Chapter 2
Martha’s Vineyard
The ferry between Nantucket Island and Martha’s Vineyard took an hour and ten minutes, just as it always had since Estelle was a girl.
Sitting in the little coffee shop up top, overseeing the Nantucket Sound as it spread in its beautiful turquoise around the boat, Estelle eavesdropped on the lovers at the table opposite her, a couple in their twenties planning to go swimming later that afternoon.
It was early June, but the summer had been warm, which meant the beaches were primed and ready for full-summer activities.
The girl told her boyfriend that she’d packed champagne and strawberries.
He insisted that they stop at a grocery store for something salty, and she laughed and kissed him. Estelle averted her eyes.
At seventy-three, Estelle’s love story felt so far behind her that it often seemed like it belonged to somebody else.
She’d fallen in love with her husband, Roland, as a teenager, then gone on to marry him and have three beautiful children with him.
The fear of the unknown that existed within the couple's love story before her felt so far beyond her. Estelle expected it would make everything all the more exciting—questions about whether they’d know and love one another beyond that summer.
Estelle returned to her vehicle and drove it off the ferry when they arrived.
In her front seat were piles of romance novels, which she’d rented from the Nantucket Island library that morning.
She had half a mind to take herself to a beach later on, to read till her heart was full.
It was delicious, the way she could spend hours in another story like that.
It was essential to avoid her own story, if only for a time.
Estelle parked in the lot outside the retirement facility, then headed inside to say hello to the young woman working there these days. “Hi, Estelle,” Georgia said, smiling. “Oriana and Meghan are already here. You can head back.”
Estelle thanked her and cut through the retirement living areas, where old folks in their sixties and up watched television and played cards.
She said hello to a few of them by name, then continued to the familiar mini-apartment in back.
From outside the cracked door, she could hear her sisters-in-law laughing with their father.
She knocked, and they called for her to come in.
Estelle melted at the sight of the three of them together.
Oriana and Meghan, just as beautiful and smiley as ever, and their father, Chuck, who was ninety-nine years old yet seemed not a day older than when she’d met him eight years ago.
Estelle hurried to kiss each of them on the cheek, then sat, crossing her ankles beneath her.
“We’re so glad you could make it today!” Meghan said. “Dad was telling us you might have changed your mind?”
Estelle eyed Chuck, remembering their phone conversation last night and how she’d told him that she wasn’t feeling so great and might stay home.
“I woke up this morning feeling better than ever,” Estelle lied. “And it’s always good to get off Nantucket for the day.”
“We’re thrilled you’re here,” Oriana said. “I can’t remember the last time.”
Estelle swallowed the lump in her throat.
She knew she’d been hibernating, that she’d avoided their phone calls and tended to her own sensibilities and prayed for time to pass.
But she couldn’t do that forever. Chuck was ninety-nine years old, for goodness’ sake.
He wouldn’t be here forever. None of them would be.
They soon fell into conversation, talking about their children, the things they’d read, and Estelle’s most recent novel, which was set to come out that year. Estelle had written it before everything happened, and the idea of celebrating it made her feel foreign and strange.
“You have to let us read an advanced copy!” Meghan said.
Estelle agreed to send them some, but imagined that she’d forget. She couldn’t keep anything in her head these days. “I’ve been so scattered,” she said, laughing at herself.
“Tell me,” Chuck said, raising his chin. “Have you heard anything from our Rachelle over in Rome?”
Estelle’s heart thudded. Rachelle in Rome? They hadn’t heard anything from her in years at this point. Was Chuck asking her about Rachelle in order to hurt her?
No, she knew. He wouldn’t do that. But still. She hesitated, at a loss for words.
“Dad, Rachelle’s busy in Rome,” Oriana said, reaching for his hand. “Remember, we read that she was going to open her own restaurant?”
“That’s right!” Chuck seemed very pleased about that. “I can’t believe what she’s calling it.”
Estelle furrowed her brow. She’d avoided any new information about Rachelle, as it hurt her heart too much. But Chuck soon supplied the info.
“She’s calling it Coleman!” he said. “Can you believe it?”
Estelle genuinely couldn’t believe it. She wondered if it was Rachelle’s way to connect with her roots, if it was a genuine and heartfelt choice.
That, or it was Rachelle’s way of bringing an American audience into a Rome restaurant, a way of differentiating herself and her cuisine from the Italian options.
Maybe it was all about capitalism, all about money and what she could earn.
Estelle wondered if she’d ever find out the truth.
“It’s remarkable to be as old as I am and learn that your granddaughter named her restaurant after your family name. In Rome of all places,” Chuck said, looking satisfied, his hands on his stomach. “She’s going to be something in the world.”
“She already is,” Estelle said.
Meghan and Oriana peered at her curiously. The topic of Estelle’s long-lost granddaughter was one that nobody was eager to broach, save for Chuck.
But soon, Chuck had moved the conversation on to other things.
“Turning one hundred is a strange thing,” he said.
“A man never imagines something like that. Certainly, he never imagines reaching a hundred without one of his own children around.” Chuck took a staggered breath.
“A man should never outlive one of his children. It isn’t right. ”
Estelle felt his words like a knife. The room spun. She knew that she couldn’t stay here, listening to this, not without throwing up. She was on her feet, moving toward the door.
“Estelle?” Oriana called. “Estelle, do you need something? A glass of water?”
Estelle stood in the hallway, heaving into her hands. But by the time Oriana found her, she’d calmed herself down. She smiled gently, hoping that Oriana wouldn’t ask her if she was all right. She was so obviously not all right, and she didn’t want to lie.
Oriana put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “My father really knows how to put his foot in his mouth. He always has.”
Estelle laughed. “It isn’t a big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” Oriana closed her eyes.
“It’s really sweet of you to come all this way today to visit us.
I don’t want you to run home, okay? Come back to my place after this.
Reese and I will cook you something delicious, fatty, and great.
You can spend the night if you want to. I hate to think of you in that big house by yourself. ”
Estelle wanted to say no. She wanted to get back in her car and take the ferry back home. But she saw from Oriana’s eyes that Oriana wouldn’t take no for an answer.
An hour and a half after that, Oriana found herself on the veranda of Oriana and Reese’s place with a glass of rosé and a bowl of pita chips and hummus before her.
The waves rolled gently onto the white sands, and seagulls squawked far overhead.
Reese, who was five years out from awful bouts of cancer that had very nearly killed him, looked fresh and happy, reaching for the bottle of rosé to refill his glass.
Their daughter, Alexa, was over with her son, Benny, who was nearly ten years old now.
Benny played with their dog on the beach, charging up and down the sand as Alexa talked about her brand-new art show in Boston the following weekend. Oriana and Reese beamed with pride.
Estelle prayed that none of them would look at her too harshly, that they wouldn’t ask her how she was doing. She couldn’t take it.
Oriana served steaks, mashed potatoes, and red wine, which felt decadent and grand.
Estelle, who was living by herself for the first time, had been feeding herself salads, eggs, and anything simple she could cook in a few minutes.
She hadn’t been able to find the will to cook just for herself.
She figured that most widows felt this way at first.
After dinner, Alexa and Benny left, and Reese went upstairs to do some reading.
This left Oriana and Estelle on the veranda, listening to the waves and finishing the bottle of wine.
Estelle braced herself for Oriana’s questions about Estelle’s life post-Roland.
But Oriana seemed to know better. She sat quietly, waiting for Estelle to fill the space.
Maybe she understood that sometimes, silence was what you needed to get by. Silence with another person.
Estelle’s phone rang, breaking the calm. She checked to see it was her agent, a sort of new one after her last one got out of the business.
“Hi, Anne,” she said. They hadn’t spoken on the phone in ages, and Estelle had been avoiding her.
“You answered!” Anne sounded pleased. “I thought I’d have to leave another voice message that you probably wouldn’t listen to.”
Estelle laughed gently. She told herself to keep breathing.
“Don’t worry,” Anne assured. “I didn’t call to pester you about writing something new.
I know this might not be the time for that.
I understand. I get it.” She paused. “But I wanted to say that many, many bookstores across this country and also Europe have expressed interest in hosting you. It’s enough for a mini book tour.
Is that something you would be interested in? ”
Estelle’s eyes widened. She hadn’t left Nantucket Island after Roland’s death till today, which had taken her only as far as Martha’s Vineyard. And now, her agent was asking her to go as far away as Europe? She couldn’t manage it.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Estelle said.
“Things have changed in publishing, Estelle,” Anne continued.
“People want to see you in the flesh. They want to meet you, get to know you, and feel that you’re human, especially given all this AI nonsense.
If you want to keep selling books and continue having relationships with your readers, you have to put yourself out there.
And don’t you think returning to the world, going to London and Paris and New York City, will activate that creative brain of yours? ”
Estelle groaned, then laughed at herself. “I’m sorry. It sounds like you’re so far ahead of me on this.”
“I know. I know.” Anne kept her voice upbeat.
“What if I send you the potential calendar, and you can tell me what you think? Make sure you give yourself some time to get used to the idea. Talk to your daughters and friends about it. I really believe this is essential, not only to your career but to your healing and your sense of self in the future.”
Estelle might have been annoyed with Anne and all her pushing, were it not for Oriana, sitting beside her, acting as a force of protection.
“I’m going to hang up, now,” Anne said. “I’m sending you the potential schedule now. Don’t tell me no for another three days, okay? We’ll talk soon.”
Together, Estelle and Oriana read the schedule quietly.
In three weeks, there was a big release party in Manhattan, followed by several signings across New England, before a flight to Europe.
The book tour would span a little less than two months before releasing Estelle back to her sad life, where she lived alone in that big house on Nantucket.
“Rome,” Oriana breathed, pointing at the city on the list.
Estelle made a noise in her throat. She couldn’t muster the strength to talk about Rachelle, about how much she missed her and how curious she was about her life in Italy.
“Rome,” Estelle repeated.
Estelle hadn’t gone on a book tour since before Roland’s death. She leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed, watching the way the moonlight played along the waves. She willed herself to understand what Roland would have said, what advice he might have given her.
But it was Oriana who touched her shoulder and said, “Don’t say no. It looks incredible.”
And Estelle knew she was right.