“A riotous novel about a farewell party that celebrates all of life’s emotions—big and small—while marking the arrival of an exciting new voice in fiction.” —Steven Rowley, New York Times bestselling author of The Celebrants A rollicking, big-hearted story of long-lost love, friendship, and a life well-lived, set at a Florida retirement resort for queer women, on the last day of resident Hannah Cardin’s life—perfect for readers of Less and The Wedding People . It’s 2067 and Florida is partially underwater, but even that can’t bring down the residents of Palm Meridian Retirement Resort, a utopian home for queer women who want to revel in their twilight years. Inside, Hula-Hoopers shimmy across the grass, fiercely competitive book clubs nearly come to blows, and the roller-ski team races up and down the winding paths. Everywhere you look, these women are living large. Hannah Cardin has spent ten happy years under these tropical, technicolor skies, but after receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis, she has decided that tomorrow morning she will close her eyes for the very last time. Tonight, however, Hannah and her raucous band of friends are throwing one hell of an end-of-life party. And with less than twenty-four hours left, Hannah is holding out for one final, impossible thing… Amongst the guest list is Sophie, the love of Hannah’s life. They haven’t spoken since their devastating breakup over forty years ago, but today, Hannah is hoping for the chance to give her greatest love one last try. As Hannah anxiously awaits Sophie’s arrival, her mind casts back over the highs and lows of her kaleidoscopic life. But when a shocking secret from the past is revealed, Hannah must reconsider if she can say goodbye after all. Spanning the course of a single day and seventy-odd years, and bursting with irresistible hope, humor, and wisdom, this one-of-a-kind novel celebrates the unexpected moments that make us feel the most alive. Grace Flahive was born and raised in Toronto, Canada. She studied English literature at McGill University in Montreal before moving to London, UK, in 2014, where she’s lived ever since. Palm Meridian is her debut novel. Chapter 1 1 FLORIDA 2067 The residents of Palm Meridian Retirement Resort were retired only in name. Though they were formally unemployed, nothing—no force of nature, no act of God—could stop these elderly women from attacking their days with a kind of energy that would make a working person quake. Already, at 8 a.m., the resort was a microcosm of life in all its brightness and its rowdiness, its hurry and its pain. Some residents were roiling with orgasm, while others were fifteen minutes beyond, licking the orange, sated dust of postcoital Cheetos from their fingertips. Some residents were waxing, others ruminating, some stricken by grief and others by IBS. One woman drank her coffee at the window, a bit of loose boob hanging from her robe. Diarrhea threatened at the fringe, adding an element of danger. On the main lawn, a troupe of Hula-Hoopers shimmied and stepped, their hips and hearts hot with the motion of swirling. Nearby, the podcasters sat in the grass, headphones puffy with soundproof feeling, sharpening their anecdotes and loosening their rapport. Some were still awake from the night before, nursing hangovers by the edge of the pool, the chlorinated water lapping at their legs. Enjoying a cigarette, they tipped their heads back and returned to memories of the previous night: a tryst in the badminton clubhouse, the birdies bristling against bare shoulder blades. One resident was in the bathtub, redrafting her will. She’d leave everything she owned to Esmerelda, her new dentist, who she’d met yesterday. A woman fifty years her junior. Through the suck and squelch of gums and fluoride, how could she ignore the tender care and intoxicating scent of this woman—who, it must be said, was smoking hot? She’d only gone in for a filling but had come home with a mouth full of porcelain and a heart sunk deeply in love. Some at the resort were in decades-long marriages, their love as soft and dependable as their complementary pajamas. They sometimes argued at the breakfast buffet about flavors of toothpaste, or their adult children, their words as hot as the soybean bacon. But at night they pressed their silent affection, with their noses, into the sleeping backs of their loves. Others were widowed, some of them recently. Their partner’s scent was preserved on a pillowcase, kept safe in a Ziploc bag. At night, their strength wavered like the palm trees in the darkness. Some were actively single, magnetic and boastful. At the pool, they spread their bodies across the lounge chairs, laying their charm on as thick as their SPF. They sauntered and suggested, did their best to land a breakfast date—a stack of pancakes at the diner down the interstate, the maple syrup dripping erotically. There were tap-dance recitals and dildo debriefs, t