Read Online Summerland: A Novel by Elin Hilderbrand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
Ads: Link
knew the Alistairs weren’t Catholic. We had a sneaking suspicion that the Alistair twins hadn’t been baptized at all—which alarmed some of us more than others—but if this was the case, then the Unitarians were certainly the safest bet. Their religion seemed like a wide basket that would carry even the least pious souls among us to safety.
We all said “Amen.”
Dr. Field, who was as spiritual a man as any of us, started the flame. He passed it to Chief Kapenash, who passed it to Claire and Annabel and Winnie, who each passed it along, and in this way the flame spread in concentric circles all the way to the slightly abashed summer residents hugging the outer border. Soon the football field was ablaze with golden light, and Winnie Potts started singing “Amazing Grace,” and the girls were weeping because who could sing this song—or any other song—without thinking first of Penny? Even so, the vigil was a success. We could imagine Hobby’s suspended consciousness hovering above the Earth, gazing down at the many-petaled flower of fire blossoming there on his beloved field, and deciding to come back down and join us.
Day 5: The vigil was a romantic notion. It had been held more for us, it seemed, than for Hobby. There was no change in his condition.
Of note was that it was Thursday, which meant the
Nantucket Standard
came out, just as it did every week. We rushed to the Hub to get our copies, wondering who had written the article and whose quotes had been used and how the matter would be spun, considering that the accident had involved the son of the publisher of the paper. We were stunned to find no mention at all of the accident or of Penny’s death, except for a dry three-sentence blurb in the police blotter stating that at 12:53 a.m. Sunday, there had been a fatal one-car accident on Hummock Pond Road, which was still under investigation.
That’s
it?
we thought. Nothing
else?
Some people were outraged. Nantucket had only one newspaper. Didn’t it owe its citizens a report of what had happened? But other people understood. No one really knew what had happened. Mrs. Yurick, the elementary school music teacher, felt thatPenelope Alistair’s life should have been eulogized. Her picture should have been splashed across the front page. Some people thought that Jordan Randolph was trying to sweep the whole matter under the rug because Penelope had been driving his son’s car. Others suspected that Zoe Alistair had asked Jordan not to run a story at all—and could anyone blame Jordan if that was in fact true? There was talk that he was waiting to see if Hobson Alistair would recover before he published anything.
“There will be a story eventually,” someone said. “Next week or the week after. We just have to wait.”
Day 6: Al Castle checked out of the Liberty Hotel in Boston, where he had been staying in order to keep an eye on Zoe Alistair from a respectful distance. There was still no change in Hobby’s condition, and Al was needed at home. Lynne was having a hard time with Demeter. She was acting strangely. The Randolph boy had apparently been calling five or six times a day, but Demeter refused to speak with him. And when he rode over on his bike, she locked herself in her bedroom and refused to see him. There was something he wanted to talk to her about, but she didn’t seem interested.
Day 7: Claire Buckley and her mother, Rasha Buckley, took Al Castle’s place in Boston. Rasha Buckley knew Zoe Alistair only slightly. She said to some of us, “Surely there are other people closer to the Alistair family, whose presence there would offer more comfort?” But no one else stepped forward, and Claire was desperate to go. She approached Zoe Alistair in the waiting room, with Rasha trailing ten feet behind her. Rasha and Zoe had had nice conversations half a dozen times over the years; they’d seen each other that spring, on prom night. Zoe had gone over to the Buckleys’ house, where the kids
We all said “Amen.”
Dr. Field, who was as spiritual a man as any of us, started the flame. He passed it to Chief Kapenash, who passed it to Claire and Annabel and Winnie, who each passed it along, and in this way the flame spread in concentric circles all the way to the slightly abashed summer residents hugging the outer border. Soon the football field was ablaze with golden light, and Winnie Potts started singing “Amazing Grace,” and the girls were weeping because who could sing this song—or any other song—without thinking first of Penny? Even so, the vigil was a success. We could imagine Hobby’s suspended consciousness hovering above the Earth, gazing down at the many-petaled flower of fire blossoming there on his beloved field, and deciding to come back down and join us.
Day 5: The vigil was a romantic notion. It had been held more for us, it seemed, than for Hobby. There was no change in his condition.
Of note was that it was Thursday, which meant the
Nantucket Standard
came out, just as it did every week. We rushed to the Hub to get our copies, wondering who had written the article and whose quotes had been used and how the matter would be spun, considering that the accident had involved the son of the publisher of the paper. We were stunned to find no mention at all of the accident or of Penny’s death, except for a dry three-sentence blurb in the police blotter stating that at 12:53 a.m. Sunday, there had been a fatal one-car accident on Hummock Pond Road, which was still under investigation.
That’s
it?
we thought. Nothing
else?
Some people were outraged. Nantucket had only one newspaper. Didn’t it owe its citizens a report of what had happened? But other people understood. No one really knew what had happened. Mrs. Yurick, the elementary school music teacher, felt thatPenelope Alistair’s life should have been eulogized. Her picture should have been splashed across the front page. Some people thought that Jordan Randolph was trying to sweep the whole matter under the rug because Penelope had been driving his son’s car. Others suspected that Zoe Alistair had asked Jordan not to run a story at all—and could anyone blame Jordan if that was in fact true? There was talk that he was waiting to see if Hobson Alistair would recover before he published anything.
“There will be a story eventually,” someone said. “Next week or the week after. We just have to wait.”
Day 6: Al Castle checked out of the Liberty Hotel in Boston, where he had been staying in order to keep an eye on Zoe Alistair from a respectful distance. There was still no change in Hobby’s condition, and Al was needed at home. Lynne was having a hard time with Demeter. She was acting strangely. The Randolph boy had apparently been calling five or six times a day, but Demeter refused to speak with him. And when he rode over on his bike, she locked herself in her bedroom and refused to see him. There was something he wanted to talk to her about, but she didn’t seem interested.
Day 7: Claire Buckley and her mother, Rasha Buckley, took Al Castle’s place in Boston. Rasha Buckley knew Zoe Alistair only slightly. She said to some of us, “Surely there are other people closer to the Alistair family, whose presence there would offer more comfort?” But no one else stepped forward, and Claire was desperate to go. She approached Zoe Alistair in the waiting room, with Rasha trailing ten feet behind her. Rasha and Zoe had had nice conversations half a dozen times over the years; they’d seen each other that spring, on prom night. Zoe had gone over to the Buckleys’ house, where the kids
Similar Books
