Elin Hilderbrand - The Rumor

But still, it would be better with the girls.

He would work on them, he decided. He still had plenty of time.

Madeline King and Grace Pancik were back to being friends. We would see them side by side at Steps Beach; we could find the two of them, plus Trevor Llewellyn, out to dinner at Le Languedoc and the Straight Wharf on Saturday nights. We had all figured out by then that the “involvement” between Eddie and Madeline had been financial, not sexual, and we learned that Grace had paid Madeline and Trevor their fifty thousand dollars back only hours after she closed on her house.

It was rumored that the photograph of Allegra Pancik and Ian Coburn sitting on the hood of Ian’s red Camaro in their underwear had gone viral and that both teenagers had been offered modeling contracts, with shoots in New York, London, and Hong Kong.

That rumor was quashed when Blond Sharon took her children to the Weezie Library and found Allegra shelving books from a cart among the babbling young children playing with wooden trucks on the braided rug, and mothers and caregivers reading in hushed tones. Allegra was certainly beautiful enough to be a model, Blond Sharon thought. Her long dark hair was loose over her shoulders, and her skin was a golden tan against the white eyelets of her sundress, which was a more modest garment than Blond Sharon could ever remember seeing her wear.

“Allegra!” Blond Sharon said in surprise, her voice several decibels louder than was appropriate for a children’s library. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on your way to fame and glory!”

“Fame?” Allegra said quizzically, as she slid Bear Snores On back into place on the shelf. “Glory?”

Blond Sharon blinked. Who had told her that Allegra Pancik was going to be a model for Lucky jeans, replacing Gisele Bündchen? Now she couldn’t remember.

She left the Weezie library hand in hand with her two children, Sterling and Colby, who were late for their sailing lessons anyway. She felt a little deflated that the glamorous story she’d heard wasn’t true.

But then she perked up. It was, after all, a beautiful day on Nantucket; the sun was shining, and Blond Sharon knew that it would be only a matter of time until this island gave her something else to talk about.

As many of you are certainly aware, this novel was written while I was battling breast cancer. I have dedicated it to my surgeons, who are among the most brilliant, talented, professional human beings I have ever encountered. In addition, I would like to thank my medical oncologist, Steven Isakoff, for continuing to keep me in good health, and everyone else who treated me at Massachusetts General Hospital. A special thanks to the women in Dr. Colwell’s office, most specifically Agnes Santomarco, Heather Parker, Amy Israelian, Kelly Hurley, and Mary Joyce.

I was buoyed by those of you who reached out to me, either on Facebook or in other ways-many of you are fighting or have fought this battle yourselves. Every word and thought and prayer was cherished.

I have to thank my family, my friends, my home team, too many people to name, who dropped off food and sent flowers, and people who stopped me in the street or in the aisles of the grocery store to let me know they were thinking of me. Of special note: my sorority sisters of Phi Mu at the Johns Hopkins University-amazing reach-out!-spearheaded by Sue Plano. And, in no particular order: my sister Heather Osteen Thorpe, my “person” Debbie Briggs, Charles and Margaret Marino, Rebecca Bartlett, Wendy Rouillard (iced tea delivery), Evelyn MacEachern ( macaron delivery), Mary Haft (prayers galore), Wendy Hudson, Elizabeth Almodobar, Jill Roethke, Jill Surprenant, Anne Gifford, Manda Riggs, my sister-in-law and fellow survivor, Lisa Hilderbrand, Helaina Jones, Heidi Holdgate (the pool is my happy place), Shelly Weedon, Holly McGowan, Melissa MacVicar, Stephanie McGrath, Laurie Richards, Mark and Eithne Yelle, Lori Snell, Logan O’Connor, Sheila Carroll, Jeanne and Richard Diamond, John and Martha Sargent-and my nanny, Erin Frawley, who managed to give my kids a normal, carefree summer at Nobadeer Beach, despite the big curveball.

Mark and Gwen Snider of the Nantucket Hotel-the club was my refuge, and much of this novel was composed poolside. Thank you for the sanctuary.

Michael Carlisle and David Forrer, there aren’t words. You are simply sent from heaven.

Reagan Arthur, there really aren’t words. You are to editing what Bruce Springsteen is to the rock anthem, what Mr. Blahnik is to the stiletto, what Bobby Flay is to the grill. You are the best in your field, and each year I stand more in awe of your talent and sensibility.

Last, I would like to thank my children, Maxwell, Dawson, and Shelby Cunningham. Having a mother who is writing two novels a year and battling cancer is kind of like having no mother at all, but the three of you managed to make me feel like I was doing something right each and every day just by listening to your voices and watching you grow. You are the reason I fight, you are the reason I write, you are what makes my life whole and complete, and I love you.

The following rumors about Elin Hilderbrand are true: she writes her novels longhand, she is a good cook and a terrible gardener, and she is fighting breast cancer. Everything else is up for speculation. The Rumor is her fifteenth novel.

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