A Nantucket Christmas
Read A Nantucket Christmas Online
Authors: Nancy Thayer
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Sagas, #Romance, #Contemporary
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
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London
NW1 3BH
Table of Contents
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
.
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
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
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.
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 didn’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.
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.
