by Nancy Thayer
A NANTUCKET CHRISTMAS
Nancy Thayer
Copyright © 2013 Nancy Thayer
Main cover image © Martin Adolfsson/Gallery Stock; all other images © Shutterstock
The right of Nancy Thayer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 1596 3
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
By Nancy Thayer
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Nancy Thayer has written twenty-four novels to date, including Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Summer Breeze and Island Girls. Her work has been translated into numerous languages, and her novels are enjoyed by readers the world over. She lives year-round with her husband on Nantucket Island.
You can find out more about Nancy by visiting her website at www.nancythayer.com.
By Nancy Thayer
Stepping
Three Women at the Water’s Edge
Bodies and Souls
Nell
Morning
Sprirt Lost
My Dearest Friend
Everlasting
Family Secrets
Belonging
An Act of Love
Between Husbands and Friends
Custody
The Hot Flash Club
The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again
Hot Flash Holidays
The Hot Flash Club Chills Out
Moon Shell Beach
Summer House
Beachcombers
Heat Wave
Summer Breeze
Island Girls
A Nantucket Christmas
About the book
New York Times bestseller Nancy Thayer returns with a captivating family Christmas tale.
Holidays on Nantucket Island are nothing short of enchanting, from decorations on the Brant Point lighthouse to the yearly Christmas Stroll, there is much to make the winter months magical. Newly married Nicole Somerset can’t wait to spend her first festive season on Nantucket with her husband, handsome former attorney Sebastian.
But the mood is quickly tempered when Sebastian’s daughter, Kennedy, returns for the holidays without a hint of cheer. Determined to keep Nicole at arm’s length – or, better yet, out of the picture altogether – she schemes to sabotage everything. But Nicole is not about to let anyone tarnish her first Christmas with her new family ... Can she turn things around before it’s too late?
For Meg Ruley
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Enormous thanks to my agent and fabulous friend Meg Ruley, who grew up on the island, for suggesting A Nantucket Christmas. She knows more than anyone how Nantucket can be a light in the darkness.
For years, my husband, Charley, and I gave a party on Christmas Eve. Our guests were, and are, the light in the darkness to me. Thanks to Charlotte Maison, who over the years became Charlotte Kastner, and her husband, Tom Kastner. Thanks to her son Karl Schoonover and his partner Lloyd Pratt. Thank you to Pam Pindell and her daughters Rebecca Sayre and Casey Sayre, and Casey’s husband, Steve Boukus, and their children Torin and Kyra. Thanks to M.J. and Del Wynn and their sons Patrick and Riley. Thanks to Laura Simon, Jim Gross, and Susan Simon. Thanks to Suze Robinson and Kat Robinson Grieder and James Grieder and their son, Will. Thanks to Dionis Gauvin, who I hope will bring her husband, Mike Mills, one year. Thanks to our son, Josh Thayer, and his partner David Gillum. Thanks to Jonathan, Katie, and Elizabeth Hemingway, and to Jonathan’s mother, Nancy Rappaport. Thanks to Leslie Linsley, Jon Aron, and Gretchen Anderson. Thanks to Mimi and Dwight Beman and their daughters Allie, Elizabeth, and Ann, and Ann’s husband, Roger Nina and their daughter, Natalia. Thanks to our daughter Sam and her husband, Neil Forbes, and their children Ellias, Adeline, and Emmett, who have begun, understandably, having Christmas Eve parties at their house on the mainland.
Everything changes. New people come and beloved people go far too soon. The island stays—and a pun is in that word.
I also want to thank my publishing family at Ballantine who has provided so much wisdom, laughter, and support: my radiant editor Linda Marrow, Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, and Dana Isaacson. Thanks to Junessa Viloria, Kim Hovey, Penelope Haynes, Alison Masciovecchio, Ashley Woodfolk, and Quinne Rogers.
Much gratitude goes to the Jane Rotrosen Agency, especially my agent, Meg Ruley, and to Christian Hogrebe and Peggy Gordijn.
Thank you, Wendy Schmidt and Wendy Hudson, for keeping independent bookstores alive on Nantucket.
Thank you, Charley, for everything.
And Merry Christmas to everyone, from Nantucket.
PROLOGUE
This tale begins, as do many Nantucket tails, with a dog. A Norwich terrier, the runt of the litter—which made him very small indeed—a stubby, sturdy, tan, pint-sized pup with a face like a fox’s, ears like a panda’s, and the dark passionate eyes of Antonio Banderas.
His name was Snix.
Back in his chubby days, he was adopted by the Collins family visiting from Rhode Island. His plump bumbling made Cota, their teenage daughter, squeal that he was so cute. Cota named him Snix because she knew no other dog in the world had ever been named Snix. Cota was at the age when she wanted to be noticed for being the kind of special girl who would have a dog named Snix.
At the beginning of the family’s summer vacation, Cota doted on Snix, letting him sleep in her bed, brushing his coarse coat, tickling his fat belly, and taking him for lots of walks up and down Main Street on Nantucket, with Snix tripping fetchingly over his rhinestone leash.
Three months later, Cota was fourteen instead of thirteen. Her hair was two inches longer, her legs were three inches longer, her bosom was three inches fuller, and she di
dn’t need a pet of any kind to get noticed. Meanwhile, Snix had lost his puppy fat and his roly-poly ways. He now wore a mournful and slightly baffled expression, having gone from adored to ignored in three short months.
At the end of the summer, the Collins family did what many vacationers do when they return home from their holiday—they left their adopted pet behind. They drove their black SUV out to the moors in the middle of the island, where dirt roads ranged over low hills and past small ponds, where rabbits, moles, and deer hid in the bushes. They removed Snix’s collar, name tag, and leash before Cota opened the door, leaned out, and set the pup on the dry, end-of-summer grass.
“Bye, Snix,” the teenager chirped hastily, slamming the door shut.
The family’s large black SUV roared off, leaving a cloud of sandy dust floating in the air.
Snix sat with his head cocked, watching. Waiting. Expectant. Then, not so expectant, more hopeful. Then, sad. Snix lay down with his head on his paws, his eyes fixed steadily on the dirt road where his family’s car had last been—he could still smell the gas fumes, and Cota’s light fragrance.
No other cars passed. It was just after Labor Day. Everyone had left the island. Well, not everyone, of course—twelve thousand people still lived and worked on the island, but none were strolling that hot day on a secluded sandy track through the moors.
September was much like August on the island of Nantucket. The sun beat down on the crackling brown grass and on Snix. Overhead, small planes zipped back and forth, taking people from the island back to the mainland. From time to time a sparrow would tweet and flutter from one tree to another. Snix watched a spider creep across the dirt road and disappear in the bayberry bushes. That was about it for action that afternoon.
Snix was by no means a stupid dog, but he was naturally loyal and he was young and naive. He didn’t have the experience even to consider the possibility that the sweet-smelling long-haired girl who hugged him and cuddled him and chucked him under his chinny-chin-chin was never coming back for him.
So he waited. His stomach growled. He got very thirsty. He smelled water, fresh water, nearby, but he didn’t want to leave this spot in case the Collins family came back for him. So he lay there, a little brown puppy more gangling than chubby, more dog than baby, more awkward than adorable. He lay there with his head on his paws until the sun set and the world around him turned black and he saw no lights anywhere. He’d never been in a world without lights, and that made him shiver, and that made him whimper, and then he let out such a disconsolate howl that he frightened himself and a few other critters nearby.
He began running very fast down the road, toward the scent of human civilization.
1
On Nantucket, the Christmas season is different.
Really.
The island, fifty-two square miles of flat sandy land, lies in windswept isolation almost thirty miles away from the continent and all its institutions and entertainments. In the summer, the sun shines down on golden beaches and a serene blue sea. In the winter, gale force winds lash and howl over the ocean, cutting its residents off from family, friends, and often fresh bread and milk as Nantucket Sound freezes over and no planes fly, no boats sail, to or from the island. When the sun sets early and rises late, deep black water surrounds the land in infinite darkness.
Then Nantucket comes truly alive. Islanders have the leisure to savor the Charles Dickens charm gleaming from the glistening cobblestone streets and historic brick buildings. They relish the coziness of the small town where they know everyone, and everyone’s dog. After a hectic summer, they enjoy the tranquil pace. They take time to stop, look, listen, pat the dog, tickle a baby’s chin, chat, and laugh. They attend Christmas pageants, holiday fairs, and all manner of cabarets. The town lines the central streets of the village with dozens of small evergreens twinkling with multicolored lights and weatherproof decorations. The islanders pause to gaze up at the forty-foot spruce blazing at the top of Main Street, and they nod in appreciation and gratitude.
They celebrate light, life, and laughter as the winter dark wildness descends.
The Christmas Stroll began as an occasion for merchants to welcome islanders into their shops for hot buttered rum, spiced apple cider, warm gossip, and good cheer. Store windows were artistically decorated with mermaids and Santas, seahorses and fairy-tale scenes. Mr. and Mrs. Santa arrived on a Coast Guard boat and were delivered to the Jared Coffin House by horse and buggy. The aroma of fresh fish chowder and island-brewed beer wafted enticingly from the restaurants. The town crier strode through the streets in tall hat and cape, and Victorian carolers enchanted the salt air with song.
Not surprisingly, and oddly around the same time the one-hour fast ferries started their rounds, news of Nantucket’s Christmas Stroll spread to off-island friends and relatives of the townspeople. One sparkling winter day, a Boston television station sent a reporter and cameraman. After that, the annual event was famous.
For children, it was magic. For adults, it was a chance to be childlike.
For Nicole Somerset, the Nantucket Christmas Stroll was close to miraculous.
Four years ago, Nicole was a widow. Her friend Jilly insisted that Nicole travel down from Boston for the weekend to enjoy the Stroll. Nicole came, and fell in love with the charming small town, its festively bedecked windows, its fresh salt air and chiming church bells. She fell in love with a man, as well.
She met Sebastian Somerset at a party. They liked each other a lot, rather quickly, if not immediately, but being older, and possibly wiser, they took time getting to know each other. Nicole was widowed and childless. Sebastian was divorced, with a grown daughter.
Nicole was a nurse. She had just retired at fifty-five, but she missed her patients and colleagues. She missed her work, too. She liked to keep busy. Sebastian, sixty-two, had worked for a Boston law firm. He had also just retired, realizing he’d spent too much of his life working. He wanted to enjoy life.
Slowly, cautiously, they began to date, discovering that together they enjoyed life a great deal. Sebastian owned a house on the island, and as the days, weeks, and then months went by, he introduced Nicole to the pleasures the island offered—swimming, sailing, and tennis. In turn, Nicole introduced Sebastian to the delights his first wife had disdained: homemade pie, eaten while watching large-screen television; walking rather than biking through the island moors; stopping to notice the birds and wildflowers rather than jogging to keep his heart rate up; or watching the sun set on the beach rather than attending a cocktail party.
Sebastian’s first wife, Katya, was a perfectionist who had kept him on a tight leash and a rigid routine. After a few months of relaxed satisfaction with Nicole, Sebastian worried he would gain weight and develop heart trouble. To his surprise, he gained no weight, and his blood pressure actually dropped. When he asked his doctor about this at his annual check-up, Maury Molson leaned back in his chair and shrewdly raised his hairy eyebrows.
“Sebastian, you’ve been going through life as if everything is a competition. During this past year, you’ve stopped to smell the roses, and it’s been the best thing you could do for your health.”
Sebastian chortled in surprise. “I’m shocked.”
“Me, too,” Maury told him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you laugh like that before. And it’s true, happiness is the best medicine.”
When Sebastian told Nicole about this, she beamed and responded, “You make me happy, too. Although I haven’t had my blood pressure checked.”
“I wish we could live together for the rest of our lives,” Sebastian allowed, looking worried.
“Darling, why can’t we?”
Sebastian had furrowed his brow. “I think you should meet my daughter before we go any further.”
Sebastian and Katya had a daughter, Kennedy, who was, Sebastian uneasily confessed, emotionally complicated. A carbon copy of her blond, beautiful mother, Kennedy tried to emulate Katya, meaning that she tried to be perfect, s
till not understanding, after all the years of living with her, that it was so much easier for a woman to be perfect when she focused only on herself.
Because Katya had been a kind but cool mother, Sebastian had, he admitted, cossetted, pampered, and perhaps even spoiled Kennedy a bit. Okay, perhaps a lot. Now married to a perpetually flustered stockbroker named James, Kennedy found herself overwhelmed by the responsibilities of grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, and caring for their son Maddox.
Kennedy was further dismayed by her parents’ divorce.
Katya had been thoughtful enough to wait until Kennedy’s wedding five years ago to leave Sebastian for her tennis coach, Alonzo. Kennedy couldn’t understand why her father, who could always do anything and everything, couldn’t win Katya back. When Sebastian had admitted to Kennedy that he didn’t want Katya back, that he was more contented without her, Kennedy had dissolved into a weeping fit and said she never wanted to see her father again.
Kennedy changed her mind when her baby boy was born. She didn’t want her son to grow up without his grandparents, even if they were no longer married. For the past four years, Sebastian’s relationship with his daughter had been close and comfortable. Kennedy had even accepted Alonzo’s presence in her mother’s life, although she told her father it broke her heart every time she saw Katya with that other man.
So naturally, Sebastian worried about telling Kennedy about Nicole.
Sebastian paced the living room of Nicole’s Boston apartment as he strategized the first meeting. “I’ve told Kennedy I’ve been seeing someone. I’m going to tell her I want to bring you to dinner, to meet her. That should indicate that I’m serious about you.”
Nicole had no advice to give. She had not been able to have children. All her nurturing instincts had gone into her nursing profession. She thought Kennedy sounded like a difficult personality, but how bad could she be?
“Tell Kennedy I’d like to bring dessert,” Nicole offered.
