Summer Dance Read online

  Also by Nan Rossiter

  Firefly Summer

  Nantucket

  Under a Summer Sky

  More Than You Know

  Words Get in the Way

  The Gin & Chowder Club

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  SUMMER DANCE

  NAN ROSSITER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Nan Rossiter

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  WITH HEARTFELT THANKS . . .

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART III

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  PART IV

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  SUMMER DANCE

  Discussion Questions

  NANTUCKET

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE GIN & CHOWDER CLUB

  WORDS GET IN THE WAY

  MORE THAN YOU KNOW

  UNDER A SUMMER SKY

  NANTUCKET

  FIREFLY SUMMER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Nan Rossiter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0506-8

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0506-8

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: June 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0505-1

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: June 2017

  For my aunt Ninfa and uncle Rich,

  whose deep and abiding love for each other

  will always be an inspiration!

  WITH HEARTFELT THANKS . . .

  To my editor, Esi Sogah, my agent, Deirdre Mullane, and the entire Kensington team, who do their very best to help make every book a success. To the men in my life—my husband, Bruce, and our sons, Cole and Noah, who fill my life with joy and inspiration.

  To my friends and family, who faithfully read and share my books with friends.

  And to Finn, who rests his chin on my lap every day at four o’clock and gives me a look that says it’s time to stop working and go for a walk! I am truly blessed!

  May

  Sally Adams stood in front of her mailbox in the late-afternoon sunlight and tore open a large, padded envelope. She peered inside and felt her heart pound as she slid out the contents—a book with a sheet of folded, crisp stationery tucked inside its cover. She gazed at it in disbelief and lightly traced her finger over the title and the author’s name. Then she pulled her reading glasses from their perch on top of her head, slipped out the stationery, unfolded it, and began to read. As she did, she pushed back some loose strands of her silver hair and the late-day sunlight fell across her face, illuminating crinkly smile lines around her eyes.

  Ever since Coop died four years earlier, Liam had been trying to get her to write a book about her relationship with his uncle, Winston Ellis Cooper III, the salty Vietnam vet who’d raised him, but she’d just chuckled. “You’re not getting any sordid details out of me.”

  “C’mon, Sal,” Liam had cajoled. “It would make a great story.”

  And Sally, who’d always harbored a secret desire to write a book—maybe even sell Cuppa Jo and become a writer—began toying with a few words. But as she stared at the blank screen, all she could think was: Who is fooling who? Or should it be: Who is fooling whom? Even though she was an avid reader, she didn’t know a thing about writing. She’d forgotten everything she’d learned in college, and the only lesson she could remember from high school was that the first sentence should grab the reader’s attention. Sister Mary Agnes, hailing from Waltham, had swept between her students’ desks in her flowing black habit and declared what she called the eleventh commandment: “Thou shalt make sure thy first sentence is a grabbah!” Sally had smiled at the memory and then remembered the old nun had also suggested they write what they know. Unfortunately, writing what she knew involved dredging up memories she’d spent a lifetime trying to forget; not to mention, the poor nun would turn over in her grave if she knew one of her former students was starting a memoir about a premarital relationship and an extramarital affair with a “grabbah.”

  Sally had looked out the window, trying to remember some of the first sentences the sister had extolled to be classics, but she’d only been able to remember the titles from which they’d come—everything from Ulysses to Pride & Prejudice, and the only sentence she’d been able to recall was from Moby Dick. In that vein, she’d flippantly typed: “I am Sally.” Then she’d turned the sentence over in her mind and realized her story should be told in the first person too. She’d tapped the Delete key back to “I am” and started again, and before she’d known it, she’d written a chapter. And then the words had spilled from her in a cathartic waterfall, healing her broken heart.

  Sally tucked the book under her arm with the rest of the mail and leaned down to pull a weed that was sprouting next to the mailbox. She stood up, looked around, and shook her head. The gardens needed her attention, but as usual, summer had snuck up on her, and between running Cuppa Jo to Go—the breakfast and lunch hotspot, a Nantucket mainstay she’d owned for thirty years—and the countless hours she’d spent making final edits, she’d been flat out busy. But the worst was over: The edits were done and the letter brought news that her memoir, Summer Dance, scheduled for release later that summer, was already receiving some nice reviews.

  Sally climbed the porch steps and realized Tucket and Jax were sitting inside the screen door with their tails swishing and thumping, respectively—golden retrievers’ tails swish and Labs’ tails thump. “Hullo, loves,” she said, opening the door, and Tuck, Liam’s big golden—who she’d been dog sitting for the last few days—wiggled out, followed by the smaller yellow puppy, Jax. She knelt down and they sniffed her all over and licked her cheeks. “Do I smell like bacon?” she said, laughing. “Jax, is your father teaching you all about his favorite food?”

  She felt her knees start to ache, stood up, limped stiffly into the kitchen, and set the mail on the counter. The little cottage in which Sally had lived since moving to Nantucket nearly fifty years ago had been built in the late 1800s, and it had always been just that—a sturdy, rustic beach house. During its fir
st hundred years, it saw only one improvement—running water—and every winter thereafter, the owner had had to drain the pipes because it had never been properly insulated.

  Sally had bought the cottage in 1970, and over time—with Coop’s help—she’d renovated and insulated it. The only room that hadn’t seen a recent update was the kitchen, but that had changed the previous winter when Liam had installed beautiful white cabinets with glass-paned doors, white wainscoting, and new stainless-steel appliances—including a convection oven and gorgeous granite countertops. Now it was her favorite room.

  Sally put the kettle on and looked around. She loved the little cottage and the life she’d made on Nantucket, but she’d never been able to put to rest the guilt she felt over her father’s untimely death; and although she’d always worked hard—her dad’s work ethic had definitely rubbed off on her—it was her dad’s tireless, hard work that had made her comfortable life possible. One time, she’d told Lizzy this, and her best friend had smiled. “He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

  The kettle started to whistle and Sally poured the steaming water over the ginger turmeric tea bag in her cup—she’d recently read that turmeric was good for aching joints and she was hoping it would help her knees, which, from years of riding her bike in all kinds of weather, ached constantly. As she waited for her tea to steep, she heard a knock on the door. Tuck scrambled to his feet, barking, and Jax, giving a little warning bark, too, trotted after him. “C’mon in,” she called.

  Liam pulled open the door and he and nine-year-old Aidan stepped in. “Hey, Jax,” Aidan said, falling to the floor and scooping the puppy into his arms. Jax thumped his wiry tail and licked Aidan’s face.

  “What about your other pal?” Liam reminded, watching the older dog wiggle around him too.

  Aidan grinned. “Hey, Tuck,” he said, putting his free arm around the golden’s big neck. “I love you too.”

  “And . . . what about me?” Sally teased.

  Aidan scrambled to his feet and almost bowled Sally over with a hug.

  “Hi, hon,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “Did you have fun?” Aidan nodded.

  “So, how were they?” Liam asked, kissing Sally’s cheek and nodding to the dogs.

  “They were fine. Tuck’s teaching Jax all of his tricks.”

  “That’s what dads are for,” Liam said, kneeling down to scratch the puppy’s ears. “Although I’m still not convinced Tuck is really Jax’s father.”

  “I don’t know,” Sally countered. “Lois Tillman said she’s certain Tuck was hanging around her place when Babs was in heat.”

  Liam eyed Tucket. “How in the world did you get involved with a female named Babs anyway?!” He looked back at Sally. “How come the puppies don’t have long hair like a golden?”

  Sally shrugged. “Maybe Lab genes are stronger.”

  Liam shook his head. “Well, one thing’s certain,” he said, eyeing his big golden, “someone’s going to be going under the knife.”

  Tuck, who was sprawled out at Sally’s feet, opened one eye and swished his tail and Liam chuckled. “You won’t be wagging your tail either, mister.”

  “Why is he going under the knife?” Aidan asked, worried.

  “So we won’t have any more puppies that we have to find homes for.”

  “A knife will do that?”

  “ ‘Going under the knife’ is another way of saying ‘having surgery,’ ” Liam said. “It’s nothing to worry about. Tuck needs to be neutered.”

  “What’s neutered?”

  “It’s a type of surgery so he can’t be a dad again,” Liam said, hoping the answer would suffice.

  Aidan frowned. “What do they do to him?”

  Liam gave Sally a perplexed look and she laughed. “When a male dog is neutered, his testicles, testes, and sperm ducts are removed so he can’t get a female dog pregnant.”

  Aidan’s eyes grew wide. “You mean down here?” he asked, pointing to himself.

  “Yes,” Sally said with a nod.

  “Oh, poor Tuck,” Aidan said sympathetically, petting the dog’s head.

  “He’ll be fine,” Sally reassured him. “He’ll just be a little sore for a couple days. So,” she added, changing the subject, “how was Boston? How are Levi and Emma and sweet little Lily?”

  “They’re great,” Aidan said, grinning. “Lily is so cute.”

  Liam nodded in agreement. “I can’t believe how much she’s changed since the last time we saw her—she’s walking . . . and she’s talking a blue streak.” He laughed. “But the only one who understands her is Emma.”

  Aidan grinned. “Yeah, Lily will say ‘we ha who ju,’ and Em will say, ‘Oh, you want some juice?’ and Lily will nod and hold out her cup.”

  Sally smiled. “They’re going to be good parents.”

  Liam nodded in agreement. “They’re figuring it out.”

  “Just like you,” Sally said, nodding toward Aidan, who was sitting on the floor with Jax again.

  “Ha!” Liam said, shaking his head. “It’s definitely hit or miss in our house.”

  “No, no, you’re doing great,” Sally assured, then ventured, “Do you think they’ll have more kids?”

  “I don’t know,” Liam said, shrugging. “It would be nice for Lily . . .”

  “Not if Em gets Levi neutered,” Aidan chimed as he stood up to see what there was to eat.

  “From the mouths of babes,” Sally said, pulling him into another hug. “Are you hungry, my dear?”

  Aidan nodded, and when Sally pointed to a plate of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies, his face lit up.

  “Just one,” Liam said. “We haven’t had supper.”

  “Do you want one too?” Aidan asked, holding out the plate.

  “No, thanks,” Liam said. “Maybe Sally will let you take one ho—”

  But before he could finish his sentence, Sally waved him off. “Don’t be silly. I definitely don’t need those cookies around here,” she said, patting her belly—which was surprisingly flat for someone who owned a coffee shop and sold yummy baked goods. “That whole plate is for you.”

  She looked down at Tuck, who’d quietly gotten up and moved strategically over to be right at Aidan’s feet with Jax sitting politely next to him. “See, I told you,” she said, laughing. “Tuck has even taught Jax how to look sad.” And it was true—Jax looked about as mournful and hungry as could be.

  Liam laughed and shook his head. “I think you must be partly to blame, Sal, otherwise he wouldn’t know there’s a potential tidbit in his future.”

  “Noo,” Sally protested, scooping the puppy into her arms. “There are no rewards for begging around here, are there, Jax?” As she said this, the little yellow Lab turned his head and licked her right on the lips.

  “Nice,” she said, laughing. “You got me.”

  “Don’t worry,” Liam said, grinning. “They say a dog’s mouth is cleaner than the kitchen sponge.” He leaned back against the counter and, feeling his hand brush against a pile of papers, turned and noticed the corner of a book sticking out from under the pile. “What’s this?” he asked.

  Sally watched as the look on Liam’s face turned from one of puzzlement to one of realization. “Hey! Is this it?” he asked. “Is this your book?”

  Sally took a sip of her tea and smiled. “It does have my name on it,” she teased nonchalantly.

  “Indeed it does,” Liam said, admiring the cover and then holding it up for Aidan to see. “Look, pal, we know a real author!”

  Aidan nodded approvingly. They both knew how long and hard Sally had worked on her book and how difficult it had been for her to find an agent and then a publisher. It had been a true test of patience, perseverance, and prayer. Liam turned to the first page, read the opening, and looked up in surprise. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “You’re the one who kept after me,” Sally said. “It probably would’ve never happened if it wasn’t for you.”

  Liam’s eyes glis
tened. “Wow,” he said softly. “Thanks, Sal. I never expected this.”

  “Well, whether you think so or not, my dear, you’re an inspiration to everyone who knows you.”

  Liam smiled and pulled her into a hug. “And the same goes for you.”

  She laughed. “You may not think so after you read it.”

  “You’re going to let me read it?” he teased.

  “As long as you promise you won’t read too much into it.”

  “I promise,” Liam said, re-reading the top of the opening page and smiling.

  PART I

  Blessed are those whose way is blameless,

  who walk in the law of the Lord!

  —Psalm 119:1

  For Liam,

  the boy who learned to laugh and love again,

  and in so doing, taught others to do the same.

  Chapter 1

  I am not Ishmael. I’m Sally, but like the banished biblical son of Abraham, I left the only home I knew, and like the famous narrator of the Herman Melville classic, Moby Dick, I sought refuge on the island of Nantucket. To have a true understanding, however, of the young woman who fled Medford, Massachusetts—the town where she’d grown up, attended school, fell in love (or so she thought), and married—I must start earlier—at the beginning, or at least, close to the beginning.

  Every child who grows up in Medford knows a little bit of the town’s history. It’s impossible to get through elementary school—public or parochial—without learning there was a famous horseback ride through Medford, or that the Christmas song “Jingle Bells” was written by a local resident who witnessed a sleigh race from Medford to Malden, or that the song “Over the River and Through the Woods” was originally a poem written by a young girl who’d traveled across the river to visit her grandparents.

  The Mystic River—the river over which James Pierpont witnessed two sleighs racing, and along which Paul Revere rode, and over which Lydia Maria Child crossed—is the slate-gray ribbon of water that runs through Medford. At one time, when the land was inhabited by Native Americans and early colonists, the river ran clear and cold and teemed with fish—everything from salmon and bass to herring and carp. But decades of drainage into the river’s watershed by industrial mills and homes built along the river’s banks resulted in high levels of bacteria and pollution, and gradually, the clear, cold river, teeming with fish, became a turbid, greasy estuary—from which fish should not be eaten.