Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Storms

Kelley points out that it’s a Chamber of Commerce function and they are members, so he’s going to represent. He also has four pockets filled with red tickets and he’s not going to lie-he would love to be the five-thousand-dollar winner. The inn is losing money every minute. Even a thousand dollars would help. If they call his name, he vows he will donate 10 percent to the Nantucket Food Pantry.

He doesn’t win but nevertheless, the gathering is festive, primarily because he bumps into Fast Eddie Pancik on the street, and he lets Kelley nip from his flask.

When Kelley gets home, warmed by the whiskey and the holiday cheer, he can’t find Mitzi. She’s not in the kitchen preparing for their now-annual Christmas Eve soiree, and she’s not in the bedroom getting ready. He calls out for her. Nothing. Her car is still in the driveway. She’s in the inn somewhere.

He finds her rushing down the back stairway in her Mrs. Claus dress and high black suede boots. She looks flushed.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“Me?” she says. “Nowhere.”

Kelley wakes up with a start.

He’s still alive-good. There was something life-passing-before-his-eyes about the dreams he was just having. He should never have invoked A Christmas Carol during his toast. He must have awoken the Ghost of Christmas Past.

The bedroom is dark; the house quiet. Is the party over? Yes, Mitzi is asleep next to him, her breathing steady and deep.

Kelley needs his pain meds and a large glass of ice water. Gingerly, he gets to his feet. He’s still in his tuxedo, minus his shoes, jacket, and tie.

He tiptoes out into the hallway, remembering himself and Avery so many years ago.

The party has been cleaned up, the furniture returned to its usual spots. That must have taken a lot of people a bunch of time, and Kelley feels guilty for not helping. He’ll make it up to everyone in the morning by cooking a big breakfast: a cheese strata, bacon and sausage; blueberry cornmeal pancakes; eggnog French toast; fresh-squeezed juice; and, of course, Golden Dreams.

“Dad?”

Kelley jumps. Bart is sitting by himself on the sofa with Mitzi’s military-man nutcracker on the coffee table in front of him. There is still a log burning in the fireplace, but the only other light comes from the twinkling tree and the letters J-O-Y glowing over the mantel.

Kelley sits down on the sofa, then realizes that Bart is crying.

“Dad,” Bart says again, but his voice breaks.

“I know you’re a big man now,” Kelley says. “But I hope you’re not too old to let your dad hold you.” He opens his arms and Bart crawls into them, just as he used to when he was a little boy, ruined by Montessori. He cries against Kelley’s chest and Kelley rubs his son’s back. God only knows what he’s been through, what he’s seen; brothers in arms killed, for certain, and maybe worse. It’ll all come out-but not right now. Now, Bart needs good old-fashioned comfort. Eventually, his cries subside; he wipes his face on the bottom of Kelley’s tuxedo shirt.

“What’s going on out here?”

Kelley half turns his head and beckons with his free arm for Mitzi to join them. She settles on the other side of Bart and the three of them grasp one another.

Kelley remembers a crèche that his mother used to have, with painted figurines and a manger with a thatched roof. Kelley and Avery used to set it up each year: shepherds, wise men, cows, sheep, goats, the Holy Family, and the angel, who hung on a hook at the peak of the roof.

As he and Mitzi cradle Bart, Kelley thinks about how Joseph and Mary must have felt on the original Christmas night. The word illuminated in front of Kelley is joy, but what Kelley feels is something more profound. It is, perhaps, the oldest and purest of all Christmas emotions.

Wonder.

January 1, 2017

Dear Family and Friends,

I apologize for the tardiness of this holiday letter. As you will soon understand, the past year has been chock-full of news, so many dramatic developments that instead of a letter, I should be writing a novel.

Kelley stops typing and stares at the screen. He should write a novel. Is that the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst? He can’t tell. It’s January first; people all across America are making resolutions: lose weight, spend less time on the phone and more time with the kids, make one new dish per week, enhance vocabulary, volunteer, clean and organize the garage, lose weight, investigate the family’s genealogy, go green, save money, lose weight.

Kelley makes a resolution. He is going to write a novel.

And forget the Christmas letter! He’s going to start right now, this instant.

He doesn’t have any time to waste.

This book is for my brother Doug, who makes a fictional cameo appearance as Dougie Clarence, the CBS meteorologist. Just as I have wanted to be a writer since I learned the alphabet, Doug always dreamed of becoming a weatherman. He presently works as a meteorologist for the National Weather Service in the office of communications and he was instrumental in explaining the science behind a winter storm.

I was lucky enough to have a member of the U.S. Marine Corps describe in colorful detail what he endured to become a Marine, and although he preferred to not be identified by name, I thank him and every single other serviceman and -woman of this great country. God bless America. My heart goes out to the parents of these brave young men and women.

It pains me to have finished with my beloved Quinn family, but to all of you readers who steadfastly followed me from the crystalline days of summer into the crazed holiday season and fell in love with these characters as much as I did: thank you .

And finally to you, Nantucket Island, forever my muse. You are beautiful at every time of year. No matter how far afield I travel, real joy is always found in coming home.

Elin Hilderbrand writes her novels by candlelight in the winter months on Nantucket Island with either a glass of sauvignon blanc or a mug of hot lemon ginger tea. She listens to classical music-Tchaikovsky, Pachelbel, and Mozart are her favorites-and she loves to build roaring fires. Winter Storms is the third and final novel in the Winter Street trilogy.