Last Call at the Savoy

by Brisa Carleton

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Family Life

Synopsis

Set amongst the glittering backdrop of London's iconic Savoy hotel, Cinnamon Scott is forced to confront her troubled past as she uncovers the story of the hotel’s first female bartender who has been erased from the history books. And like a well-made cocktail, their intertwined stories pack just the right punch.
 
Six years ago, Cinnamon Scott was a young writer on the rise in New York City. But since the sudden loss of her parents, she's been stuck in place, retreating to a life of endless partying—made possible by the massive fortune she's inherited. Despite their tragic loss, she and her older sister Rosemary have always had each other to lean on. But now, with Rosie living in London and about to give birth to twins, Cinnamon feels more lost than ever.

When Rosie is put on bedrest, Cinnamon flies to her sister's side, where she's temporarily living at The Savoy. Immediately swept away by the beauty and history of the legendary hotel and its famed American Bar, Cinnamon finds ample opportunity to distract herself. When the late shift bartender tells her the story of Ada Coleman, the woman who crafted the cocktail recipes The Savoy popularized in its famous handbook a century ago, Cinnamon is inspired by the bartender's vivid stories of Ada's fearlessness and can't understand why Ada's name is nowhere to be found.

After meeting a handsome historian researching the hotel and realizing that Ada is likely to be once again overlooked, Cinnamon must decide if she can overcome her demons and stand up for Ada's story. And, along the way, she might just save her own story too.
 

Release date: November 4, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

You know the point where you realize the annoying phone ringing in your dream isn’t actually a dream? And you know this because, in the dream, you hang it up, power it down, throw it out of a plane, and it’s still ringing? That’s where I find myself—well, technically, I’m not entirely sure where I find myself, as that would require opening my eyes—but anyway, that’s the moment my drunken, bad choices, late-night, sex-induced coma is rudely interrupted.

“Hello?” I don’t bother to hide the grogginess from my voice. Whoever is calling should know the crime they’re committing.

“Please tell me you’re in the car to the airport.”

I pull the phone away from my ear. “I…” Something about the airport does sound familiar.

“You can’t,” my sister continues, “because you’re not in the car. And I know that because the driver I sent called me after he couldn’t reach you…”

That, at least, explains the seventeen missed calls that I notice as I drop the phone on the bed beside me. I need the fog to clear before I can respond. The phone lands with a thud on… him. Slideshow memories of the night before flash through my brain. It had been a pretty good night, from what I remember. Until now.

Though I do send a prayer of thanks to the universe that the incessant ringing didn’t wake this man… this very attractive, very naked man… whose bed I find myself in. You may not think that mastering the art of a stealthy walk of shame is a major life skill, but it has helped me avoid so many awkward next-morning conversations. Don’t knock it till you try it. And by try it, I mean, case in point. Waking up wherever I am, with whoever he is, and having thirty minutes to get to JFK. I do not have time for the “Hey, that was fun, I’ll call you” routine.

“Are you listening to me?” My sister isn’t giving up. Somewhere between her nagging and the glaring light of day streaming through the dirty window over the bed, my brain fog starts to clear enough that I can bring the phone back to my ear.

“I won’t miss my flight, I promise,” I mutter. I must be convincing because, mercifully, she hangs up. This is not an uncommon closing to our phone conversations. Though, as a rule, I could never hang up on her—some sort of code between older (her) and younger (me) sisters.

I slide out of bed with the gracefulness of a hungover gazelle. My dress from last night is easy enough to find on the floor. I shimmy into it and assess the situation. Slinky black dress, no bra, not much left to the imagination. This isn’t going to work for a transatlantic flight.

With one last glance at what’s-his-name—all six feet two of this chiseled-abbed artist, or was it actor? Architect?—I make for the door, pulling on his discarded white button-down and cinching it around my waist with his belt in a, likely unsuccessful, attempt to disguise last night’s cocktail dress. Carrying my combat boots in my hand, I tiptoe toward the door. Then for good measure, I grab an iPhone charger sticking out from the wall and stuff it in my Dior tote.

There’s such a fine line between borrowing and stealing, but I feel within my rights in this case. From what I recall, I picked up the tab last night. What is that they say about no such thing as a free lunch? With one last look to make sure there isn’t anything else I might need, I slip out the door. Thank God I hadn’t gotten a good look at this apartment last night. How had he described it? Bohemian? I’m starting to itch just thinking about what might be living in these walls.

Come on, come on, I beg the ancient elevator as I pull up the Uber app. I’m tempted to take the stairs. But… stairs.

Driver located. Pickup location Brooklyn.

Interesting. At least that puts me closer to JFK.

“Come on.” This time I say it aloud to the elevator as I slide my feet into my combat boots. I’d like to say they give me Lower East Side punk cred, but the designer label gives me away as more Upper East Side brat. Guilty as charged.

“Hey…” I hear what’s-his-name say. He’s poking his adorably disheveled artist/actor/architect head out the door.

Shit. I must be getting rusty. Or maybe I can blame my sister, whose demands to “GET ON THAT PLANE NOW” likely reverberated around the block.

“Hey…” Thank God the elevator arrives just then.

“Wait, Saffron? Ginger?” He steps out into the hall.

He’s in the name ballpark. I’ll give him that.

“I’ve gotta go,” I say.

“Is that my shirt?” he says.

Not anymore, I think, though I say, “Just borrowing it,” as I back into the elevator.

“Wait. Go where?” He’s standing awkwardly in the hall in only his boxers.

“London,” I say. Before adding, between gritted teeth, just as the elevator doors slide closed, “That was fun. I’ll call you.” I’m clearly off my game today.

I cringe when I see my reflection in the shiny elevator door. It will have to do, though I look less like a chic world traveler and more like a drunk raccoon in an oversize button-down.

Thankfully, the Uber is waiting for me just outside the lobby door.

“Cinnamon Scott?” the driver asks as I slide into the back seat.

Do I see a smirk on his lips in the rearview?

“Unfortunately,” I say. And before you ask, yes, that’s my actual name. As if anyone would make that up on purpose.

Digging around in my tote, I find my passport, thank God, and the spare pair of clean underwear that I always have on hand. This ain’t my first rodeo. I manage to slide them on before I promptly pass out. Or at least I assume that’s what happened, because the next thing I know, I’m on autopilot, making my way through the Sky Priority line and TSA before sinking gratefully into my lie-flat seat. I accept the glass of champagne from the flight attendant and wake up in jolly old England.

Well, look what the cat regurgitated,” my sister says as I skid around the corner into her hospital room. The glaring overhead lights combined with the overpowering smell of disinfectant immediately reinstate my hangover. But it’s nothing compared to my relief at seeing my sister looking more or less like herself.

“Nice to see you too, Rosemary.” I take her snark as a good sign, giving her an awkward hug as I feel the adrenaline that has been coursing through me since I landed finally beginning to recede. The smooth skin of her back is cool where the edges of the flimsy hospital robe don’t quite meet.

“Cinnamon and Rosemary?” laughs a well-meaning nurse before our mutual eye rolls send her scrambling into the hall.

“How you feeling, Rosie?” I say, eyeing her massive twin-infested belly. My hangover had temporarily vanished when I landed to find a dozen texts from my sister saying to meet her at the hospital instead. Despite her eventual text assurances that she was okay, for the better part of the interminable cab drive here from Heathrow, my mind had been cycling through worst-case scenarios of losing the only person I have in the world. I had practically sprinted to the cab, all my earlier thoughts of a shower and a change of clothes vanishing. I’m going to need paint thinner to peel my dress off at this point.

“I’m fine. But they’ve put me on bed rest for the last few weeks before we can get these monsters out,” she says with a sigh.

I look her up and down. We’ve only been apart for a few months since she left New York, but the pregnancy differences jump out at me. The glowy sheen of her skin, her shinier-than-usual hair, not to mention the basketball-size bump protruding from her slender frame, are jarring. Like she’s my sister but different. I reach out and squeeze her hand, not sure if I’m reassuring her or myself.

We are interrupted by the return of the nurse, pushing a wheelchair. We both eye it with trepidation.

“Come on, Humpty Dumpty, let’s get you home,” I say, feeling a fresh pang of anxiety as I let go of her hand. I feel a strong urge to wrap myself around her as if building a protective cocoon with my body.

“Not funny,” she says.

“Kind of funny,” I say as the nurse and I lift her off the hospital bed and set her in the chair.

But she just looks at me grimly as we make our way to the waiting driver.

As we creep along the congested Strand toward the hotel, I find myself clenching the armrest. The whole driving—well, riding in my case—on the left thing always takes me a bit to get used to, and I’m extra edgy with stress about my sister’s delicate state. I’m well aware that I’m transporting precious cargo. I don’t know a whole lot about the medical particulars of a bed rest order, but I’m imagining that even the slightest wrong move could lead to disaster. Like she’s an egg that might crack if I don’t handle her in just the right way. Rosemary, meanwhile, is shifting uncomfortably in her seat and whispering profanities under her breath at the snarled London traffic.

I’m relieved when our driver finally turns into the driveway leading to the Savoy Hotel. Craning my neck to get a glimpse of my home away from home for the month, I take in the line of luxury cars depositing customers in front of the palatial facade. Thick, elegant columns in black and white frame the entrance under a mirrored marquee proclaiming the storied Savoy name. As we glide along the driveway, posters advertise the current West End musical offering in the Savoy Theatre.

“Slumming it, are we?” I say with a smirk as we are embraced by the majestic stone buildings that form a horseshoe around the Savoy’s front doors.

“I think you mean, ‘Thank you, my darling sister, for the five-star accommodations,’” she says. “My firm is putting me up in a flat as part of my relocation package, but it’s not ready and I couldn’t exactly delay my flight.” She looks down at her bulging belly.

“And the Savoy was the only other option?” I raise a skeptical eyebrow and nod toward one of London’s most iconic, not to mention expensive, hotels.

“If you had seen the extended stay corporate hotel they had suggested, you’d understand why I had to take matters into my own hands.” Even before our family had come into their fortune, my sister’s definition of camping was staying in a hotel with room service and cable. “And anyway, I feel closer to Mom and Dad here. Remember that time we came here for Christmas your junior year of high school?”

I flinch at the mention of our parents. Of course I remember. But before I can respond, the driver halts behind the line of cars. Guests pour out as porters and bellmen retrieve designer luggage and overstuffed shopping bags bearing the names of the many retail diversions in nearby Covent Garden. After a few minutes, when my sister and I both have to pee and it’s clear we’ve hit Savoy arrival rush hour, I realize I’m going to have to roll up my sleeves.

“Hello?” I shout to the handful of bellmen who are scurrying around the hotel entrance with luggage trolleys. As each car deposits its passengers, the drivers loop around the imposing black marble fountain, careful to navigate around the hulking black Rolls-Royce sporting the license plate S8VOY. “We’ve got a wheelchair here. Could someone please give us a hand?”

“We’ll be right with you, madam,” says a harried bellman pushing a luggage cart filled to the brim.

Irritated, I step out of the car and scan the busy scene. I take in the palm trees that frame the main entrance. They always seemed incongruous to me as a kid. Flourishing amid the heavy stone surroundings, lone stalwarts of greenery in the heart of London. I zero my focus in on the one man who doesn’t seem to have his hands full.

“Hello? Are you just going to stand there?” I snap as I start wrangling the wheelchair out of the back. I know I’m being a bit of a brat, but I can imagine how much my sister is paying to stay here.

The man rushes forward.

“Oh, of course,” he says. “Happy to help.”

He gives me a smile. I’d think he was cute if I wasn’t so annoyed.

On the count of three, we heave my sister out of the taxi.

“We’re heading to…” I look toward my sister.

“… the Savoy Suite.”

“You heard the woman,” I say as together we roll her through the double doors and into the bustling lobby.

“As you wish,” the bellman says. He has one of those posh British accents that make me think of Downton Abbey.

Inside the door, we’re confronted with marble stairs in all directions, and I groan.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say. “Don’t you people have wheelchairs here?”

“Follow me,” says the bellman, pushing my sister toward a private sitting room just off the lobby. Thankfully, I see an elevator.

I’m sweating by the time we make it to my sister’s suite, despite the fact that the bellman did the bulk of the heavy lifting. I push open the ornate double doors.

“So, this is home?” I say, stepping into a living room–like area. The room feels fresh and airy while also feeling like a step back in history. There’s a desk and gold and white furnishings with coffee tables that look like they could have been there for a century, albeit exceptionally maintained. With a twirl, I take in the lavish suite before pushing aside the heavy brocade curtains to gaze out over the Thames. I don’t give a second glance at the man, though I hear him politely decline the tip that my sister is trying to slip him.

“Home sweet home,” Rosemary says as I resume my duties and wheel her toward a door that I assume leads to the bedroom. I help her into the bathroom before taking stock of the room. The large bed is covered in files and paperwork.

“Geez, Rosie, doesn’t your law firm believe in maternity leave?”

“I’m just wrapping up a few things,” she says, gingerly coming out of the bathroom and pushing aside several colorful file folders to make room for her increased girth. Though she’s put a bit of baby weight on her tiny frame, I still can’t help feeling like I’m looking at some sort of freaky science-fiction project the way her belly juts out.

“You clearly need to be getting more rest,” I say, handing her the silk nightgown from the end of the bed. I flick the hospital bracelet on her wrist.

“I know,” she says. “It’s just…”

“If you say ‘London’s youngest junior partner’ again, I might actually puke on you.” I mime sticking my finger down my throat. “And I’m talking airplane food puke, so I’m not sure you want to go there.” Despite her pregnancy, I know from her all-hours texts to me that she’s been pulling crazy long workdays since being transferred by her American law firm to their London office.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, but I can see her eyeing the stack of folders and binders. I follow her gaze and sweep as many files as I can reach into my arms and deposit them on the desk across the room. While I’m at it, I pull closed the diaphanous sheer curtains that peek out behind the thick gold drapes and expertly swathed valances.

“I know bed rest is more of a medical term than a legal one, but I think even you can understand what it means,” I say. She humphs but doesn’t argue. Despite her brave face, I can tell she’s tired.

Once I’ve gotten her situated in bed with pj’s and water, I perch next to her.

“Where’s your luggage?” she suddenly says, craning her head to look out toward the main room.

“Turns out it had a prior obligation and couldn’t make the trip.”

I mentally will her not to make this a thing.

“Do I want to know?”

“Do you ever want to know?” I ask. “But hey, at least no one here can accuse me of having too much baggage.” I make the ba-dum-ching sound as if on a late-night talk show.

“Well, you’re welcome to anything in my closet,” she says. “It’s not like I’ll ever fit into any of it again.” She pats her stomach.

“Of course you will,” I say while internally giving myself a fist bump for finally getting my hands on the Herve Leger bandage dress that she would never let me borrow. Sorry, not sorry. I give my sister a once-over and marvel, as always, at how she effortlessly seems to have everything together even eight months pregnant and halfway across the world. Of course, I knew it hadn’t been effortless. Perhaps I, too, would be in a very different place these days if I had deigned to join her at the endless Grief Circle meetings and therapy sessions. But to my college-age mind, the tried-and-true vodka martini—straight up, very dry, very dirty, and very often—seemed like a more efficient grief treatment. Though, I’m beginning to realize all these years later, maybe a less effective one.

“Sooo, what do we do now?” I ask.

“I could use a nap, actually.” At the look on my face, she continues. “Sorry I’m not more fun. But make yourself at home.” She gestures around the vast suite.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, kissing her cheek before making a beeline toward her closet. Yes, yes, and more yes.

I paw around before settling on a Chanel ensemble that I haven’t seen before. I hold it up in front of me.

Rosemary purses her lips as she eyes her elegant Chanel outfit paired with my scuffed combat boots. She and I have the same shoe size, but I draw the line at her collection of kitten heels. Just… no.

“Coco is rolling over in her grave,” Rosemary says.

“Well, I have a few words for her, too, and they start with ‘Nazi’ and ‘sympathizer.’”

“Hey, don’t ruin Chanel for me. We don’t even know if that’s true. I choose to believe Coco was misunderstood. She was a fashion designer, not a political operative,” she says, barely suppressing a yawn.

“Go to sleep, Miss Muumuu,” I tease, but immediately feel horrible when I see my sister’s smile drop. I would do anything to make her smile. “Sorry, Rosie…”

But she waves her hand and nestles herself in the vast hotel bed. “Don’t steal all my stuff while I’m sleeping,” she mumbles, already half asleep.

“I think you mean borrow,” I say. “And it’s fully legal according to the official little sister handbook.” But I can see her breathing has become steady.

I stare at my beautiful, perfect sister for a long moment. I adore her so much it makes my heart hurt. Since we lost our parents, she’s been sister, mother, and, most importantly, friend to me even when, at times… lots of times… I know I didn’t deserve any of the above. Whatever she needs from me now, I’m prepared to do my damnedest to come through for her.

While my sister naps, I help myself to a few more things from her closet… a cute Miu Miu dress that looks way more me than her, the Herve Leger dress, obviously, and some pj’s and loungewear that I’m afraid will be my uniform now that my sister can’t leave her bed.

I settle into my own bedroom, which is actually the neighboring hotel room that connects directly to my sister’s suite. Bed rest aside, it’s nice to know she’s just on the other side of the wall. I’ve missed having her as a neighbor ever since she moved here and, based on this invite, or more like summons, it sounds like she’s missed me too. With nothing to unpack, I scan Instagram and TikTok and generally kill time until she wakes up. It’s not like she needs me to do anything. At a hotel like this, her every whim is a phone call away. My job, from what I can glean, is to keep her alive and keep her company until her husband, Everett, gets here. Though why he isn’t already here is a good question but don’t get me started on that.

Growing up, everyone commented on how alike we looked. A fact I relished and she detested, which made me relish it even more. I was always endeavoring to be like my older sister. At least I did when we were kids. She, on the other hand, was not so thrilled to be compared to her twerp of a little sister, six years her junior.

But baby belly notwithstanding, our similarities are not as overt anymore.

While I grappled my way through high school AP classes and the first years of college—I was more studious back then—she effortlessly climbed the corporate ladder and brought home boyfriends with names like Preston and Spencer and “the third.”

While she graduated college, top of her class, of course, and traded in her preppy jeans for Jackie Kennedy skirt sets, I leaned into heavy eyeliner and a Manic Panic Electric Pussycat blond streak in my otherwise auburn hair. My transformation had happened a little more abruptly. But could you really blame me for that? Now, four years after I would have graduated from college, I’ve toned down the eyeliner but kept the platinum streak while my sister’s strawberry blond had mellowed into a natural caramel. Though I have since progressed from Manic Panic to the salon my sister recommended on Madison Avenue.

When she finally wakes up, we order room service. Her: all healthy pregnant mom-to-be things. Me: a burger with fries. I’ve always had a good metabolism and am not afraid to put it to the test on a regular basis.

“When is Prince Charming making an appearance?” I say between messy bites of burger.

I must not have disguised my sarcasm well because she says, “He’s a good guy, Cinnabon, be nice.”

“A good guy who leaves his pregnant wife. . .