The Ghosts of Gwendolyn Montgomery

by Clarence A. Haynes

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; African American Women's Fiction; LGBT & Pride

Synopsis

In a fast-paced, sexy, ghostly adventure, a publicist at the top of her game must confront her secret mystical past.

To be a client of Gwendolyn Montgomery’s, New York’s most powerful publicist at Sublime Media, is to be infused with a certain oomph, a mysterious glamour. She seems to have created the ideal life with her handsome new boyfriend, the perfect match. But Gwendolyn has a secret: She’s a mystical practitioner who can tap into the interdimensional, metaphysical realm of the dead known as El Intermedio. Gwendolyn has hidden her powers, buried her old life, and started anew.

After a grisly, bizarre incident at the Brooklyn Museum, Gwendolyn begins to realize that something nefarious is happening tied directly to her past right as Fonsi Harewood comes back into her world. Fonsi is a queer Latinx psychic from the South Bronx who’s caught up in a love triangle with a ghost and his mortal ex. He’s able to communicate with the dead, having established a robust business interpreting messages from departed loved ones. And he comes with a dire warning for Gwendolyn, that the barrier between humans and spirits is weakening.

Gwendolyn would prefer not to have anything to do with ghostly drama. Yet in order to get to the bottom of the spookiness derailing her life, she must face the demons she’d long left behind. Or the spirit world will be unleashed, threatening her very existence and all of New York. The Ghosts of Gwendolyn Montgomery is a sensuous, funny, mystical adventure that will leave you spellbound as you keep the pages turning.

Release date: June 17, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Thick white gardenia petals fell from conference room ceilings as Gwendolyn ran through meeting after meeting, fielding inane questions about her A-list clientele. Yellow petals tripped her up when she hopped onto the D train at 125th right as a rat scurried from a garbage bin on the subway platform. Pink petals covered countertops as she and her boss Jessica ordered margaritas like no tomorrow. The accompanying aromas were sweet and citrusy with undertones of something light, metallic.

But the vision of James, the new dude in her life, was what left her breathless. Red petals covered the couple as they rolled around in flowery fields, their intertwined bodies sweaty. Petals clung to James’s chest and back and behind, Gwendolyn’s nails raking his skin, her lips on his neck. His head was buried in her shoulder as he moaned and whimpered. He was close, she could tell, and so was she, but she didn’t want to stop, refused to stop. She’d waited far too long.

James raised his head, panic in his eyes. “Gwendolyn!” he yelled, his breathing ragged, his body immersed in viscous shadow. The field of flowers turned gray and dry.

Something heavy pressed against Gwendolyn’s body. Invisible but familiar. Deadly.

James screamed.

She jumped from her pillow.

Gwendolyn blinked, noticed the overcast skies through her window. She rolled over and scanned the tiny electronic clock on her nightstand. 6:57 a.m. She’d woken up just in time. Her alarm was about to ring in a few minutes.

She got up and stepped into the bathroom, groggily handling her business. Minutes later, Gwendolyn swapped her silk purple bonnet for a pink shower cap before hopping into the glass-enclosed shower. She lathered up her body and tried to assess her dream before the memory faded away. The flowers represented what was on the horizon, one of the main elements of the big museum event just hours away. A premonition of future success. But her vision of James panicking? She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

As she ended her shower, Gwendolyn realized her limbs were stiff, leaden, as if a weight were dragging her down. No, not today, she thought. No time.

She rubbed lotion on her damp skin, put on makeup, and styled her braids into the twisty updo her hairdresser Shana had shown her how to create a million times yet which still took her forever to get right. As usual, her arms ached when she entered her walk-in closet. In the corner was a small altar she’d adorned with a glass of scented water, a large bowl of honey, and five sliced oranges that surrounded a two-foot statuette of a woman in a shimmering yellow dress. Her hair was free, flowing, her arms outstretched. Gwendolyn bowed her head to the woman, placed two fingers to her lips, and then placed them on the figure. Her morning ritual.

Gwendolyn swiveled around and zipped open a suit bag she’d hung in a corner, revealing a cream blazer and matching skirt along with a silk beige camisole whose neck was embroidered with peacocks. A LaMarque original. Gwendolyn added layered necklaces and a sunflower ring to the outfit and gazed at her reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Brown skin, mauve lipstick, and nude nail polish contrasted with couture linen. Her MO before a big event was to hype herself up, twirl and shimmy, and when she was feeling really silly, shout “Yaaaaaaaaassssssss queen.” But this morning? Wasn’t in the mood.

“Snap out of it, girl,” Gwendolyn mumbled as she carried white pumps into the living room. Her eyes caught the edge of Media Today on her coffee table, the industry weekly loaded with insider film and TV news. She’d just become the first Sublime Creative employee ever featured in the magazine’s Rising Stars section. “I’m only doing this for you and the agency,” Gwendolyn grumbled to Jessica after she’d agreed to the interview. The thought of too much public attention made her nervous, the reason why she’d chosen a career working behind the scenes in the first place. But Gwendolyn’s reputation had become well-established for those in the know, a byproduct of stellar work.

In just a few years, having zero connection to the entertainment world, she’d become a PR go-to woman with the ability to create the most exquisite on- and off-screen personas (aka “brands”) for her clients. Whether they were regional rappers who unexpectedly found themselves social media darlings or meek actors who strutted down red carpets with badass designer looks, Gwendolyn was the mastermind behind their ascent. The quality of all the events she planned and oversaw… graceful, immaculate, some said majestic. She’d worked her ass off, deeply grateful to Jessica, who’d hired Gwendolyn at one of the lowest points in her life.

As a result, Sublime had gone from a boutique PR/management agency focusing on indie creatives to New York’s top Black-owned firm fueled by mainstream artists and influencers. But Sublime still held far too precarious a place in the industry, considering the stiff competition. The company was weathering a downturn, with Jessica having to implement cost-saving measures. No more business travel. No more expense account lunches. Jessica and Gwendolyn were even working without assistants, relying on associate staff for help. Layoffs were on the horizon if things didn’t turn around, and fast.

Gwendolyn grabbed her purse and raincoat, hot coffee top of mind if she was going to make it through a major fashion event. She stepped onto the corner of 118th and Adam Clayton Powell as she made her way to her favorite neighborhood café. The sidewalk was damp, the air unseasonably warm and humid from early-morning rain. People with their heads buried in phones stole a glance at Gwendolyn in her linen suit. Good, she thought. Very good. I might feel off, but LaMarque does the damn thing every time.

She took out her phone to check if any early-morning messages had come through and grinned at the text she’d expected to see. Morning… Just wanted to say hey, sending good vibes before your big day. See you at museum…

From James.

A few months ago, Gwendolyn had added the bullet point “Go Out on Dates” to her never-ending to-do list cloud doc. After five months of zero physical intimacy, work killing her softly, she realized she was slowly, surely going insane. She found herself in a constant state of distraction as she walked Harlem streets, checking out well-groomed dark Adonises with thick legs covered in tailored pants and mustached around-the-way guys in sweatsuit ensembles who had a certain Aaron Pierre je ne sais quoi. Gwendolyn valued her independence, saw herself as a loner. Life worked better for her that way, this she knew, but she also knew she could no longer deny her needs.

Imma fix this, Gwendolyn told herself, as she did whenever she had a problem, whether personal or professional. Uncomfortable going to a bar by herself, she focused on the apps, trying to remain open-minded though they felt like a waste of time. Gwendolyn soon met up for coffee with a pompadoured finance guy who talked nonstop for an hour about himself and his pals, constantly spouting “my bros” this and “my bros” that. Two days later, she went out with a cute but unsmiling philosophy professor who looked her up and down for half a minute and asked if she always overdressed for dates. And then came the dimpled Saks Fifth Avenue manager who, ten minutes into drinks, opined about the wonders of erotic asphyxiation. (She ended that date immediately.) Having sex with any of these fools simply for the sake of getting some nice, one-night-stand ass… nope, wasn’t going to happen. She’d gone down that road before, sleeping with dudes whose vibes were off. Never again. They didn’t deserve her body or her time.

Just as she was on the verge of recalibrating her approach, she’d met James H. Watson at a Dance Theater of Harlem benefit event that she’d squeezed into her schedule. He was an understated dream with his fade haircut and purple bowtie and button-down shirt and long mahogany fingers that danced as he cupped his old-fashioned. James humble bragged in a baritone voice that he was a foundation fund manager before asking Gwendolyn all the right questions about herself, his gaze never leaving her face. She in turn shared the highlights of being a Sublime senior publicist, impressing him with her client roster. While James admitted he was a divorcé, having split with his ex-wife only a year ago, Gwendolyn kept it light and shared her standard spiel about her interests and hobbies… fashion, art, classic movies, soul, jazz. The sort of thing that positioned her as an alluring woman of culture. After almost an hour of small talk, she decided to give him The Look, which meant something very carnal needed to happen sooner rather than later.

James fidgeted with his bowtie and asked Gwendolyn if she wanted another drink. On his way to the bar, as he turned around to check her out yet again, he collided with another patron and spilled his old-fashioned all over the woman’s mauve drape dress. “I’m sorry!” he yelled as he grabbed a batch of napkins and tried to pat the scowling woman down without being fresh.

Ohmigosh, he’s a goofball, Gwendolyn thought. James came back with a clementine mocktail, his bowtie crooked. And that’s when she noticed how he bounced on the soles of his feet as she spoke about her job, how his baritone became a tenor when he cackled at one of her tired jokes, how nervous he was to be in her presence. Her lust-filled illusions were now supplanted by reality. James was so not the smooth operator she’d imagined.

A chaste style of courting began. Gwendolyn realized that something about this profoundly decent human being made her feel centered, more like herself. Their time together consisted of elegant dinner dates and long walks under city streetlights and bashful smiles. James clearly enjoyed talking to Gwendolyn about his background growing up in PG County, Maryland, seemingly content with the scant details she shared about growing up in the Bronx. During their third date, an early dinner at a French bistro, after one too many awkward silences, she mentioned a couple of rappers she repped, something that almost always grabbed the attention of men. Sure enough, James dived into the abiding love he had for hip-hop’s Soulquarian movement, how it got him through high school and college. How he’d compiled several notebooks of his own rhymes, though his big sister Anita tried to break it to him gently that his flow was shit. He found out the hard way when performing at an open mic show in DC.

“I mean, my swag… nonexistent,” he said. “But one of the big lessons I’ve learned… well, guess I’m still learning, is to keep it real. Be myself. I think it’s why me and my ex-wife didn’t work out, both of us acting all the time like we’re big and bad and perfect instead of being vulnerable, getting to share who we really are.” He looked down at his plate of roasted chicken and potatoes. “I’m not going to repeat the same mistakes.”

Gwendolyn nodded and took a sip of her Merlot, resisting the urge to excuse herself and sprint out the back door. This level of vulnerability? Wasn’t on the agenda.

But for some reason she didn’t run. They had their first kiss that night under a streetlight in Central Park, Gwendolyn’s sense of time swept away as desire bloomed. She enjoyed the feel of James’s stubble against her cheeks and the sound of his guffaws when he was excited. How his fingers intertwined with hers, the palms of his hands soft and tender. (Gwendolyn thanked the heavens that the man knew how to moisturize.) How he caressed her back and asked, “Is this okay?” How he beamed when she leaned in and whispered, “Yes.” How he buried his head in her neck and stayed there, the two lost to the night’s shadows as Gwendolyn thought, What am I doing?

As a publicist, she studied people all the time, and it was clear that sex with James would no longer be a hit it and split sort of thing. He certainly wasn’t pushing, seemed to be infinitely patient, not minding the silences where Gwendolyn could’ve been sharing more. But nonetheless, the prospect of things getting complicated lingered the more they hung out. Is this really a good idea? she asked herself over and over on the taxi ride home after their fourth achingly lovely date.

But one night, Gwendolyn kicked caution to the curb after an excruciating day. She’d spent almost fourteen hours contending yet again with foolishness from her most famous client, fellow Harlemite Clive Sergeant, whose career was heading toward its nova phase. Clive knew his worth, was aware of his immense popularity and how charming his fans found him to be with his green eyes and crooked smile. So why follow rules meant for commoners?

The actor had set up his European cocaine dealer in a private trailer on set while shooting The Senses, a gritty Hestia Studios drama based on New York’s underground gigolo scene during the late ’70s. Dealing with Clive’s numbskull work behavior? Not Gwendolyn’s job, but there she was, imploring the actor to consider that sometimes, every now and then, adhering to the law and acknowledging other people’s boundaries made life easier. And then she spoke to the enraged showrunner, begging her not to fire Clive and to think of the multiple Emmy nods on the horizon for the production, of the nuanced Vulture thought piece that would spotlight his bravery as a fearless biracial actor who’d dared to do full-frontal sex scenes. (Intimacy coordinator on hand, of course.) And on top of that, Gwendolyn had to speak to the scary drug dealer, delicately asking him to leave set and think about his life choices, about the risks he might be posing to whatever visa or green card situation he had going on with the U.S. Gwendolyn thought the scowling man with black shades and long beard and knife tattoos topping each of his fingers was going to shank her in the side then and there, the way he’d growled. She’d spent hours cleaning up Clive’s mess, running between trailers after takes, skipping lunch, downing cups of coffee from craft services…

And so, when she’d left the set, barely able to keep her eyes open from the migraine settling in, she thought of nothing but the kind, beautiful man who’d been pursuing her for weeks. Of her need for comfort. Pleasure. To be appreciated and taken care of. She’d called James while in the car to say she was coming over, taken the elevator to his eighteenth-floor apartment in Chelsea, and jumped on him as soon as he opened the door.

With a silly smile plastered on his face, he’d welcomed her energy, no questions asked, the two weaving around like snakes on the living room floor. They engaged in raw, carnal foreplay that left chairs overturned and cushions askew and clothes strewn everywhere. The two endured carpet burns on their backs and behinds before Gwendolyn said, “Maybe we can take this to the bedroom?” James looked up, nodded maniacally, and hoisted Gwendolyn up as she wrapped her bare legs around his torso, their kissing slick, hungry.

Being on an actual bed with thousand-count sheets and plush pillows brought things to a whole new level. James placed his head in between Gwendolyn’s legs, his wet tongue meeting her own wetness, her moans echoing through the apartment. Their lips touched yet again. She tasted herself on him, ripe, sweet. Like honey. “Is this okay?” he asked once again when he pulled out a condom, waiting for Gwendolyn’s consent before putting it on and slowly, gently entering her, his gaze never leaving her face. Deep, deep motion began, James making the loudest, weirdest noises during sex Gwendolyn had ever heard, a cross between a husky in heat and a beagle who needed to be let outside. But even with the canine sounds, oh, how glorious the connection was. The unyielding care and devotion to her body he displayed, eyes locked, sweat on sweat, kiss after kiss on skin.

Late into the night, Gwendolyn lay in James’s bed, newly energized, watching him walk into the bathroom. The silly smile was back on his face. She took in his smooth, glistening nakedness, his lithe limbs, his tight backside. She could go another round. And another. This is what I’ve been missing, she realized. Sadness sank into her bones.

James settled back into bed and held her close. “I put aside an extra towel and washcloth,” he said. “And toothbrush… I know you have stuff to do tomorrow, but you can spend the night if you want. I hope you will.”

Gwendolyn felt the tug, knew it would be more sensible to take herself home, but she didn’t want to be by herself. Could finally admit she was tired of being by herself after so many years. I like this, she thought. I like him. It’s okay.

She didn’t want to let go.

Gwendolyn moved deeper into his arms, the first time she’d spent the night with a man for as long as she could remember.

The next morning, with Gwendolyn not needed at the agency or an event, James ordered croissants and coffee so the two could have a work breakfast. He’d been the consummate gentlemen, providing a steady supply of healthy snacks, even laundering her clothes. Gwendolyn wore his navy-blue robe all day and tried her best not to grab the man for more play. Sublime had looming deadlines after all.

When James slipped away to another room to speak to a client, Gwendolyn surveyed his apartment, a minimalist affair with its industrial-style kitchen unit and beige futon and a large mirror placed right by the door. In some ways similar to her bare-bones aesthetic, though James was way more comfortable with basic IKEA furniture and random keepsakes. He’d framed each of the elementary school crayon scrawls of his nieces, setting the pictures above a desk that sat in the corner of the living room. One of his massive bookshelves contained family photos, his undergrad degree from Howard, and snow globes representing different locales. The places he’s traveled? she wondered. He even had a few action figures in military uniforms standing next to miniature vehicles. G.I. Joes?

After finishing his call, James noticed Gwendolyn taking in his place. He gestured to the shelves. “My work can be intense, so with some of my stuff I like to remind myself not to take everything so seriously, you know? Remember to have fun.”

As evening descended and Gwendolyn got ready to leave, she explained that the next few days would be insane as she prepared for Sublime’s big fashion show at the Brooklyn Museum. “Will you be my guest?” she asked. James immediately hopped up and down, threw up his arms, and performed a bootie dance.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Gwendolyn said, and gave him a kiss before she headed home. Maybe this can actually work, she thought as she rode the subway. The prospect of having someone she cared about at one of her events, comforting. A possibility she hadn’t imagined.

Gwendolyn snapped out of her mind fog and hooked a right into Faith’s, the local café that made the most delicious coffee she’d ever had. Faith’s walls were lovely to behold, the space doubling as a gall. . .