Chapter One
June 1995
Nantucket Island
Alexander was nearly twenty-one years old when his uncle Angelo moved from Italy to Nantucket Island. The excuse his mother, Francesca, used was, “Your uncle Angelo needs a change. America is the place where people come to make their fortunes. It’s where Angelo will heal from everything that’s happened to him back home.” It sounded beautiful and hopeful, especially to Alexander’s little sisters. They were naiver than Alexander and susceptible to their parents’ stories.
But Allegra, Lorelei, Charlotte, and little Nina were overjoyed to have a new relative coming to Nantucket, so during the week leading up to Angelo’s arrival, they spent hours cleaning and decorating his room and baking American and Italian treats. Francesca was floaty and happy, roaming the grounds outside the White Oak Lodge with a smile on her face that made her look more like the little girl who’d grown up with her wild brother Angelo.
Something was changing at the White Oak Lodge! Finally.
It went without saying that this summer felt just the same as every other summer Alexander had lived through so far, save for Tio Angelo’s arrival, of course. Every morning, Alexander woke up at the crack of dawn to help his father, Benjamin, with all matters of White Oak Lodge tasks. It seemed the list was never-ending. Alexander found himself everywhere, from the boating docks to the horse stables to the front desk. He painted the porch, he dug up the gardens and replanted, he drove wealthy guests from one end of the island to the next, and he acted as a babysitter for the super-elite’s children. He had even once saved a young boy from drowning.
The problem was that Alexander had come to hate the White Oak Lodge. This, he knew, was borderline sacrilegious, but sometimes he couldn’t take it anymore. He had dreams and visions for his life. He didn’t understand why he had to stay home for the rest of his life, just because of tradition. All the kids he’d graduated with (well, some of them) were off in the world, chasing their dreams. Some of them were even in New York City, for crying out loud.
The White Oak Lodge had been built by his great-great-great-grandfather Samuel Whitmore back in 1862 and had been in the family ever since. What had begun as a mere lodge for fishermen and wild sportsmen was now one of the most luxurious resorts on the Island of Nantucket. In this place, wealthy people of all sorts met to drink cocktails, play tennis, ride horses, and flaunt their money, fancy dresses, and pearls.
Alexander knew that without the White Oak Lodge, he never would have been born. He knew he should be grateful. It was because his mother’s famous Italian director father had come to the Lodge back in the sixties that Francesca and Benjamin had met and fallen in love in the first place. They’d married in 1972, when Francesca had moved to the United States andgiven herself over to Benjamin Whitmore’s lifestyle and future. Alexander had always wondered about that. Did she miss Italy? Did she regret pouring herself completely into family life?
Alexander was born in July 1974. After that, they’d welcomed five more Whitmore children. But because Alexander was the oldest, the White Oak Lodge was “his,” he knew. He carried the weight of many generations of Whitmore men.
Like always, it fell to Alexander to pick Tio Angelo up from the airport. His father had to cavort with other Lodge guests, his mother had cooking to do to prepare for Tio Angelo’s arrival, and his sisters were too young to drive all that way by themselves. In the end, he brought along his kid brother Jack, who was fourteen as of this past January. There was a pickled look to him, if only because he’d developed so many pimples the past few months. Alexander was never sure if it fell to him, as the older brother, to tell Jack to wash his face more often. Alexander had had several pimples himself back in the day. Maybe it built character.
On the drive to Boston, Jack and Alexander played the oldies’ station and talked about what would change when Tio Angelo arrived.
“Mom said he was in a car accident?” Jack said absently, flicking a piece of lint off his jeans. “Is that why he had to leave?”
Alexander shrugged. “I’m pretty sure he’s broke, and Grandpa and Grandma don’t want to help him anymore.”
Jack gave Alexander a bug-eyed look. The “real world” was a difficult thing to fathom at fourteen, Alexander knew, but it was time that he showed Jack bits and pieces of what reality really meant so he didn’t fall flat on his face.
“I don’t think he’s going to come in passing out presents, if you know what I mean,” Alexander added. “It sounds like he’s a broken man.”
“Wow. I hope he’s nice to everyone, though. I hope he doesn’t give Mom a hard time,” Jack muttered.
“I’m sure he’ll be nice to her and no one else.” Alexander cracked his knuckles on the steering wheel and passed a white Toyota, speeding ahead.
He felt like Jack’s authoritative and confident older brother. He resolved to take care of him and their other siblings. As long as he was stuck on Nantucket and at the White Oak Lodge, he would do the best he could for them.
As they got closer to the Boston airport, Alexander’s heart quickened. Planes bucked overhead, gliding into the clouds, and he watched them for a little too long before remembering he had to pay attention to the road. What he hadn’t told anyone in his family was his passion for flight. He’d read all about going to flight school and reasoned that he was a perfect candidate: young, athletic, with good reflexes and a sensible head on his shoulders. More than that, he longed to travel, to sweep across the curve of the earth and find himself elsewhere, with different foods and different traditions. Because of his mother, he already spoke Italian, which he knew set him up well for more languages. Spanish and French would come easily. Maybe Portuguese, too. And after that? He pictured himself in a little bar in Tokyo, speaking Japanese and drinking sake. He pictured himself in Africa somewhere, having a conversation he couldn’t even fathom from here.
Jack and Alexander parked at the airport and got out to wait for their Tio Angelo. Jack was fidgety and went over to a vending machine to buy a package of Twinkies, which he ate so fast that Alexander didn’t even have a chance to ask for a bite. Finally, a man with olive skin and shaggy black hair came toward them, limping slightly, a bruise across his left arm. Alexander and Jack hadn’t seen Tio Angelo in many years, but they recognized him from photographs—and from the penetrating look in his eyes that was so similar to their mother’s.
Jack, being Jack, sprang to action, speaking in Italian because they weren’t sure if Tio Angelo’s English was any good. “Tio Angelo!” he cried. “Welcome to America!”
Tio Angelo cracked a smile and reached out to shake Jack’s hand. He answered in Italian. “This can’t be Jack Whitmore, can it? The last time I saw him, he was about twenty centimeters high!”
Alexander tried to make sense of centimeters versus inches and meters versus feet, but never managed to. Jack grinned, happy that Tio Angelo was treating him like he mattered. Tio Angelo kept the same big smile on his face as he turned to Alexander and said, “And you must be the brand-new man of the house. Alexander Whitmore! The man bound to take over the iconic White Oak Lodge!”
Alexander shook his uncle’s hand with as much force as he could, maybe because he wanted to prove himself to be every bit the man Tio Angelo joked he was.
“That’s a grip!” Tio Angelo said, beaming at him. “Your Italian grandfather would be proud. He’s always going on about being a man. Being strong.” Tio Angelo puffed out his chest comically, making Jack laugh.
It shouldn’t have surprised Alexander that Tio Angelo wanted to drive back to Nantucket. He was much older, and it already seemed like he wasn’t the kind of guy to relinquish control to a “teenager” (although Alexander was almost twenty-one). Alexander sat in the back, listening as Jack and Tio Angelo spoke in rapid Italian about Tio Angelo’s trip to the United States, the awful person he’d had to sit next to on the plane, and how “criminal” the airline food had been.
“This is something I’ll bring to Nantucket!” Tio Angelo cried, whipping much too fast down the highway, off to Hyannis. “I’ll bring the very best food you’ve ever tasted. I imagine yourmother’s cooking is good. Of course, it is. But I bring artistry to the kitchen! I bring the spirit of Italy!”
Jack whooped and raised both arms. Alexander’s stomach lurched with a mix of hunger and car sickness. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about Tio Angelo he didn’t trust. Maybe it was just how confident and arrogant he was. Perhaps it was because he already sensed that Jack liked him more than he liked Alexander.
