I gave my first Chicago Architecture Center First Lady river cruise since October.

I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until I was standing at the dock again, watching people gather along the river before departure.

I spent the winter in Florida while Chicago’s river tour season paused for the year. Spring returned, the boats came back out, and somehow seven months passed before I stepped onto one again.

One thing I’d forgotten: the line before the tour is part of the experience.

As a docent, you get this brief window before departure where the entire world seems to compress onto a Chicago River dock. You hear conversations in half a dozen languages. Visitors comparing skyscrapers they’ve seen in Dubai or New York or Shanghai. Families debating where to sit. Someone inevitably asks whether the tour is “mostly indoors.”

You meet people from everywhere.

And then there are the Chicagoans bringing out-of-town guests.

You can always spot them immediately. They’re already in host mode, recommending restaurants before the boat leaves the dock, explaining neighborhood pronunciations, offering weather disclaimers on perfectly good days.

“This is actually nice for Chicago.”

They’re proud of the city, and the river cruise is often where they introduce it properly.

For a lot of locals, it’s also a chance to see Chicago through fresh eyes again. They may pass these buildings every day, but from the river the city reorganizes itself.

Chicago from street level is vertical.

Chicago from the river is cinematic.

Taking the river cruise is a little like floating through a living architecture museum: steel, limestone, glass, history, and ambition connected by the river that made the city possible.

As a docent, you get to watch realization happen in real time.

You see it when the boat rounds a bend and something you’ve just explained suddenly clicks. When people finally understand the scale of the Merchandise Mart. When someone notices the way light hits the Wrigley Building.

When Marina City manages to look futuristic and unmistakably 1960s at the same time. Or when Jeanne Gang’s St. Regis Tower slides into view and its reflection makes the stacked geometry feel almost liquid.

I’d forgotten how satisfying that moment is.

Because the tour is never really just about architecture trivia.

Yes, there are dates and styles and engineering stories, but the deeper story is how Chicago keeps reinventing itself.

The river tells that story better than almost anywhere else.

You see former industrial corridors beside shimmering glass towers. Buildings separated by decades sharing the same stretch of river. Entire eras of Chicago compressed into a few miles of water.

And after months away, I realized the tours do something for me too.

They force attention.

When you live in Chicago long enough, even extraordinary buildings can fade into the background scenery. You stop looking up. You stop noticing details. Familiarity flattens the city.

Giving the tour again pulled me back into observation mode.

The weather helped too: slightly gray, cool enough for a jacket, the kind of day where Chicago looks textured instead of polished. The river always feels more dramatic under cloud cover.

By the end of the cruise, stepping back onto the dock, I remembered exactly why I started doing these tours in the first place.

Not because I love memorizing building facts.

Not because I get to talk for ninety minutes.

I love when people, whether tourists or Chicagoans, suddenly see the city differently than they did ninety minutes earlier.

Same river.

Same buildings.

Different city.

My dad had a navy-blue sport coat we called his funeral jacket.

It wasn’t literally only for funerals, but for the last twenty years of his life, that was mostly when it came out of the closet. It carried the weight of repetition, worn for duty more than style.

We always joked that he looked good in blue because it brought out the blue in his eyes.

My parents taught us the importance of going to funerals. You showed up, even if it was inconvenient. Even if you barely knew the person. Even if you hadn’t seen the family in years. Funerals, to them, weren’t really about the dead as much as the living. They were about showing up when it mattered.

You could tell the last funeral Dad attended by the date of the memorial card left in the jacket pocket.

Every time he wore it, another card would appear: a neighbor, an old friend, an aunt, someone from the old Hoyne Avenue neighborhood where he grew up. Small laminated rectangles with soft-focus portraits and script fonts. Irish last names. Dates beneath faces. Sometimes praying hands. Sometimes the Virgin Mary. Sometimes a cardinal perched on a winter branch for families that weren’t especially religious but still wanted something spiritual.

As a kid, I thought those cards were just another piece of funeral machinery, like funeral flowers and casseroles. But the older I get, the stranger and more moving they become.

They are tiny portable biographies.

Wallet-sized evidence that a person was here.

Catholics, especially, understand objects this way. Religion gets carried in pockets. Saints on dashboards. Rosaries in glove compartments. Medals tucked into wallets. After someone dies, the memorial card joins that circulation of objects, slipped into a breast pocket where it stays for years.

My father never talked much about grief. Most men of his generation didn’t, but he kept the cards.

My dad died seven years ago. We buried him in that jacket.

Before the funeral, we placed his memorial card in the inside pocket. It felt appropriate that the last card in the funeral jacket would be his own.

Thinking of my dad this Memorial Day.

We’ve been doing a lot of traveling lately. First communions. Weddings. Funerals. The kind of trips where every flight is attached to something important, and adulthood starts to feel like a series of emotionally significant events awkwardly connected by airport terminals.

Somewhere along the way, I realized my husband and I are completely incompatible airport people.

I believe airports are unstable systems. Not in a dramatic sense, just in a deeply predictable-unpredictable way. Security lines change personalities. Gates move without warning. Weather delays ripple across the country because of one thunderstorm in Atlanta. Time itself becomes theoretical.

You do not arrive at the airport so much as enter an environment where anything mildly inconvenient is legally allowed to happen.

My husband, meanwhile, believes airports are simply a timing exercise.

More specifically, he believes the perfect time to arrive at the gate is exactly when his boarding group is called.

Not early.
Not “comfortably on time.”
Not even “let’s just be nearby.”

No. This man wants to appear at the gate as if he’s being personally summoned.

Meanwhile, my ideal airport experience looks like this:

• arrive early
• get through security calmly
• find the gate
• emotionally settle
• sit peacefully for at least 30 minutes before boarding

To me, sitting at the gate is not wasted time. It’s recovery time.

It’s the first moment my nervous system can begin returning to normal.

But my husband sees waiting at the gate as completely unnecessary. In his mind, if your group hasn’t been called yet, why are you even standing there?

While I’m mentally calculating TSA wait times, gate distance, bathroom access, and possible catastrophic delays, he’s casually walking through the terminal holding a Diet Mountain Dew like a man who has never feared missing a flight a single day in his life.

Then it happens.

The gate agent says:
“Now boarding Group 2.”

And suddenly my husband activates.

No panic. No rushing. No stress. Just immediate movement toward the gate like this was all part of a carefully coordinated military operation.

The worst part is that his system works often enough to make him feel completely validated.

That’s what makes last-minute airport people so dangerous.

Every successful flight convinces them they’ve solved air travel.

Afterward, he always gives me the same look.

“See? Totally fine.”

Sir, it was not “totally fine.”

I personally experienced:
• three emotional setbacks
• two imaginary worst-case scenarios
• and one full-body stress response because the TSA line looked “a little longer than usual”

I think the actual difference between us is philosophical.

My husband sees the airport as an efficiency problem.

I see it as an unpredictable environment run by weather, infrastructure, human error, and spiritual warfare.

He believes:
“Why would we sit at the gate for 30 extra minutes?”

I believe:
“Why would we gamble with our future like this?”

And honestly, airports reveal every relationship dynamic immediately.

One person is trying to stay slightly ahead of disaster. The other is casually assuming disaster is mostly a rumor.

And somehow, against all odds, those two people keep ending up in the same boarding group.

Life in a large Irish Catholic family prepares you for many things: volume, unsolicited advice, talking over one another, and the unshakable certainty that everyone has an opinion about your choices.

What it does not prepare you for is asking that same family for feedback on your book cover.

In my case: The Innkeeper’s Wife: A Novel of Bertha Palmer and Gilded Age Chicago.

I went in confident. Thick skin. Fully expecting a few critiques. I thought: How bad could this be?

Step One: The Professional Cover Designer

Before involving the family tribunal, I did the responsible thing. I spent weeks looking for a designer.

I chose an award-winning professional who listened. I explained clearly:

No cheesy gold fountains. No face of my protagonist, Bertha. No romance novel cover.

She nodded and said, “Got it.”

Step Two: The Covers

The designer sent three options.

Three felt reasonable. Thoughtful. Curated.

I forwarded them to my family as evidence of good decision-making and emotional stability.

Then I added the fatal line: “Be honest.”

Reader, they were.

Round One: The Roast

“I wouldn’t pick that up if my life depended on it.”

“None of these say Chicago.”

“This one is fine. If you’re desperate.”

“That font is yelling at me.”

By the end of the first round, I was questioning the cover, my judgment, and possibly Bertha Palmer herself.

Round Two: Contradictions

“Make her stronger.” “She looks intimidating.”

“More gold.” “Less gold.”

“More historical.” “Not that historical.”

“Why can’t I see her face?” “I love that you only see the back of her.”

The consensus was simple: there was no consensus.

A Greek chorus. Louder. Not clearer.

Round Three: The Actual Decision

Here’s what I realized after all the opinions, contradictions, and unsolicited font analysis:

I already knew which cover I wanted.

I had narrowed it down to two:

• One with a Gilded Age woman looking toward the Palmer House

• One without a woman, just jewelry, opulence, and the hotel itself

And from the beginning, I knew I didn’t want to show her.

Even from behind, even abstracted, it still felt like too much definition. I wanted readers to meet Bertha on the page, not on the cover.

And the truth is, the “woman from behind staring into the distance” cover has become almost its own genre in historical fiction. It works for a reason, but I didn’t want The Innkeeper’s Wife to feel interchangeable with ten other novels on the shelf.

So, I chose the cover without the woman.

The one that:

• Looks like it belongs on a shelf.

• Captures the spirit of Bertha Palmer and the Gilded Age without spelling everything out.

• Trusts the reader a little

• And, most importantly, felt right to me.

It was not the consensus pick. It was not even the favorite.

But it was mine.

What I Learned

• Never ask a large Irish Catholic family for consensus

• “Be honest” is not a request; it is an invitation to chaos

• Everyone believes they understand book marketing

• A family that loves you will absolutely roast you

• At some point, every creative decision becomes trusting your own instincts

If you see the cover of The Innkeeper’s Wife and think, “Interesting choice,” just know it survived my Irish Catholic family.

And if it can survive that, it can survive anything.

The Innkeeper’s Wife: A Novel of Bertha Palmer and Gilded Age Chicago debuts September 1, 2026.

Nobody tells you that the price of being a grandparent is getting sick more often, but most of us figure it out the same way: two days after a very sweet visit.

They tell you about the fun parts. The sleepovers. The sticky hugs. The freedom to spoil someone and then hand them back. What they leave out is that small children move through the world like delighted delivery systems for whatever virus is going around.

Your grandchildren look perfectly fine when they arrive. Maybe they have a runny nose, or a cough. You tell yourself it is nothing. You have raised kids. You have seen worse.

They run into your arms anyway, and you do not hesitate.

At some point, one of them wipes their nose with the back of their hand and then grabs yours. Another climbs into your lap, turns their face toward yours, and coughs directly into it. A small, well-meaning biohazard wrapped in affection.

Two days later, it begins.

You wake up feeling off. Not terrible, just not right. Your throat is scratchy. Your head feels heavy. By the afternoon, you know exactly what happened. One of those sweet, angelic children has taken you down.

Meanwhile, they are completely fine.

They are back to full speed, running around, asking for snacks, climbing furniture. Whatever hit you barely slows them down. Their bodies are built for this. Yours, at this point, is not especially interested in the challenge.

For reasons no one can quite explain, it tends to hit grandpas harder. Grandmas will be up making dinner, folding laundry, carrying on like nothing happened, while grandpa is in the recliner giving a full medical briefing on his symptoms, as if he is the first person in history to catch a cold.

You spend the next few days drinking tea, blowing your nose, and wondering how someone who still needs help with their shoes managed to knock you flat.

And still, if they walked through the door again tomorrow, you would scoop them up without thinking.

That is the part that does not make sense until you are in it. You know they are little germ factories. You see it happening in real time, and you choose it anyway.

It is because they also hand you drawings made just for you. They sit next to you as if there is nowhere else they would rather be. They trust you in a way that feels both simple and enormous.

So yes, grandchildren are, in a very real sense, little petri dishes. Busy ones. Efficient ones. Surprisingly effective ones.

If the price is a few days under the weather now and then, most of us are willing to pay it, even while complaining and reaching for the tissues.

And if you are a grandparent reading this while sipping tea and wondering where that scratchy throat came from, you probably already know.

There is a certain sadness that comes with packing up a life that was never meant to be permanent.

For the past few months, Florida has felt less like home and more like a place I’ve been visiting. Like camp. Not the rustic, bug spray and bunk bed version, but something closer to an adult reset: sun-soaked mornings, unstructured afternoons, and an almost suspicious amount of time spent outside.

In Florida, life reorganizes itself around the weather in the best possible way. You wake up and it is already warm. You step outside without thinking about layers, without negotiating with the forecast, without that subtle resistance winter builds into your bones. The day invites you out before you have even had your coffee, or in my case, tea.

For a while, I said yes to all of it.

But I also kept one anchor.

I kept my routine of getting up early to write. I would wake up automatically between 4:30 and 5 am, no alarm. Before the sun fully took over the day, before the pull of being outside, there was that quiet stretch of morning. A pot of tea, a blank page, and a little discipline. It gave shape to days that might otherwise have drifted. It reminded me that even in a place that felt like an extended vacation, I was still myself. Still building something. Still paying attention.

That is what made this stretch feel like camp. Not just because it was temporary, but because it simplified everything else. Days had a rhythm without rigid structure. Activity was not something to schedule—it was the default. Walks happened because the air felt good. Time outside stretched longer than expected. Even doing nothing felt like doing something, as long as it was under the sun.

There is a lightness to that kind of living. Fewer decisions. Fewer barriers between intention and action.

Maybe that is why leaving carries a particular weight.

As much as I am ready to go, I know exactly what I am giving up, at least for now. The predictability of warmth. The ease of stepping outside and instantly being in motion. The way life feels just a little more open.

But here is the thing about camp: it is not meant to last.

Part of what makes it special is that it exists outside your normal life. You step into it fully, and then eventually, you step out.

I am ready to step back into Chicago, grateful for the time here and eager to see what comes next.

I am going back to giving my Chicago architecture tours. Back to the river, the stories, the buildings I never seem to tire of explaining. There is a different energy in that. It is not the ease of Florida, but it is something deeper: connection, curiosity, and the quiet satisfaction of sharing a city I love with people seeing it for the first time.

And maybe most of all, I am going back to my grandkids.

There is no substitute for that kind of gravity. No version of sunshine competes with being part of their everyday lives. The small moments. The routines. The chance to be present in a way that distance never quite allows.

Chicago is not effortless in the way Florida is. It asks more of you. The weather does not always cooperate. Being active takes intention, sometimes a little grit.

But it also gives something back.

There is structure. There is momentum. There is a sense of being rooted in something real and ongoing.

I will miss the ease. I will miss the sun. I will miss the version of life that felt like an extended exhale.

But I am bringing something back with me.

The mornings. The writing. The reminder that a good day can start quietly, before the world asks anything of you.

Florida was camp.

Chicago is home.

My husband and I are heading to Fort Lauderdale for a birthday getaway. Nice resort. Spring break. Yes, I realized halfway through booking. Classic me.

Fort Lauderdale takes me straight back. Senior year of high school, half my friends went there for spring break. No adults. No rules. Me? Not allowed. My parents said, “You are saving for college. You cannot go.” Fine. I sulked.

Then came a tempting lifeline. Two girlfriends’ boyfriends were driving down last minute and offered me a ride in their van. Cheaper than flying. Adventure waiting. My parents said no. My dad had a rule: no dating until 16 and absolutely no rides in vans with boys. Safe? Yes. Cool? Not at all.

Decades later, I am going to that same city on my birthday with my husband. The accommodations will be better. The freedom is absolute. And the risks? No need to worry about boys, vans, or the terrifying possibility of getting pregnant.

Life has a sense of humor. The place that once said “absolutely not” is about to hand me a cocktail.