Nantucket

by Nan Rossiter

Genres: Family Life; Sagas; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Nan Rossiter comes a tender, moving story of rekindled passion, set amidst the timeless beauty of Nantucket. Over twenty-five years ago, Liam Tate and Acadia McCormick Knox fell in love. It was summer on Nantucket, and eighteen-year-old Liam knew that wealthy, college-bound Cadie was way out of league for a local boy who restored boats for a living. Yet the two became inseparable, seizing every chance to slip away in Liam's runabout to secluded spots, far from the world that was trying to keep them apart. After Cadie returned home to New York and discovered she was pregnant, her parents crushed any hope of communicating with the boy she'd left behind. Unanswered letters and calls couldn't change Liam's heart, but over the years he's settled into a simple, solitary life in his rambling beachfront house. Now he's learned that Cadie is returning to Nantucket for the opening of her son's art show. Over a weekend of revelations and poignant memories, Cadie and Liam have an opportunity to confront the difference time can make, the truths that never alter, and the bittersweet second chances that arrive just in time to steer a heart back home...

Release date: August 25, 2015

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 344

Sample

A sudden gust of wind swept through the weathered boathouse doors, swirling sawdust into the corners and sending papers fluttering to the floor. Forty-three-year-old Liam Tate looked up from the mahogany Gar Wood runabout he was working on, pushed his sun-streaked chestnut brown hair out of his eyes, and realized the late-afternoon sun had disappeared behind an ominously dark cluster of clouds. He brushed the sawdust from his jeans and walked over to stand in the doorway.

As he watched, a hot streak of white light seared the sky, striking the dark gray ocean, and a moment later, angry thunder rumbled across the heavens. Liam felt a warm body pressing against his legs and looked down. “It’s okay, Tuck,” he consoled, but the big golden retriever just gazed out the doors with worried eyes. “It’s only thunder,” he added, stroking Tucket’s velvet ears, and although the tip of his tail wagged, Liam knew there was no convincing him. Who’d ever believe such a big dog could be so sidelined by thunder?

Liam knelt down and wrapped his arm around him, and Tuck gave Liam’s cheek an anxious lick before turning his attention back to the dark sky. “You’re silly, you know that?” Liam whispered, stroking his noble head. “It’s just thunder and you’ll be happy when things cool off.” The last several days had been oppressively hot and humid, and Liam was ready for a change. He didn’t mind the heat, but the humidity wore him out. He felt his knee start to ache, kissed Tuck’s furrowed brow, got up, and limped stiffly over to pick up the papers. As he did, another gust of wind swept through the doors and pushed several pages of the local newspaper under the workbench. He picked up everything that was within reach and closed the doors.

The boathouse creaked and groaned in the wind, but Liam hardly noticed. The sturdy structure had stood looking out across Nantucket Sound for more than a hundred years, weathering everything nature threw at it—from raging hurricanes and snowy blizzards to blistering heat—and through it all, it had barely lost a shingle.

Liam closed the windows, glanced at his watch, and decided it was time to call it a day anyway—if they left now, they might even make it home before it rained. “Ready to head out?” he asked, looking down at the worried dog glued to his leg. The tip of Tuck’s tail wagged tentatively and Liam shook his head. He moved the tools he’d been using from the boat to the workbench, shut off the lights, and pushed open the side door. While he locked up, Tuck hurried over to the old Chevy pickup that was parked in the side yard and sat with his ears back, waiting. When Liam opened the cab door, he soared in like a rocket and plopped down behind the steering wheel.

“Move over, you big lug,” Liam said, nudging him. Tuck edged over to the passenger’s window, which under normal conditions was his favorite spot, but when a loud clap of thunder split the sky above them, he moved back and tried to sit on Liam’s lap. “That’s not gonna work,” Liam said, gently pushing him off. Tuck gave him a pained look before circling around to lean heavily against him.

Fat raindrops pelted the dusty windshield, and as Liam pulled out of the sandy parking lot, he leaned over to roll up the passenger’s window. As he did, the painted wooden sign, swinging precariously in the wind, caught his eye: COOPER’S MARINE RAILWAY—BOAT BUILDING AND RESTORATION. “Ah, Coop, we sure do miss ya, man,” he said with a sigh, and at the mention of the familiar name, Tuck wagged his tail. Liam turned on his wipers and looked out through the rain, remembering the day his uncle died.

It had been a sunny summer day like any other: They’d been getting ready to call it quits and Coop had held out a twenty and told him to pick up a couple of six-packs on the way home, but Liam had pushed the twenty away. . . . It was his turn. Coop had shrugged and stuffed the bill in his pocket. “Shoot yerself.”

Liam had chuckled. “See you in a bit.”

“Not if I see yer sorry ass first,” he said.

That was it. Those were the last words his uncle ever said to him, and in hindsight, it was fitting.

Winston Ellis Cooper had been named after Winston Churchill, but on the playing fields of his childhood, the other boys had called him Coop, and thankfully, it had stuck. Years later, though, when Liam found out his real name was Winston, he’d teasingly called him Winnie and Coop had chased him out of the boathouse. Oh, how Liam had loved getting him riled!

Cooper had always been bigger than life in Liam’s mind: tall, muscular, a Vietnam vet—he’d had SEMPER FI tattooed across one tan, rippling shoulder and a mean-looking bulldog on the other. Liam smiled, remembering how his uncle had always worn a hat—even at the dinner table. In spring, summer, and fall, he’d worn his old Red Sox cap, and in winter, he’d worn the gray wool cap that had been issued to him in the Marines. But on rare occasions when he forgot his hat, the pale ring that circled his balding head would be visible, and Liam would tease, “I see you’re wearing your halo,” which made Cooper’s cheeks burn bright red.

And that was why, when the undertaker came to take Coop’s body, Liam had handed him the tattered, old Red Sox cap and made him promise to put it on Coop’s head.

Two years had passed since that summer day and Liam still missed his uncle as much as if it had happened yesterday. “Guess you’ve got a real halo now, man,” he said softly.

He pulled up to the only mailbox on the quiet, dead-end road. The box had seen better days—it was dented and rusty, and two of the letters had faded so much it looked like it said WOOPER instead of W. E. COOPER. Liam had considered getting a new one and changing the name, but somehow it made him feel like he’d be letting Coop go and he just couldn’t bring himself to do that. Besides, Mike knew who he was and that was all that mattered. He ducked out into the rain, grabbed the mail, and continued down the driveway to the rambling, weathered beach house his uncle had left him.

Cooper had bought the property when he’d returned from Vietnam. Back then, it had been a run-down, one-bedroom beach cottage on five acres of scraggly, overgrown scrub oak and huckleberry, but Coop hadn’t cared. All he’d wanted was a safe haven, a place where no one could find—or bother—him, and all he’d done for the first two weeks was sit on the porch, watch the waves roll in, and drink himself to oblivion—trying to forget the world, the war, and the thankless reception he’d received when he returned home. But when drinking didn’t drown out his painful memories, he pulled himself out of his chair, picked up the empty Jack Daniels bottles scattered about, and dug out his tools.

Through the years, he never talked about the war, but he had no problem sharing every detail of the meticulous restoration of the little cottage, telling his young nephew how he’d gutted the entire interior—except for the stone fireplace—rebuilt each window, post, wall, and cabinet; laid down new hardwood flooring; extended the porch; and added on two sunny bedrooms. And as Liam had listened, he’d realized his uncle had poured his heart into the restoration of the little cottage . . . and in return, the cottage had restored his soul.

Liam parked the truck in the side yard and looked over at his nervous copilot. “Ready?” he asked, and Tuck stood, thumping his tail. Liam opened the door and they hopped out, raced through the puddles, and burst into the kitchen, startling the handsome gray tomcat that was curled up on the kitchen chair. Almost immediately, Tuck started to shake, sending a shower in the direction of the cat—who eyed him with dismissive annoyance.

“Sorry, Mobe,” Liam said, reaching for a towel. “You should know by now that your pal doesn’t share your impeccable sense of decorum.”

Liam pulled the anxious retriever back out from under the kitchen table, dried him, threw the towel over the back of the chair, tousled Moby’s soft fur, ran his fingers through his own damp hair, and opened the fridge. He reached for a beer, surveyed the fridge’s meager contents, and frowned. He hated food shopping and only went when it was absolutely necessary . . . and it was definitely getting to that point. There was one beer left now, along with two eggs, a splash of OJ, and a slice of pizza. But it was the low inventory of beer that would trigger a trip to the market. Liam reached for the pizza, threw it on a piece of foil, and tossed it in the oven. Then he fed his two pals and stood at the back door watching the rain.

Cooper had been the self-proclaimed King of the Crock-Pot, and Liam had always been able to look forward to coming home to a hearty beef stew, a creamy clam chowder, a spicy chili, or an endless array of other original recipes—everything from apricot chicken to mandarin pork—all dishes Coop had created by throwing whatever was on hand into the pot . . . and yet the results were always amazing. Unfortunately, he’d never written anything down, and Liam—who didn’t have the same knack for cooking—had lost ten pounds while the Crock-Pot sat on the shelf, gathering dust.

Liam felt a wet nose nudge his hand, pulling him back to the present. The storm was passing, and with his belly full, Tuck was feeling more himself. “Are you reminding me there’s a slice of pizza in the oven?” Liam asked, and the big dog wiggled around him, happy to be understood. Liam opened the oven, pulled out the pizza, and sat down at the worn, wooden table. Immediately, Tuck plopped down next to him, trying not to look interested, but the long drool hanging from his jowls was a dead giveaway. “You really need to pull yourself together,” Liam teased. “And if you lie down, I might save a bite.”

Reluctantly, Tuck lay down, and while Liam waited for his pizza to cool enough to eat, he sifted through his mail and then dropped it on the table next to the calendar. The calendar, which featured a different classic wooden boat every day, was a gift from John Alden, one of his customers, and although Liam’s days all ran together—making any calendar obsolete—he liked this one and tried to stay current. He picked it up, realized he’d fallen behind again, and tore off the pages until he came to Friday and a photograph of a gorgeous Chris-Craft runabout—it was just like the one Coop had helped him restore when he was in high school. Liam studied the boat and then noticed the date—it was July 31—his parents’ anniversary. The realization made him pause; then he calculated the years.... It would’ve been their fiftieth!

Winston Ellis Cooper had been born in the early hours of December 7, 1941—just before Japanese bombers reached American shores—but forever after, he’d shared his birthday with the dark anniversary. Three and a half years later, on September 2, 1945—the day Japan formally surrendered—Lillian Venice Cooper, Liam’s mother, was born, and the coincidental pairing of dates was never lost on the Cooper children, especially since their father—a navy officer who’d been home on leave in December 1944—always mentioned it on their birthdays. The one thing the Cooper siblings never fully grasped, however, was how the mood of the nation when they were born had affected their childhoods . . . and their personalities.

On the day Cooper was born, the world had been dark with shock and grief, but when Lily was born, it had been full of jubilation, and forever after, their lives—and their individual outlooks on life—reflected the mood of the adults who’d surrounded them during infancy. From the moment Cooper had seen his little sister’s blue eyes peering up at him over the soft folds of her pink blanket, he’d been overwhelmed. In his mind, Lily’s arrival had made the whole world smile, and at the tender age of three, he took it upon himself to always protect her—in essence, protecting the world—and through the years, he’d done just that.

Liam could still see Coop sitting across the kitchen table, smiling wistfully as he recounted all the times he’d looked out for Lily—the time he’d stood up to Brian Davis because he’d teased her about her freckles; the time he’d shoved Robbie Tyler into the bushes because he’d pulled her pigtails; the time he’d had an all-out brawl with Tommy Wilson because he’d tried to kiss her; and the time, when she’d fallen in love with a soft-spoken boy from Boston named Daniel Tate, he’d “warned Ole Danny-Boy that he’d break both his legs if he broke her heart.”

But then his smile faded, because there was nothing he could do the night Daniel lost control of their car on the snowy Massachusetts Turnpike.

Nothing. Except keep the promise he’d made.

Liam held out the last morsel of his pizza and Tuck took it ever so gently. Then Liam balled up the foil, tossed it in the trash, drained his beer, and opened the fridge for another. He pried off the top of the frosty bottle, took a sip, and walked over to the old black and white photo that had hung by the back door for as long as he could remember. The photo was of a young man holding a little boy in his arms . . . and the little boy’s head was thrown back in laughter because the woman beside them was tickling him. The woman was beautiful—petite, dark haired, her eyes dancing with light; the man was handsome and tan, and he wore his sunglasses roguishly on top of his head, making him look like he belonged on the pages of an outdoor clothing catalog. They were standing in front of a lighthouse and the playful waves behind them sparkled in the sunlight—it was one of those lovely summer days when the world had seemed so perfect.

Liam studied the photo, trying to remember that day, but then another memory—more haunting and vivid—filled his mind instead. He’d come home late from a cross-country meet and found Cooper sitting at the table with the photo in front of him and a bottle of Jack Daniels beside it. The only light had come from the stovetop, but it was enough to see the tears glistening in his eyes. “What’s the matter?” he’d asked, but Coop had looked away, wiping his eyes. Liam had dropped his duffel by the door and sat down across from him. “Coop, what’s wrong?”

Finally, Cooper’d looked up and searched Liam’s blue eyes. “You have her eyes, you know,” he’d said. “You look like your damn father . . . but you have her eyes.”

Liam had reached for the bottle, but Cooper had grabbed his arm with so much force he’d practically crushed his wrist.

“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” Liam said in dismay, pulling his arm away.

Cooper just stared at the photo. “Do you know what your mom asked me that day?” he asked.

Liam shook his head.

“You were just a little tyke and we were walkin’ on the beach and she was teasing me about not bein’ able to find a girl because I was so damn ornery, and she said I’d never get to have a little fella like you if I didn’t get serious and start lookin’ for a girl who’d be willing to put up with me. And I said, ‘I don’t need a girl . . . I’ll just borrow you.’ And then she stopped, and her eyes got all serious. ‘Will you promise me something?’ she asked.

“ ‘Maybe,’ I teased, you know . . . trying to lighten the mood.

“ ‘You have to promise,’ she insisted.

“Then I looked straight into those eyes a hers and said, ‘Lil, you know I’d do anything for you.’

“She looked down the beach where you and your dad were chasin’ the waves, and said, ‘If anything happens to me and Danny, I want you to take Liam.’

“ ‘For Pete’s sake, Lil, nothin’s gonna happen,’ I said.”

“‘Maybe . . . but I need to know you’d take him. I need you to promise.’ ” He paused and shook his head. “It was almost as if she knew. . . .

“ ‘Of course, I’ll take him,’ I said. ‘What d’ya think? I’d let him go to an orphanage?’

“Then she paused. ‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘I want you to promise you’ll take him to church.’

“ ‘Oh, now you’re pushin’ it,’ I said. “You know how I feel ’bout—’

“ ‘I know how you feel,’ she interrupted, ‘but I want him to go—I want him to know the Bible stories—just like we did.’

“ ‘I don’t know if I can promise that,’ I said.

“ ‘Promise me,’ she insisted, and she was so damn adamant.. . .”

He looked up at Liam. “I guess I wasn’t very good about keepin’ that one.” And then his voice trailed off as he swirled his drink. “I never could get why God took her. . . .”

Liam gazed at the faded photo, smiled sadly, and whispered, “Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.”

A cool breeze rustled through the open bedroom windows. Liam stirred, and in the half-light of dawn, looked around the room that had been his since he was a boy. He pictured it as it was back then—the shelves lined with books about whales and pirates and shipwrecks; later, they’d been filled with biographies about explorers and aviation. Now the books were mostly about world leaders and world wars, and the only other personal items were photos of Coop in his famous Red Sox cap, and Moby and Tuck curled up together in front of the fireplace.

For years, the room had been painted a soft ocean blue, but the previous winter Liam had painted it tan. Other than that, it was exactly as it had been when Coop first built it. The wainscoting and trim were painted a creamy white, and the four large twelve-over-twelve windows along the back wall—sparkling with a gorgeous view of the ocean—were also white. Liam always thought it was the nicest room in the house and he’d wondered why Coop hadn’t kept it for himself. One day, he’d asked him and Coop had said he preferred to sleep in the front of the house . . . so he could hear.

“Hear what?” he’d asked.

Coop had shrugged. “Everythin’.”

Liam would never forget the first night he’d slept at his uncle’s. At the time, the extra bedrooms were still under construction, so Coop had carried Lily’s and Daniel’s bags to his room, and although Lily had protested, Coop had insisted, saying he and Liam would be sleeping under the stars anyway, so he wouldn’t be needing his room.

That evening, after a cookout—complete with s’mores—and a long walk on the beach, the gorgeous night sky had been so inviting, they’d all ended up sleeping under the stars, and Liam—who must’ve been around four at the time—had never forgotten it.

Through sleepy eyes, he’d gazed up at the vast, velvet sky, sparkling with diamonds, and listened to the lovely sounds of the adults talking and laughing and sipping their drinks, and when he finally drifted off, he’d felt utterly safe and loved.

Two and a half years later, on a snowy night in December, he’d longed to feel that way again, but when Coop carried his bags to one of the newly finished bedrooms, turned on the light, and said, “This is your room now,” he could barely nod. “If there’s anything else you need, just holler,” he’d added, and Liam had looked around the simply furnished room with its empty bookshelves and nodded again. Then they’d both stood there uncertainly until finally, Coop had wiped his eyes with his thumbs, whispered, “Damn you, Lily,” and knelt down to give his six-year-old nephew a hug. “G’night, pal.”

Liam had hugged him back, trying ever so hard to be brave, and after his uncle left, he’d tugged his cold pajamas out of his bag, pulled them on, climbed into the stiff, strange bed, and listened to the icy sleet hitting the dark windows. Then with tears streaming down his smooth cheeks, he’d prayed with all his might that his mom and dad would be in the kitchen making pancakes when he woke up . . . just like they had two summers ago.

“Nobody’s making pancakes today either,” Liam said, playfully pulling on Tuck’s ears. The big dog—who was sprawled across the bed next to him—rolled onto his back and stretched his legs up in the air, waiting for a belly rub, and Moby—who was curled up on a pillow—wondered if it was time to find a quieter spot.

Liam scratched Tuck’s long belly and the big dog’s eyes rolled back in utter contentment. “What are we going to have for breakfast?” Liam mused, propping his head up on his free hand and looking out at the sliver of orange peaking over the watery horizon. Hearing the word breakfast, Tuck rolled onto his side and leaned over to stuff his nose in Liam’s face.

“Nice,” Liam said, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping the wetness and inadvertently touching the scar near his temple.

Half an hour later, after wolfing down their breakfasts, Tuck and Moby were outside, nosing around the yard, when Liam came down the steps with his hair wet from showering. “Let’s go, Tuck,” he called, and the big golden galloped to the truck. “See you later, Mobe,” he said, scratching the cat’s ears. “Keep an . . .