Both go down with the ease of a Dirty Shirley, but neither captured my heart or attained that overused marketing promise of “unputdownability.” There are blue covers with female silhouettes in repose summery settings (a wedding on Cape Cod and a buzzy new hotel) sprawling casts of Clue-game characters and myriad mini-mysteries. “The Hotel Nantucket,” by Elin Hilderbrand, and Jennifer Weiner’s “The Summer Place” try mightily to be beach reads - and, given the authors’ well-earned followings, both are likely to be successful as such. Lucia once, a dear family friend brought a fat history of longitude to the beach - his idea of gripping material.
Anything can be a beach read if it truly holds you in its clutches: Amor Towles’s “ Rules of Civility” was one of the most achingly addictive books I happened to read on a blissful trip to St. To me, beach reads are books to linger over on a lounge chair, to lose yourself in while the real (and lately cruel) world slips away. The term “beach read” may be evolving from pejorative to praise, as at least some people become less fusty about the value of popular fiction.
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