Read Online Summerland: A Novel by Elin Hilderbrand - Free Book Online
Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
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part,” his father said.
There was a shed at the back of the property. But not a shed—a guesthouse. Jordan opened the door and stepped inside. One square bedroom with a sink and, behind a curtain enclosure, a toilet. There were two eyebrow windows high over the bed, two small tables flanking the bed, a bureau, a desk.
“Cool,” Jake said.
“It’s yours,” Jordan said.
“What?”
“This space is yours. For you. Your mother and I thought you’d appreciate the privacy.”
Jake made what Penny used to call his
face.
Well, forgive him,but he was exhausted, and what the fuck was going on here, exactly? This space was
his?
Again, it was all he’d ever wanted: his own space, away from the sad bullshit of his parents. And they were giving it to him now, when it no longer mattered. What he wouldn’t have given for his own space on Nantucket when Penny was alive! As it was, they’d been forced to hang out in Jake’s room, which shared a wall with Ernie’s nursery. They’d never had sex in Jake’s bedroom because Ava was always in the nursery watching her stupid goddamned TV show, or reading aloud passages from Melville. They’d had sex in Jake’s Jeep (he couldn’t think about that ever again) and on the beach and in the bleachers next to the football field at school and, many times, in the Alistairs’ house while Zoe was at work.
This place where he would now be living was a bribe from his parents. But it was a useless treasure.
Ava wandered back into the house. Jake turned to his father. “So will you and Mom be sharing a room again, then?” he asked. “Or will you have separate bedrooms?”
Jordan stuffed one hand into his pants pocket and rubbed at his eyes with his other hand. It was an awkward question, Jake realized that, but he wanted to know how things were going to be. “We’re going to try sharing a room,” Jordan said. “The master bedroom.”
“It’s been a while,” Jake said.
“That it has,” his father said.
NANTUCKET
W e followed Hobby Alistair’s condition the same way we tracked the paths of hurricanes in September: hour by hour. There were updates at 11:00 a.m., 2:00 p.m., and 6:00 p.m. These updates wereprovided by an email chain that originated with Lynne Castle. Lynne Castle was the point person, which made sense; we all knew she was Zoe Alistair’s closest friend. What we didn’t know was that Zoe found herself unable to speak to Lynne, and so instead she gave the information to Al Castle, who then passed it along to his wife. We had heard that there had been some sort of scene—a fight? an incident?—between Zoe Alistair and Jordan Randolph at the hospital, but nobody knew exactly what had happened. Al and Lynne didn’t say, and Dr. Field didn’t say; the only eyewitness who had let anything slip was Patsy Ernst, the E.R. nurse on duty that night, and she had been vague in her description. “Emotions were running high,” she said. To one person she said, “They had a fight.” To someone else she said, “There was an incident.”
We could see how Zoe Alistair might hold the Randolphs to blame, at least initially. It was Jake Randolph’s car, after all.
Day 1: Hobby was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t know if he would come out of it. He had sixteen broken bones, all on his left side, including a broken femur, broken pelvis, three broken ribs, broken ulna and radius, and broken clavicle. There were fathers across the island who sighed deeply at this news. They would never speak the reason for their private despair, but they didn’t need to because we knew what they were thinking: Hobby Alistair would never play ball again. The greatest athlete the island had seen in decades, a boy Nantucket could call its own, who was destined for football at Notre Dame or basketball at Duke, or who might instead be drafted by the Pawtucket Red Sox right out of high school, had been shattered. Because his biological father was dead, any one of these men might claim
There was a shed at the back of the property. But not a shed—a guesthouse. Jordan opened the door and stepped inside. One square bedroom with a sink and, behind a curtain enclosure, a toilet. There were two eyebrow windows high over the bed, two small tables flanking the bed, a bureau, a desk.
“Cool,” Jake said.
“It’s yours,” Jordan said.
“What?”
“This space is yours. For you. Your mother and I thought you’d appreciate the privacy.”
Jake made what Penny used to call his
face.
Well, forgive him,but he was exhausted, and what the fuck was going on here, exactly? This space was
his?
Again, it was all he’d ever wanted: his own space, away from the sad bullshit of his parents. And they were giving it to him now, when it no longer mattered. What he wouldn’t have given for his own space on Nantucket when Penny was alive! As it was, they’d been forced to hang out in Jake’s room, which shared a wall with Ernie’s nursery. They’d never had sex in Jake’s bedroom because Ava was always in the nursery watching her stupid goddamned TV show, or reading aloud passages from Melville. They’d had sex in Jake’s Jeep (he couldn’t think about that ever again) and on the beach and in the bleachers next to the football field at school and, many times, in the Alistairs’ house while Zoe was at work.
This place where he would now be living was a bribe from his parents. But it was a useless treasure.
Ava wandered back into the house. Jake turned to his father. “So will you and Mom be sharing a room again, then?” he asked. “Or will you have separate bedrooms?”
Jordan stuffed one hand into his pants pocket and rubbed at his eyes with his other hand. It was an awkward question, Jake realized that, but he wanted to know how things were going to be. “We’re going to try sharing a room,” Jordan said. “The master bedroom.”
“It’s been a while,” Jake said.
“That it has,” his father said.
NANTUCKET
W e followed Hobby Alistair’s condition the same way we tracked the paths of hurricanes in September: hour by hour. There were updates at 11:00 a.m., 2:00 p.m., and 6:00 p.m. These updates wereprovided by an email chain that originated with Lynne Castle. Lynne Castle was the point person, which made sense; we all knew she was Zoe Alistair’s closest friend. What we didn’t know was that Zoe found herself unable to speak to Lynne, and so instead she gave the information to Al Castle, who then passed it along to his wife. We had heard that there had been some sort of scene—a fight? an incident?—between Zoe Alistair and Jordan Randolph at the hospital, but nobody knew exactly what had happened. Al and Lynne didn’t say, and Dr. Field didn’t say; the only eyewitness who had let anything slip was Patsy Ernst, the E.R. nurse on duty that night, and she had been vague in her description. “Emotions were running high,” she said. To one person she said, “They had a fight.” To someone else she said, “There was an incident.”
We could see how Zoe Alistair might hold the Randolphs to blame, at least initially. It was Jake Randolph’s car, after all.
Day 1: Hobby was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t know if he would come out of it. He had sixteen broken bones, all on his left side, including a broken femur, broken pelvis, three broken ribs, broken ulna and radius, and broken clavicle. There were fathers across the island who sighed deeply at this news. They would never speak the reason for their private despair, but they didn’t need to because we knew what they were thinking: Hobby Alistair would never play ball again. The greatest athlete the island had seen in decades, a boy Nantucket could call its own, who was destined for football at Notre Dame or basketball at Duke, or who might instead be drafted by the Pawtucket Red Sox right out of high school, had been shattered. Because his biological father was dead, any one of these men might claim
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