Rachelle wrote back an hour later.
RACHELLE: It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.
5
Nantucket Island
The Coleman House was different these days—drafty and enormous and often cold despite the warm weather outside. In the months after Roland died, Estelle closed off many of the rooms, drawing sheets over sofas and desks and sealing doors as though she were closing a tomb. It had felt like a ritual, one that transformed her from a wife into a widow.
Estelle was in the kitchen, writing a packing list for her so-called adventure, a book tour for her upcoming release. It was impossible to say how the weather would change between late June and October, impossible to say how many dresses and jackets she’d need. She supposed she could buy things as she went. That was half the fun, according to her daughter Hilary. Maybe she shouldn’t pack anything at all! Perhaps she should make it all up as she went.
On Estelle’s computer, she pulled up the very last version of the book she was touring, a romance novel calledThe Morning We Knew. When she’d come up with the title, she’d thought itwas cute and a little bit silly, although she’d always felt as though there were moments like that—moments when you suddenly knew something that was so clearly true, something that hadn’t fully occurred to you before.
When Estelle was in the middle of writingThe Morning We Knew, she and Roland went on vacation to the Bahamas. This was two years ago, early summer. Every morning, Estelle woke up to write herself silly for a few hours before she and Roland had a late breakfast, went for a walk, and maybe did some other activity after that, like snorkeling or wine tasting. It was much like any of their other vacations, when they fell into an easy rhythm, with Estelle getting tons of work done but also managing to relax with her Roland, save for the fact that Roland had struggled with what he called a “bad back.” He often complained about it and even called off a golf game halfway through. Estelle urged him to get it checked out, but he’d told her that it was nothing, that he’d struggled with back pain several times throughout his life.
Estelle didn’t like thinking about what happened next. The back pain followed Roland home to Nantucket, and he hadn’t gotten up the nerve to make a doctor’s appointment till autumn. The doctor had discovered an awful and advanced form of cancer that had gone on to systemically destroy Roland, her love. He’d fought valiantly, as ever, but died about a year ago, in May. They’d buried him in the cemetery plot that Roland and Estelle had bought years ago, back when they’d thought they’d live together forever. Estelle hadn’t let herself think about who might live longer.
How naive she’d been!
Now, Estelle opened a brand-new document on her computer and tried, for perhaps the tenth time, to write about losing Roland. She tried to document his goodwill till the very end, all the nights she’d slept by his side in the hospital, howfunny their hospice nurse had been, and how good the Colemans had been together, helping one another till the end. But as she typed and typed, tears drenched her cheeks, and she eventually had to slam her computer closed.
What was she thinking? She didn’t want to remember any of that. She wanted to remember Roland alive and well. She wanted to go back in time.
A few minutes later, Estelle’s doorbell rang. It was only then that she realized she had ten missed calls from Sam, all asking if she could stop by. Estelle had been so immersed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard. She headed for the door, where she threw her arms around first her daughter Sam, then her daughter Hilary, then Darcy and Aria, her granddaughters. It was as though they’d known she needed them.
“A book tour!” Hilary cried when Estelle told them the news. They were gathered on the porch around a bottle of natural wine, their glasses glinting. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I only just told my agent I could go,” Estelle admitted. “I wasn’t sure if I had the energy.”
“Mom, that’s fantastic,” Sam said. “And why wouldn’t you go? It’s going to be a remarkable time.”
Darcy was busy studying the list of bookstores and their locations. Estelle knew that she’d seen Rome on there, and it had flabbergasted her. She knew, too, that Darcy yearned to ask Estelle if she was going to look up their long-lost family member, Rachelle—Darcy’s sister and ex-best friend. But it was too delicate to say aloud.
“It’s exciting,” Darcy said instead.
“I suppose it’ll be my last book,” Estelle said gently. It wasn’t anything she’d ever admitted before.
“Why do you say that?” Hilary frowned.
Estelle waved her hand. She didn’t want to say what she was thinking, that her great love had passed away and left her unable to understand romance any longer. But wasn’t that true?
“Maybe you’ve got writer’s block,” Sam suggested. “Traveling usually helps something like that, right?”
Hilary nodded knowingly.
“Don’t put pressure on yourself, Grandma,” Aria said. “If it happens, it happens.”
Estelle squeezed her knees, hating the worried eyes on her. She was lucky, so lucky, to have so many wonderful women in her life. But a strange part of her wanted to be left alone.
Eventually, Estelle reported to them that she’d visited Grandpa Chuck, Oriana, and Meghan in Martha’s Vineyard.
“How is Grandpa?” Sam asked.
“He’s the same as ever,” Estelle said.
“Hard to believe he’s going to be one hundred years old,” Hilary breathed. “Think of all the things he’s lived through! So many wars. So many presidents.”
“So many different forms of social media,” Darcy joked.
