“We’re proud of you, too!” Rachelle cried back.
They collapsed in giggles that seemed endless. It was proof that they all needed to get some sleep.
Unlike last year, Estelle hadn’t opted for a long book tour through two continents. After Manhattan, she did three readings in Philadelphia, in Washington, DC, and back in Nantucket, where she enjoyed the very best audience. Fans spilled out of the bookstore, craning to see her as she read. During the question-and-answer session, Estelle allowed more questions than she might have normally, as she felt so comfortable here on her island. She was willing to open up.
A thing that made this reading especially different, she felt, was that so many of the women and men listening to the reading had known Roland. They’d known Estelle as Mrs. Coleman for decades—and probably struggled to reckon with her as a widow, as a woman without her husband. But in trying to define herself differently, she felt she was asking the world to do the same. It was an essential next step: to reassess her identity and figure out who she would be in the years ahead.
Naturally, the bookstore sold out of Estelle’s books that evening. The bookstore manager, a friend of Estelle’s named Ronnie, said that she made an enormous online order that very evening, but that she suspected they would sell out before the week was through. “People consume your books. They’re perfect for the beach, for summertime nostalgia. And because they’ve been translated into so many languages, you’re a worldwide success! I was just talking to someone the other day about your books. He came into the shop to poke around. He was foreign. I forget where he was from. Spain, maybe?” Ronnie tilted her head. “He bought your most recent novel and said he couldn’t wait to dig in.”
Estelle didn’t think anything of it, not at first. “It’s rare to meet men who like my books. At least, that’s what I used to think.”
Ronnie laughed. “My husband has read half of them, at least.”
That night, Estelle returned to the Coleman House, exhilarated and exhausted in equal measure. Making herself some tea, she went out on the veranda and gazed at the stars, twinkling in the night sky over the Nantucket Sound. As she had countless times, she whispered what had happened today to the sky, thinking that maybe Roland could hear her. He never felt so far from her.
But just then, the doorbell rang, yanking her from her reverie. She got up, hurrying to the foyer, imagining that Sam or Hilary had decided to pop by for a nightcap. Estelle hadn’t looked at her phone for a while. Maybe they’d called or texted, and she’d missed it.
But when she opened the door, she found herself gazing into the dark, captivating eyes of Albert. In his arms was a bouquet of lilies and roses. Estelle nearly collapsed.
“Estelle,” Albert said, a gentle smile on his face. “Congratulations on your newest book. I wanted to tell you in person.”
Estelle couldn’t speak. She wondered if she was dreaming. “You’re here,” she said finally.
“I hope you don’t mind I came by. You weren’t answering your phone,” Albert said, sounding nervous. “I spent all day reading your book. I wanted to come to the reading, but I chickened out. I was on my way to the ferry, actually, headed off the island, maybe forever, when I decided to turn back.”
Estelle continued to blink at him. He’d planned to leave without saying hello? He’d come all this way, only to depart again?
“But I happened to stop into a cute little restaurant near the ferry pier.” He smiled. “I couldn’t believe it, but both of your granddaughters were there. Rachelle was in the kitchen, and Darcy was out front. I realized it was fate.”
Estelle smiled wider. Warmth pulsated through her chest, through her arms.
“Who am I to ignore fate?” Albert asked.
Estelle reached out for him. In a moment, they were in one another’s arms, lost in the beauty of a kiss that they’d both dreamed of for nearly a year. Estelle’s heart fluttered in her neck.
She couldn’t believe he’d come back for her.
Out on the veranda, under the same stars she’d only recently whispered to, Albert told her about his previous year. He told her that Riccardo’s family had fleeced him of a great deal of money before he’d said enough was enough. He’d tried to dig his heels into life in Italy, but he’d soon discovered that he was too American for Rome, now. “I need to be here,” he said. “I belong here.”
Estelle didn’t know what that meant for them. She set her head on his chest and listened to his heart beating. She laced her fingers through his, praying that they’d find a way through this next era of their lives together. Just as Albert had said, who were they to ignore fate? Fate had drawn them together. Maybe one day, fate would tear them apart, too. But Estelle was willing to take that chance. What else was life for, anyway?
25
Although everyone was anxious for it to happen, Jack didn’t ask Rachelle to marry him for another year. During that strange and exhilarating year, Rachelle worked tirelessly at the restaurant. She poured her life and her creativity and her heart into each menu alteration, each celebrity party she hosted, and each interview with the various culinary magazine journalists who came by to taste what she’d made and see who she was. Throughout that time, miraculously, she and Jack found a way to really get to know one another and really, truly fall in love. Good things took time, she knew.
Rachelle fell in love with him in a way she hadn’t with Riccardo. Essentially, she felt that she’d fallen in love with Riccardo because she’d lived so far from home. She hadn’t had anyone else and had needed to cling to him as a life raft. But she fell in love with Jack simply because her soul wanted to. Jack fit perfectly into her life with the rest of the Colemans. More than that, because of his work, he got along so well with Derek that they often spent time together without Sam and Rachelle around. Often, they invited Darcy’s husband, Steven, creatingtheir own group. Rachelle, her mother, and her sister found this adorable.
The summer that Rachelle was thirty-two, Jack dragged her away from the restaurant for a sailing expedition around the island. He packed a picnic of champagne, strawberries, sandwiches with brie and ham and comté, and little donuts with powdered sugar. Rachelle helped him maneuver the boat to a beautiful area near Madequecham Beach, where they dropped the anchor and cozied up to eat, drink, and sun themselves. Here, so far from the chaos of the restaurant, Rachelle felt a peace she hadn’t known in many years.
“Here’s to Rachelle, one of the thirty-five under thirty-five chefs to watch!” Jack said, raising his glass of champagne.
Rachelle had just heard that she’d received the honor that Diana March had gotten before her—many years ago, when Diana had been at the beginning of her career. Now, a year into owning her own restaurant, Rachelle still felt at the dawn of her culinary pursuits. She and Darcy had discussed plenty of options going forward. They’d touted the idea of opening another restaurant on Martha’s Vineyard, or elsewhere in New England. They wondered what it would be like to own Jessabelle restaurants across the United States—restaurants that would feature their photographs on the walls. Sisters Darcy and Rachelle. Renowned.
But all of that would come later, Rachelle knew.
“You’re a force of nature,” Jack told her now, reaching for a velvet box he’d hidden in the picnic basket. “I know you’ve been asked this before. I know I’m not the only man in the world who wants to marry you. But Rachelle, I’ll do my very best to love you and make a home with you. I love you so completely. Will you marry me?”
Rachelle said she would. “Of course.” She watched as he slid the smallish diamond ring onto her finger. She didn’t thinkonce of Riccardo’s fiancée, of the bigger ring she was probably wearing. Rachelle wasn’t one for big displays of affection. They always felt so false, so performative.
