Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Present Day
I t was the morning of Thanksgiving and the chilliest day of the year so far. Seventeen degrees! Estelle stood in her kitchen with a mug of hot coffee, watching as the fog rolled over the Nantucket Sound and listening as, upstairs, her husband, Roland, shifted through his early morning preparations, still groggy enough to make mistakes. He dropped things and maybe stubbed his toe. She listened to his mild cursing and cringed. But when Roland appeared in the kitchen, still wearing his big fluffy robe, his smile was enormous, and he kissed her on the lips and said, “Happy Thanksgiving, my love!”
Estelle giggled and leaned against him. She’d already begun dinner preparations, and the smell of sweet potatoes and turkey drifted from the oven. Her to-do list was about a mile long, but her daughters and daughter-in-law would be here soon to help. Plenty of other Colemans had agreed to bring side dishes and pies. As it had been since the two sides of the Coleman family had come together, Thanksgiving was going to be massive.
“I can’t believe we’re crazy enough to host everyone,” Estelle said, reaching up to touch Roland’s cheek, which was still fuzzy pre-shave.
“I’m bracing myself for a storm!” Roland joked, turning to pour himself a mug of coffee.
Estelle watched him, his broad back facing her as the coffee filled a mug her publisher had sent her a couple of years ago. Roland was the man of her dreams, the man of her heart, and the father of her three children. He was also, she knew, rather complicated, occasionally secretive, and forever nursing the broken heart he’d garnered when he’d learned about his father’s affair and second family. The fact that Roland had taken so much hush money from Chuck in the wake of that discovery was something Estelle had made peace with. Roland and Grant had forgiven themselves—and one another—for being so cold-hearted. Best of all, they’d forgiven Chuck, mending a relationship they’d abandoned in the early eighties.
Chuck was in his nineties now. Estelle firmly believed that everyone deserved forgiveness, no matter what they’d done, as long as they apologized and asked for forgiveness. That was her top tip for longevity in marriages. Forgive each other. Move on. Love well every day.
Estelle’s phone buzzed with a text from Samantha, their middle child. She sent a selfie with her daughters, Rachelle and Darcy, beneath the arrivals gate at the Nantucket Airport.
The text read: Look who I found!
Warmth flooded through Estelle’s arms and legs. “Look, Rolly! Our girl is home!” She flashed the screen of her phone toward her husband, who raised his mug and smiled.
“Does she remember how to speak English?” he joked.
“We’ll all just have to learn Italian if she forgot,” Estelle said, unable to stop smiling.
Last summer, after a raucous experience with The Cooking Channel at a restaurant here in Nantucket, Rachelle was hired to work as a chef in Rome. She’d leaped at the opportunity, telling her family she’d be back “as soon as she could.” Estelle hadn’t believed her. She’d known that the minute she was out in the wild world of food and travel, of Italian men and nightlife, of pasta and pizza and red, red wine, Rachelle would struggle to remember how magical Nantucket really was. Maybe she’d be back one day. But not soon.
Estelle was careful never to mention this to Samantha or Darcy. Darcy was Rachelle’s very best friend and slightly older sister, and prior to Rachelle’s departure, they’d lived together in Nantucket’s Historic District. But now, Darcy was pregnant, and time was speeding up.
Before Darcy and Rachelle knew it, they’d be in their thirties or forties, talking about “the good old days” when they’d spent a few summers together. Back before their “real lives” had begun.
Estelle was a popular romance novelist. For this reason, she sometimes felt she read all of her friends’ and family members’ life stories as though they were as-yet-unfinished novels. Roland sometimes accused her of this, saying, This isn’t a book, Estelle. It’s real life. Nothing is ever as romantic or fantastical.
But Estelle begged to differ. Life was full of surprises. You didn’t have to be a writer to recognize that.
Estelle continued her work in the kitchen. Roland went upstairs to shower and change. Very soon, his half sisters, Oriana and Meghan, would bring their families and Chuck over from Martha’s Vineyard by ferry, which operated sparingly over the holidays. As ever, when his half sisters and father were coming, Roland was jittery. It was like he couldn’t fully relax into those new relationships.
But Oriana, Meghan, and Chuck had come into their lives just last year. There was a lot of love there, but comfort would take time.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was only eight fifteen, but already Samantha had brought Darcy and Rachelle over to hang out with their grandmother in the kitchen and prep, prep, prep. Estelle opened her arms to Rachelle, who looked tan, happy, and healthy. She wore clothes Estelle didn’t recognize, a black dress that seemed very Italian. Estelle searched her voice for any sign of an Italian accent to her English words, frightened that it had crept in and changed her. But Rachelle was the same as ever.
“It’s so good to see you, Grandma,” Rachelle said.
Darcy looked even more pregnant than she had last week. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she hugged her grandmother nearly as long as Rachelle had.
“Your sister’s back!” Estelle announced to Darcy.
Despite her pregnant belly, Darcy looked as though she might float into the sky with joy.
Samantha hurried in after them, closing the door tight against the chill. “It’s twelve degrees!” she cried, smiling.
“It’s amazing,” Rachelle said wistfully. “It never gets this cold in Rome. I’ve missed it.”
Back in the kitchen with three of her favorite girls, Estelle felt a new jolt of energy. Unsurprisingly, Rachelle wanted to make a few brand-new Italian recipes for dinner, and Estelle gave her space and time to work.
“When you have a professional chef in the family, you let her do what she wants!” Estelle declared, watching her granddaughter slice and dice vegetables quickly and succinctly. She looked just like the chefs on television.
“Tell me,” Estelle begged as she began to make the dough for the dinner rolls. “How is Rome? What is your life like?”
Rachelle blushed and glanced at Darcy. It was clear she was weighing up how much she should tell her grandmother about her “real life.” In Rachelle’s eyes, Estelle knew she was about a thousand years old. More than that, to her, Estelle had only ever been in love with Roland. It was true she’d married young, that she hadn’t had to date around much, if at all, during high school before falling and staying in love. But Estelle was a romance novelist, for crying out loud! She wanted to hear about the trials and tribulations of Rachelle’s dating escapades in Italy!
But it wasn’t as though Estelle would have told her grandmother about her dating life, either. She had to respect that.
“It’s been interesting, to say the least,” Rachelle offered.
“Come on. Tell her about Federico!” Darcy cried.
Rachelle shot Darcy a look that meant hush. Estelle’s heart banged in her chest.
But a split second later came another knock on the door. It was only nine fifteen, far earlier than she’d told the Colemans to swing by for pre-dinner drinks. But Estelle knew better than to trust her family to pay attention to instructions, not on such an important holiday.
Aria and Hilary came next. Hilary’s fiancé and Aria’s father, Marc, were coming at noon—the time Estelle had told everyone to come by—but Hilary and Aria hadn’t wanted to miss out on any fun. They brought a wave of expensive-smelling perfume with their entrance, and Estelle hugged them and ushered them into the kitchen to hang out with everyone. Darcy had put music on Estelle’s little speaker, which Estelle often forgot how to use. Estelle’s smile was already hurting her face.
Hilary had brought along a number of wedding magazines, which she splayed across the kitchen table. Her wedding was just three months away in February, and she had just a few more last-minute decisions. “I need your opinions!” she cried.
“Yeah, right,” Samantha joked. “What could we possibly help you with? You’re the one with the artistic eye, Sis.”
Hilary laughed and waved her hand even though this was entirely true, and she knew it. Hilary was a sought-after interior designer with Sotheby’s. Recently, she’d trained Aria as her assistant although Aria also took on her own clients now. She had even been written about as “one to watch in the interior design scene.”
Hilary flipped midway through the magazine, where beautiful and glossy models showed off bridesmaid dresses in soft lavenders and seafoam greens and powder blues. “We have to talk about what my bridesmaids are wearing!” Hilary gave each of them a pointed look, including Estelle, who blushed.
“I’d look ridiculous in something like that,” Estelle declared.
“Not true!” Hilary cried. “Mom, let’s get real. I’m in my forties; Marc’s in his forties. It isn’t going to be a traditional wedding. But I want all the most important women in my life to feel beautiful. I want you all to stand together in dresses that—most importantly—go together.”
Estelle and Sam made eye contact over the kitchen table. Estelle continued to knead the dough for the rolls, thinking of the heinous diet she’d have to go on before Hilary’s wedding. Maybe she could juice again? Perhaps she could just count carbs?
“No heavy diets, either,” Hilary said as though she could read her mother’s mind. “I want this wedding to be about accepting who we are right now. That’s been Marc's and my mantra since the beginning of our new relationship. The past is the past. What’s now is now.”
“You know I’ll be as big as a whale by then, right?” Darcy asked.
“What’s now is now!” Hilary reaffirmed.
Everyone laughed. But Hilary’s eyes glowed with affirmation. It was clear that this was what she wanted, that she was happier and more in love than she’d ever been. Estelle was pleased for her. When Hilary and Marc had broken up the first time—many years ago—Estelle had been brokenhearted. She’d wanted all of her children to have what she’d had: a solid foundation, a romantic life partner, a “normal” life. But Estelle knew now that nothing in life was “normal.” Her children were proof of that.
“Let’s pick some dresses!” Hilary suggested.
What could the Coleman women do but play along?
Not long after that, the rest of the tremendous Coleman family arrived. Estelle was launched into the last few hours of pre-dinner chaos, which found reason and organization only because of Rachelle’s vast background in rush-hour kitchens. People milled in and out of the kitchen, hunting for bottles of wine and bottles of beer and bottles of Diet Coke. Estelle threw her arms around everyone as they passed, dotting them with flour and anything else she might have on her hands.
From the kitchen, Estelle overheard Chuck Coleman greeting everyone with his enormous, booming voice. It was remarkable that a man of ninety-three could control a room like that. But Chuck Coleman was that kind of man: passionate, open-hearted, curious, and eager.
“I’d better go say hi to Great-Grandpa,” Rachelle said, washing her hands quickly and heading into the living room.
“Ciao, Bella!” Chuck greeted Rachelle with a near-perfect Italian accent. “There she is. Back from the old country!”
“Grandpa, we’re not Italian!” Rachelle said.
Estelle remained in the kitchen, drying her hands and listening to the thick wave of Colemans as they talked over one another, clinked glasses of wine, and commented on how “delicious the food smelled.” Her heartbeat slowed. Outside, a soft snow began to fall from the rolling gray clouds above, and she took a moment to say a prayer of thanks.
This is the happiest life I’ve ever known.
The Colemans sat for Thanksgiving dinner at two p.m. Like every year, Roland was given the knife to carve the turkey, and everyone passed mashed potatoes and gravy, brussels sprouts, rolls, cheesy potatoes, baked beans, salads, and a few different types of Italian pasta around the table, heaping spoonfuls on their plates. Estelle’s glass of wine was full, and she raised it with everyone else as they gave thanks. Across from her sat Grandpa Chuck, who didn’t drink much wine anymore but who’d put a splash of wine in his glass for toasting. His eyes glinted mischievously. It always seemed to Estelle that he had a thousand tricks up his sleeve despite his age.
The food was good. Everyone told Estelle she’d outdone herself, and Estelle insisted she hadn’t, that this or that was overcooked or too salty.
“It’s perfect, Estelle,” Roland assured. “I wore my biggest pair of pants and am prepared to loosen my belt within the hour.”
Estelle giggled and sipped her wine.
“So, Estelle,” Chuck said, directing his attention toward her, “are you working on anything at the moment?”
Estelle was taken aback. It was rare that anyone asked about her writing process. But Chuck had mentioned before that he was fascinated with her career. He’d even read a few of her novels, which made her blush. The man loved romance, apparently. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, he’d left his first wife for a passionate affair with his second. It didn’t mean he was the most loyal of men, but it did mean he had a heart.
“Estelle is always working on something,” Roland announced. “She gets up way before me and goes to her office to write and write and write. Sometimes I don’t even see her till late afternoon! I have to fend for myself.” Roland winked to prove he was teasing.
Estelle laughed. “I get obsessed with my stories,” she agreed. “But it’s the only way I’ve ever known how to work. Real life fades away.”
“It’s romantic,” Chuck said. “I imagine that’s how most successful writers work.”
Estelle realized that quite a few of the Colemans were tuning in to listen to their conversation. Even Oriana, at the far end of the table, had her head tilted with curiosity.
Estelle took a bite of mashed potatoes and smiled, thinking the conversation was over. She glanced down at the table to see that Hilary and Marc were holding hands over the table, as though they were teenagers who couldn’t help it.
“But what about the content of the story?” Chuck asked eagerly. “Who are the characters? Set the scene!”
“Dad, Estelle doesn’t ever talk about that.” Roland laughed. “Trust me, I’ve tried to get details out of her for years. She keeps it all locked tight.”
Estelle laughed and smiled.
“Not even a hint?” Chuck asked.
“All right.” It was Thanksgiving, and Estelle felt especially loose today. “It’s about a lighthouse keeper. That’s all I’ll say.” She pretended to zip her lips and throw away the key.
Chuck’s face immediately transformed. His eyes were illuminated. “A lighthouse keeper,” he repeated.
“That’s romantic,” Samantha said from a few seats down. “Who does he fall in love with in the story, Mom?”
“I can’t share anything else!” Estelle said with a secretive smile.
But Chuck continued to look contemplative. “I knew a lighthouse keeper once.”
Roland perked up. “Here in Nantucket?”
Chuck shook his head. “I met him in Martha’s Vineyard.”
Roland looked slumped for a moment but soon corrected his posture. Estelle knew he didn’t like to be reminded of his father’s departure, of his second wife, Mia, or of the painful 1980s.
But something about Chuck’s expression gave Estelle pause.
“You have a story,” Estelle said suddenly. “A story about this lighthouse keeper. Don’t you?”
Chuck laughed, but this time, the humor didn’t rise to his eyes. “It’s nothing. A story from a million years ago.”
It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He twisted away and looked at Rachelle. “Could you pass the cheesy potatoes, dear?” His tone was entirely different.
Estelle was taken aback. She knew the older man had secrets, just like everyone. But she’d assumed that most of their big secrets were out in the open now that both sides of the Coleman family were back together again.
What was Chuck hiding this time?
She wondered if she’d ever find out.