When Tio Angelo pulled the car into the White Oak Lodge, all of the Whitmores hurried out to greet him. Allegra and Lorelei, never far apart, scampered hand in hand from the horse barn, while secretive Nina, who was only eight years old, tiptoed from the other side of the porch. Francesca burst from the kitchen and threw her slender arms around her brother’s neck, speaking in such a rapid and inarticulate Italian that Alexander had to focus hard to understand. Charlotte appeared after that, frowning and nervous, and Benjamin came last, removing a pair of thick workman’s gloves so that he could shake Tio Angelo’s hand.
Curious as always, the guests of the White Oak Lodge peered at the family reunion from behind their novels and expensive sunglasses, from the jewel-colored pool and the tennis courts and the horse stables. They watched as Francesca led her brother to the other side of the Lodge, where a long picnic table had been set with a white cloth and the best of the Whitmores’ China. It was nearly eight in the evening, but because it was almost the summer solstice, the sun hadn’t set yet. Everything glowed golden and pink.
“You’re the guest of honor, Tio Angelo!” little Nina cried, then clapped her hands over her mouth, as though she were nervous to act out.
Sure enough, Francesca spoke harshly to the girl, saying, “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” but in English. Alexander was never sure why, but Francesca had spoken Italian onlysparsely with Nina, meaning that she was probably in over her head when the rest of them burst into Italian. Among the older Whitmores, only Benjamin wasn’t fluent in Italian, but he could get by when he wanted to.
For dinner, Francesca and a few members of the White Oak Lodge kitchen staff had prepared an elaborate and multi-course Italian feast. Because Alexander was mere weeks away from his twenty-first birthday, he was allowed to have a small glass of wine with dinner. It was laughable, given that he’d already drunk plenty of cheap beer with his buddies on the various Nantucket beaches. But the wine he was given was much more expensive than his palate knew what to do with: dense and strange and almost peppery. He listened to his mother and Tio Angelo describe the wine and felt, again, that they were speaking another language.
When Tio Angelo tried to tease little Nina about something in Italian, Nina’s cheeks turned bright red, and she gazed down at her bruschetta.
Tio Angelo gaped at Francesca. “The girl doesn’t know Italian?”
Francesca told Tio Angelo to focus on his food.
Alexander was seated between Charlotte and Allegra, who, it seemed, weren’t speaking right now, presumably about something only fifteen- and seventeen-year-old girls cared about. It meant that Charlotte said things like, “Alexander, could you ask the person beside you to pass the olives?” and Allegra said things like, “Alexander, could you ask the weird human on the other side of you to pass the sparkling water?” It drove Alexander up the wall. He wanted to tell them to quit, but he didn’t want to make anything worse. If he caused drama at the family dinner, especially the first family dinner since Tio Angelo arrived, Francesca would not be pleased.
Alexander was never one to cause drama. It was up to him to fly under the radar, perform the necessary tasks, and let the days pass. Maybe one day he’d forget all about his dreams of becoming a pilot and leaving Nantucket Island behind. He could only hope.
Between the pasta and fish courses, Francesca made a toast in Italian. “To my darling brother, Angelo. Welcome to America. Our family is finally complete with you here.”
Alexander drank the rest of his wine and feasted on a platter of cod. He knew he had to finish his meal sooner rather than later because his father would expect him in the horse stables, and his mother would expect him at the front desk. There was no end to the work at the White Oak Lodge.
Miraculously, Tio Angelo was the only person at the White Oak Lodge who realized that Alexander was overworked and exhausted. It occurred to him just three or four days after he moved to Nantucket. He approached Alexander at the front desk, where Alexander had fielded more than thirty phone calls in the past three hours, and spread his olive hands across the mahogany. His smile was genuine and soft, indicative of a kindness that Alexander hadn’t yet noticed in his uncle. The phone started blaring again.
“I have to get this.” Alexander winced. He’d begun to really hate the sound of that thing.
Tio Angelo nodded. “I can wait.”
Alexander took the call and answered several questions from a wealthy Midwestern woman planning to spend all of July at the White Oak Lodge. Apparently, she was going through a divorce and wanted to make sure that every aspect of her “newlife” was perfect. Alexander answered what he could and got off the phone. Sweat poured from his upper lip.
Tio Angelo looked sympathetic. Gesturing toward another White Oak Lodge employee, a woman who’d just started a few weeks ago, he said, “Take over for Alexander, won’t you? He needs a break.” Tio Angelo winked at Alexander.
Alexander was overwhelmed by the act of kindness. He couldn’t remember the last time a member of the Whitmore family had suggested he take a few minutes off.
Alexander followed Tio Angelo to the back veranda and snaked through the immaculate gardens that lined the Nantucket Sound. From here, he could see what had to be thirty sailboats, cruising across the turquoise waters. His heart pounded with the desire not only to sail out there, but to fly over those waters, to be anywhere but here. Tio Angelo was quiet, maybe for the first time since he’d arrived. Alexander realized that Tio Angelo was studying him.
“You’re different from your other siblings, Alexander,” Tio Angelo said in Italian.
Alexander cocked his head. Although he felt like an alien in the Whitmore family, he’d never assumed anyone else would notice.
“I see it,” Tio Angelo said. “You’re quieter. Stronger. More intelligent. I imagine you think working at the front desk of the Lodge is beneath you. And you know why you think that? It’s because it is beneath you. You deserve a better life. One that you make for yourself.”
Alexander was speechless. He’d never told anyone about his dreams.
Tio Angelo realized he’d hit the bullseye. “Tell me, Alexander. What do you want to be?”
Alexander stopped walking and stuck his hands in his pockets. A cool breeze wafted through the oppressive heat. Helocked eyes with his uncle and tried to gauge if he could trust him. Would Tio Angelo run off and make fun of Alexander in front of his mother?
What kind of man was he?
“I see,” Tio Angelo said, cracking a smile. “You don’t trust anyone. And you know what? You shouldn’t trust anyone. Not in this life. Not with something so special as a dream.”
Alexander remained quiet. Tio Angelo had let him off the hook, for now. But it made Alexander want to trust him all the more. This was a complicated feeling indeed.
“Tell me, Alexander. Do you want independence from your family? Do you want to step away from the White Oak Lodge and make your own money?” Tio Angelo said.
Alexander parted his lips. It was a simple answer: yes. But he wasn’t sure if he could say it so openly.
