by CF Frizzell
Nantucket Rose
Maggie Jordan can’t wait to convert an historic Nantucket home into a B&B and move on to her next project. However, her intention to flip it for a sizeable profit is something she must keep to herself if she hopes to win the acceptance of islanders and popularize the business. She can’t afford to grow attached to the house, or succumb to Nantucket’s quaint charms, and definitely must not fall in love.
But neither can Maggie resist the conundrum that is Ellis Chilton, a reserved, solitary islander and mariner since childhood. Seemingly content being attached only to her boat and the ocean, Ellis projects a refreshing air of independence, an aura of conviction and grit that tugs Maggie ever closer to a decision that will alter both their lives.
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
About the Author
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Nantucket Rose
© 2017 By CF Frizzell. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-055-9
This Electronic Original is published by
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P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: November 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Sheri ([email protected])
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Acknowledgments
For me, writing a novel set on the island of Nantucket brought back a myriad of fond memories. Commuting there from Hyannis Harbor, now many years ago, always had me marveling at the daunting Atlantic, enjoying the ferry rides as much as days spent working on the Grey Lady itself.
You can’t see the island from the dock in Hyannis, but beyond the horizon some thirty miles out sits a quaint, historic Massachusetts community once known around the world for the courage and success of its valiant whalers. The Atlantic Ocean is no less a part of daily island life today, but time does move on, and I’m grateful that generations of Nantucketters have persevered, protecting treasured elements of the past in the face of ever-changing times. There are no McDonald’s restaurants on Nantucket; camping is not allowed; bringing your car to the island costs a small fortune. But there’s that Charles Dickens feel to tree-lined Main Street, with its cobblestones and street lamps; shop owners selling the work of island artisans—who all know you by name; and a whole town’s worth of support for the high school varsity team. Treasured elements like individuality and community. A settlement that’s pushing four hundred years old knows what matters most.
I credit my late father for my love of the ocean, which led to writing Nantucket Rose. He was a sailor before, during, and after WWII and would have lived his entire life aboard any ship, if my mother had let him. How he gloried in our last excursion together, standing at the bow of the ferry Eagle as we crossed Nantucket Sound, silently adrift in his memories. I know he would be pleased to visit Nantucket again through this novel.
And I’m most thankful for my wife Kathy and her love, support, and creative inspiration. Writing a novel without her is inconceivable to me.
I’ve written a locale full of memories in Nantucket Rose, and appreciate every reader who comes aboard to visit. I hope you make fond memories here, too.
To Kathy
for making every dream come true
Chapter One
The ornery Atlantic Ocean landed another jab to the ferry’s ribs, determined to pound the ship back to the mainland. Maggie Jordan and fellow passengers swayed with the broadside blow, wincing like the audience in a prize fight as the hardy ship heaved to one side and absorbed the hit. She clamped both hands around her cardboard cup to keep it on the table. Gyroscopic, she thought, watching the scalding coffee remain perfectly level while the world tilted around it. Heat seared into her fingers and she withdrew them only slightly, and risked letting the cup sit unaided while the ferry hammered through the angry sea.
The clock on the lounge wall said she had another hour to go before reaching the island, reminding her she sat directly in the middle of busy Nantucket Sound where there was no land to be seen—if she could have seen anything through the sheets of rain outside.
She counted on the snack bar coffee to keep her queasiness in check. Her stomach rolled as much as the Steamship Authority’s beefy ferry, the M / V Eagle, and had never been this upset on previous trips to Nantucket. Wishing her appointment with the general contractor had fallen on a nicer day, Maggie marveled at how most passengers took this rough ride in stride. Granted, a few looked a little green, but most calmly sat, reading or chatting as children played in their seats and dogs on leashes slept soundly. For a moment, she envisioned her own dog, Retta, testing her patience, eager to play, and Maggie knew that challenge would come soon enough.
She returned to her iPad and details of the work ahead. The last phase of her biggest turnaround project to date beckoned loudly. She couldn’t wait to be hands-on and settled in to bring her vision of Nantucket’s newest B&B to life. Months of sketching and planning, hours of phone calls, mountains of regulations and forms, and too many hurried—and not always pleasant—trips to the island were all in their final stages now, and she itched like a child at Christmas to see them all to fruition.
She scrolled down the list of tasks yet to be done, noted their impact on her budget, and the timetable involved. She sighed and stared off into space, hoping the B&B’s opening was still on schedule. Less than three months to go. She nodded at her list. Still doable.
“Pardon me, dear. Would you mind terribly sharing your booth?” Wearing tweed blazer and slacks, a woman with an extraordinarily long silver braid stood holding a Bloody Mary and gripping the seat back for balance. “I don’t mean to disturb your work.” Her assorted bracelets jangled when she gestured to the table.
“Oh, no. Not at all.” Maggie quickly moved her things aside. “Please have a seat.”
The stranger put the cocktail down a
nd folded her long camel hair coat into a neat bundle on the bench beside her. “A full house on the boat today.” She loosened the cashmere scarf at her throat and drew her drink close. “I’m Julia. What’s your name, dear?”
“Maggie Jordan.” She offered a smile, more intrigued than upset by the interruption. “Nice to meet you, Julia. Looks like we’ve picked a terrible day for a crossing.”
“Indeed. My travel itinerary forced me out of lovely South Carolinian sunshine yesterday and into a homecoming with this ghastly weather. What’s your excuse for enduring such a ride?”
“A business meeting, completing renovations on my B&B. I hope to open on Memorial Day weekend.”
“Oh, my. Now that’s exciting.” She drank heavily through a straw. “Are you local?”
“I’m a Philly girl, but I spend so much time working away from home, I probably qualify as a nomad.”
“You don’t say. And where is your B&B?”
Amused by the questions, Maggie handed her a business card from a leather portfolio, and Julia riffled through her huge straw tote bag until she produced reading glasses. “My Tuck’r Inn is the former Captain Joshua Pratt House on Davis Street.”
Julia’s head popped up, eyes wide and crinkled with focus. “I’ve always loved the Pratt House, and now you own it? Or, should I say,” she glanced at the card, “Valentin Enterprises owns it?”
“Yes.” Maggie smiled at Julia’s innocent mispronunciation. “I am Valenteen Enterprises. My grandfather was a Slovak, my biggest supporter growing up, so I named my one-woman corporation after him. I like to think he brings me luck.” She stopped short of revealing that Valentin’s luck had extended for the past nine years—and included no less than eleven turnaround projects like Tuck’r.
“Lucky to land the Pratt House, truly,” Julia said. “A prestigious home in its day. Such a tragedy, I must say, that it fell to foreclosure some years ago and didn’t stay in the family.”
Glad it hadn’t, Maggie nodded. “I was fortunate to buy it as soon as it went back on the market, and couldn’t bypass the opportunity to name it myself.”
“You’re not using the Pratt name. You’re calling it Tuck’r Inn?”
“Well, the Pratt name, literally, has been missing from the building for some time now. Besides, I’ve had the Tuck’r name in mind from the moment I decided on Nantucket. There’ll be plenty of history inside, of course, but that name was just too perfect.”
“So.” Julia sighed. “Valentin will be adding to our island’s charming attractions.” She drank absently, but the keen look in her eyes said the observation begged for more detail.
Maggie took a guarded approach to the subject of her work, ever since locals violently opposed her Lake Tahoe condo turnaround several years ago. That fire and rebuild cost her far more than insurance covered and set her back eighteen months before she could secure a buyer. The siphoning of her bankroll jeopardized her entire business and cast a long shadow over her future, and the unexpected level of opposition left a deep emotional scar. Could she win a community’s approval? Must she choose this site and stir up such dangerous negativity? Did she dare appreciate her opponents’ position? Confident she always did her best to accommodate, she countered her personal and professional doubts with a show of faith in herself—and a vow not to disclose Valentin’s renovate-and-sell mission.
And Nantucketters, in particular, as she’d learned at the start of this project, didn’t warm easily to outsiders tampering with their territory or their history. “I hope Tuck’r will become part of the community, make a statement for many years to come,” Maggie offered, “and that islanders as well as visitors will cherish it.”
“I see. Well, I’ll grant you that the Pratt House deserves to flourish.” She set her empty plastic glass down with finality. “I’m sure the task has made you a veteran traveler by now.”
Maggie sent her a skeptical eye as she rose from the table. “Thank you, but I’m not too sure I’m—”
As if on cue, the Eagle tilted so far off-center, Maggie slapped a palm to the wall to avoid toppling against it. Her view out the rain-lashed window swung from sky to ocean, both nearly identical in color and demeanor, and she wondered if Julia had conjured a taste of nature’s wrath to discourage her. Just as quickly, the ship leveled off, in time to be slammed by another robust wave. Everything shuddered, and Maggie grabbed the fiberglass tabletop for stability.
“Frankly, I can’t imagine ever getting used to this.” She gulped the remains of her coffee, eyeing the trash bin at the end of her aisle of booths. Hand extended, ready to grip anything secure en route, she staggered along the rolling deck to the trash, deposited her cup, and staggered back to where Julia now sat reading, remarkably oblivious to the ride. Maggie dropped into her seat in time to stop her iPad from sliding off the table.
“So you think I’ll get used to this?”
“Yes, dear.” Julia didn’t look up and Maggie couldn’t tell if Julia simply took these two-hour mini-cruises for granted or no longer cared to prolong their conversation.
“Well, this is my worst trip so far. They do stop runs to the island at some point, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do, when the sea gets too rough.”
Maggie almost laughed. At the far end of the lounge, a businessman with a hand to his mouth hurried into the rest room. The ship rolled again and a toddler crawling across a bench banged his head on the seat back. He cried loudly, disrupting nearby readers.
“Rougher than this will get messy,” Maggie said. “Does it have to be a hurricane before the Steamship Authority cancels trips?”
“Are you afraid?” Julia frowned over her tinted lenses. “This isn’t uncommon for the Authority, and certainly nothing a stout and sturdy ship like the Eagle hasn’t handled a thousand times.” She closed her novel and leveled her gaze, as steely gray as the clouds and ocean Maggie tried to ignore. “I’m sure you’re aware, hurricanes come in summer and fall. This time of year, it would be a blizzard.”
“Lovely thought.”
“Might you be entertaining regrets about your project?” The wistful lilt in Julia’s question sounded like a challenge or hope. “This is part of New England’s island life,” Julia added, “a part to which you’ll become accustomed—rather quickly, I trust.”
Maggie hardly saw herself becoming much of an islander in just the short time required to sell the property. In fact, with luck, she might be off the island by the time hurricane season picked up in August.
“No regrets. Actually, I couldn’t be more excited. I think Nantucket is enchanting.” Julia took the compliment with a gracious smile. “You’re a native islander?”
“Oh, no, dear. We retired here almost twenty years ago, but my husband and I are as integrated into the life as we can be. Are you married?” She immediately held up a hand. “No. Pardon me for—”
“It’s okay,” Maggie said. The subject wasn’t as painful as it was last summer when she and Stephanie parted ways. “I’m single. I’ve created quite the demanding job for myself.” And that’s my top priority.
The Eagle rocked again and Maggie slid her iPad back from the table’s edge. “I do love being up in New England. I enjoy the antiquity, the success so many of the towns have had preserving their character.”
Already, Maggie could see herself and Retta, headed north to this full-time adventure in early May. The ocean would be considerably more agreeable than today; she’d really rather not confront the Atlantic’s March madness again.
“Sounds like you’re determined to succeed.” Julia removed her glasses and sat back. “Your appreciation of history and aesthetics should serve you well here.”
“That’s very nice of you to say. Thank you. I have a feeling the hardest work is ahead of me, though.”
“Whatever made you choose to settle on Nantucket?”
“The charm won me over. It’s so unique and teeming with history. A temptation I just couldn’t resist.”
Sh
e didn’t want to get into it any further. Besides, it wasn’t appropriate, not with a stranger. Self-examination, airing her dreams and desires were things she once shared with Steph, and sometimes with her sister Rachel over many glasses of wine. And launching herself into this project had required considerable calculation and introspection.
Maybe she did it because it took her thirty miles off the coast of Cape Cod and removed her from everything routine, or maybe it was the prospect of a big-money payoff, or the experience of island living and a summer on the beach, or the triumph of scoring a historic whaling captain’s home. She couldn’t pinpoint the reason but knew this job had her more emotionally invested than any challenge she’d met. In less than two months, she would sublet her condo in Philadelphia and take up island residence to establish a saleable property. With a prospective buyer already awaiting her finished product, it wouldn’t be a drawn-out process, and then she’d be free to move on to a new challenge.
The ship dipped and heaved, and Maggie’s stomach protested. She pressed a hand to the wall again. Julia braced herself on the seat and didn’t miss a beat.
“Residents—particularly the native islanders—they take immense pride in that history,” Julia stated. “The few islanders left now are madly protective of their heritage.” She tapped a bejeweled finger on the table. “No doubt you’ve encountered our extreme building restrictions with your renovation work.”
“Oh, I certainly have.” Maggie nearly winced, remembering the endless budget revisions she’d made to accommodate Nantucket’s demanding building code.
“Well, that’s just one example of how highly we value preservation.” She again dove into her tote bag and pulled out a change purse. “I hate to impose, but would you be a love and get me another Bloody Mary?”
