Custody (53 page)

Kelly steered her car down the gravel lane, bringing it neatly to a stop next to Randall’s Jeep.

“Look. Horses,” Felicity said. “Cool.”

“Ummm,” Kelly agreed. Her voice wasn’t working. Her face felt hot. She hadn’t been this excited, and hopeful, and terrified since—well, since her swearing-in ceremony.

Felicity got out of the car, slamming the door. Kelly got out and went to the trunk. She’d brought cider doughnuts she and Felicity had made the night before. She lifted the basket out, glad to have something to do.

“Hey!” Randall came out of the barn. He wore jeans, boots, and a blue denim shirt with bits of straw stuck to it here and there. His hair was as golden as the sun, and over the past few days he’d acquired a sunburn across his nose and cheeks. “Hi, Felicity.” Without any self-consciousness at all, he enveloped the girl in a hug. “Good to see you.”

“You, too,” Felicity muttered.

“Hey, beauty,” Randall said to Kelly. He hugged her and kissed the top of her head.

“We made doughnuts,” Kelly said.

He looked down at the basket in her arms. “Great.”

“Kelly!” Mont strode toward them, a handsome man, tall and distinguished-looking. “Good to see you again, Kelly. And you must be Felicity.”

Felicity stood paralyzed.

Mont didn’t try to shake Felicity’s hand, but gave her a great big smile, then went right up to Kelly and gave her a hug. “How’s business, Judge?”

“Frantic,” Kelly said. “It was an exhausting week. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be out here in the fresh air.”

“Well, as a doctor, can I advise some physical therapy? There’s nothing like good hard labor to take your mind off your work.”

“Pay no attention to him, Kelly,” Randall said, laughing. “He’s just trying to get out of lifting all those bales of hay.”

“Actually,” Mont said, “I was thinking that if Kelly could help you, I could take Felicity and Tessa with me over to the Meyers’. They’ve got some six-week-old pups. Lab-and-husky mix. I was thinking we ought to get one for the farm. Maybe two.” He looked at Felicity. “Do you like dogs, Felicity?”

“I don’t know,” Felicity replied. “I’ve never had one.”

“Ever ridden a horse?”

“No.”

“City girl, huh. Well, come on over and meet our horses. Don’t be afraid. They’re big, but pet their noses and give them an apple, and they’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Where did Tessa go?” Randall asked.

“I don’t know. Tessa?”

Mont led them across the yard to the pasture. They leaned on the white boards, looking at the two horses who grazed idly nearby, their ears pricked in expectation.

“The gray one’s Blue Boy,” Mont said. “The chestnut’s Frisk.”

At their names, the horses snickered softly and ambled over to the fence, sniffing the air.

Behind them, the screen door slammed. They all turned to see Tessa coming toward them, a bunch of carrots in her hands.

Her blond hair was braided and fastened with colored rubber bands. She wore a baggy T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. Her cheeks were pink, her nose sprinkled with freckles. She was tall for her age, and slender.

“Hi,” she said, approaching the group.

“Tessa,” Randall said. “This is my friend, Kelly. And her sister, Felicity.”

“Hi,” Tessa said to Kelly, flashing a careless smile. Her attention was drawn to Felicity, lounging against a fencepost. “Do you like to ride horses?”

“I don’t know,” Felicity said. “I’ve never tried.”

“Want to try?”

Felicity shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess.”

“Here,” Tessa said, holding out a carrot. “You give one to Frisk, and I’ll give one to Blue Boy. Then they’ll be our slaves for life.”

Felicity took a carrot.

“Like this,” Tessa said, holding the carrot flat on the palm of her hand.

Tessa stretched out her hand. Felicity stretched out hers. The horses leaned out their powerful necks, drew back their rubbery lips, and picked the carrots up in their long yellow teeth.

“Good boys,” Mont said.

“Their breath tickles!” Felicity whispered.

“Want another?” Tessa asked.

“Yeah.” Felicity reached out and took another carrot from Tessa. “Here, Frisk,” she said.

Randall looked over at Kelly and smiled.

Some days, Kelly thought, are more important than others. Some days you wake with your heart pounding and your hopes higher than the sky. Some days you know you are exactly where you are meant to be.

For my lovely mother, Jane Findly Wright Patton, and for my lovely mother-in-law, Martha Johnson Walters

Acknowledgments

I couldn’t have written this book without the assistance of many informed and generous people.

My deepest gratitude and most profound admiration to: the Honorable Sheila E. McGovern, First Justice of the Middlesex County Probate and Family Court; the Honorable Beverly W. Boorstein, Associate Justice of the Middlesex County Probate and Family Court; the Honorable Angela Maria Ordonez, First Justice of the Nantucket County Probate and Family Court; and the Honorable Paula Marie Carey, Associate Justice of the Middlesex County Probate and Family Court.

I am tremendously indebted to Sylvia Howard, Register of Probate, Nantucket County Probate and Family Court, for her kindness, knowledge, inspiration, and assistance.

Enormous thanks go to Jennifer Maggiacomo, Assistant Register of Probate, and Maria Nannini-Dunn, Assistant Register of Probate, Middlesex County Probate and Family Court.

Many thanks to Sophia C. O’Brien, M.Ed., Chief Probation Officer, and Kevin Coughlin, M.A., Assistant Chief Probation Officer, Middlesex County Probate and Family Court.

Also to Barbara B. Hauser, LICSW, Director, Family Service Clinic, Sherry B. Moss, M.A., clinical social worker, and Adam Rosen, J.D., Ph.D., licensed clinical psychologist.

Thanks also to A1 Moses, Assistant Chief Court Officer, and Joe Barbati, Court Officer, Middlesex County Probate and Family Court.

Much appreciation to Massachusetts State Representative James Marzilli.

On Nantucket, my thanks to Kevin Dale, attorney. Also, to Tim Howard, Court Officer; Michelle Cranston, First Assistant Register; and Susan D. Beamish, Deputy Assistant Register of the Nantucket County Probate and Family Court.

I send my thanks to Dr. Elizabeth Panke, Director, Genetica DNA Laboratories.

Many thanks to librarian Susan Pitard, for her help in understanding twelve-year-old girls.

Thanks to the multi-talented Buzz Williams and the beautiful Min Adinolfi, and to George Hull.

Many thanks to my editor, Jennifer Weis, and my agent, Emma Sweeney.

And as always, much love and continuing gratitude to Josh Thayer, Sam Wilde, Dionis Gauvin, Jill Hunter Wickes, Pam Pindell, Martha Foshee, and my husband, Charley Walters.

B
Y
N
ANCY
T
HAYER

Nantucket Sisters
A Nantucket Christmas
Island Girls
Summer Breeze
Heat Wave
Beachcombers
Summer House
Moon Shell Beach
The Hot Flash Club Chills Out
Hot Flash Holidays
The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again
The Hot Flash Club
Custody
Between Husbands and Friends
An Act of Love
Family Secrets
Everlasting
My Dearest Friend
Spirit Lost
Morning
Nell
Bodies and Souls
Three Women at the Water’s Edge
Stepping

Nancy Thayer
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Island Girls, Summer Breeze, Heat Wave, Beachcombers, Summer House, Moon Shell Beach
, and
The Hot Flash Club
. She lives in Nantucket.

nancythayer.com

Facebook.com/NancyThayerAuthor

Read on for an excerpt from Nancy Thayer’s

Nantucket Sisters

Ballantine Books

It’s like a morning in Heaven. From a blue sky, the sun, fat and buttery as one a child would draw in school, shines down on a sapphire ocean. Eleven-year-old Emily Porter stands at the edge of a cliff high above the beach, her blond hair rippled by a light breeze.

The edge of the cliff is an abrupt, jagged border, into which a small landing is built, with railings you can lean against, looking out at the sea. Before her, weathered wooden steps cut back and forth down the steep bluff to the beach.

Behind her lies the grassy lawn and their large gray summer house, so different from their apartment on East 86th in New York City.

Last night, as the Porters flew away from Manhattan, Emily looked down on the familiar fantastic panorama of sparkling lights, urging the plane onward with her excitement, with her longing to see the darkness and then, in the distance, the flash and flare of the lighthouse beacons.

Nantucket begins today.

Today, while her father plays golf and her beautiful mother, Cara, organizes the house, Emily is free to do as she pleases. And what she’s waited for all winter is to run down the street into the small village of ’Sconset and along the narrow path to the cottages in Codfish Park, where she’ll knock on Maggie’s door.

First, she waves back at the ocean. Next, she turns and runs, half skipping, waving her arms, singing. She exults in the soft grass under her feet instead of hard sidewalk, salt air in her lungs instead of soot, the laughter of gulls instead of the blare of car horns, and the sweet perfume of new dawn roses.

She flies along past the old town water pump, past the ’Sconset Market, past the post office, past Claudette’s Box Lunches. Down the steep cobblestoned hill to Codfish Park. Here, the houses used to be shacks where fishermen spread their nets to dry, so the roofs are low and the walls are ramshackle. Maggie’s house is a crooked, funny little place, but roses curl over the roof, morning glories climb up a trellis, and pansy faces smile from window boxes.

Before she can knock, the door flies open.

“Emily!” Maggie’s hair’s been cut into an elf’s cap and she’s taller than Emily now, and she has more freckles over her nose and cheeks.

Behind Maggie stands Maggie’s mother, Frances, wearing a red sundress with an apron over it. Emily’s never seen anyone but caterers and cooks wear an apron. It has lots of pockets. It makes Maggie’s mother look like someone from a book.

“You’re here!” Maggie squeals.

“Welcome back, Emily.” Frances smiles. “Come in. I’ve made gingerbread.”

The fragrant scent of ginger and sugar wafts out enticingly from the house, which is, Emily admits privately to her own secret self, the strangest place Emily’s ever seen. The living room’s in the kitchen; the sofa, armchairs, television set, and coffee table, all covered with books and games, are just on the other side of the round table from the sink and appliances. In the dining room, a sewing machine stands on a long table, and piles of fabric bloom from every surface in a crazy hodgepodge. Frances is divorced and makes her living as a seamstress, which is why Emily’s parents aren’t crazy about her friendship with Maggie, who is only a poor island girl.

But Maggie and Emily have been best friends since they met on the beach when they were five years old. With Maggie, Emily is her true self. Maggie understands Emily in a way her parents never could. Now that the girls are growing up, Emily senses change in the air—but not yet. Not yet. There is still this summer ahead.

And summer lasts forever.

“I’d love some gingerbread, thank you, Mrs. McIntyre,” Emily says politely.

“Oh, holy moly, call her Frances.” Maggie tugs on Emily’s hand and pulls her into the house.

Maggie acts blasé and bossy around Emily, but the truth is, she’s always kind of astounded at the friendship she and Emily have created. Emily Porter is rich, the big fat New York/Nantucket rich.

In comparison, Maggie’s family is just plain poor. The McIntyres live on Nantucket year-round but are considered off-islanders, “wash-ashores,” because they weren’t born on the island. They came from Boston, where Frances grew up, met and married Billy McIntyre, and had two children with him. Soon after, they divorced, and he disappeared from their lives. When Maggie was a year old, Frances moved them all to the island, because she’d heard the island needed a good seamstress. She’s made a decent living for them—some women call Frances “a treasure.”