Too hot to garden...time for a good book.

Dear Friends: I really wanted to spend the day out in my new garden, but it seriously is just too hot and muggy. So I am inside working on a new book. If it is too hot for you to really do anything but relax, I thought you might enjoy reading a little bit of my novel Nantucket Tuck You Inn, Looking for Santa. Even though the name Santa is in the title, this has nothing to do with Christmas per say. Well, maybe a little bit but it is set on Nantucket in the middle of the summer.

So take a minute for an arm chair visit to Nantucket and let yourself fall under the spell of Noel and Max. Don't forget to have some tea, but make it iced...

Cheers,

Jacqueline

Jacqueline Gillam Fairchild

author: The Nantucket Series, The Midwest Series. Coming soon, The Mermaid Mansion (set on Nantucket of course, that's where all the mermaids are). All available on Amazon or from teatimewithhermajesty.com.

Nantucket Tuck You Inn, Looking for Santa

Chapter 1

“Uncle Max!” Lily, Max’s six year old niece, hollered.

He ignored her. She yelled again, this time louder, if that was even possible. Max ran a hand through his black shaggy hair, and squeezed his black brown eyes shut.

“Kendall says it’s not true!” Lily pouted.

Kendall was his eight year old niece--Lily’s sister--eight going on eighteen. He inhaled, ready for whatever--whatever his nieces were bickering about now; the never ending teasing and taunting of each other. When were they going to become best friends? Like sisters were supposed to be …

“Why? Why do I baby sit you girls?” He muttered.

But Kendall was quick, never missing a thing, “Because you love us Uncle Max!” Kendall already had the smile he knew would break hearts. Probably was already, when she wasn’t picking on someone or something that is.

Lily had joined them. She had a pretty cute little smile of her own, hard to see, as she was a pouter, and she was pouting now. “Well I say it’s true!” And she gave it her best effort.

“Is not!” Kendall yelled, well maybe sneered at her sister. She was older. That’s what she did, yelled and sneered.

“Is too! I heard it from Kim Nanny and she knows things!” And she held her hand like an oath. Max watched wondering who this Kim Nanny was Lily obviously was entranced with. “You know everything too Uncle Max! And what you don’t know you find out!”

Well, the child was smart, he’d give her that.

“That’s right Uncle Max!” Kendall joined in. “You’re not the Times number one investigative reporter for nothing! That’s what Mom says!” And she was done sneering and bossing now.

Well, I am good, Max thought, very good, and hid a vain grin.

Lily now curled up on his lap; hoping her uncle would pay attention to her, take her side, believe her. And of course, most of all help her. “We’re leaving it up to you Uncle Max! I heard Santa Claus has a summer home on Nantucket!” There she said it. It did sound a little hard to believe even to her with her active imagination. Still, that’s what she’d heard. It could be true...

“You’re nuts Lily!” Kendall snorted and rolled her eyes at her sister.

“Am not! And if he does, I want to go and meet him … or at least see him … or at least go past his house … wave to him. Maybe drop off an early letter …” And little Lily’s mind was whirling with the possibilities. She’d crawled down off Uncle Max’s lap and now was pacing--pacing with anticipation.

And so they both turned to Max, hands on hips and stared because of course he could solve this for them both.

“Santa Claus has a summer place on Nantucket?” Where did they get this stuff? Max rolled his eyes. He was hungry, and tired. But as he stole another look at his two wild nieces he knew they were serious, and wouldn’t relent.

“That’s right Uncle Max--everyone--well, Kim Nanny says so! Find out! Investigate! Write an article and we can meet him!” And now Lily was getting cranked up again, on her soap box, mentioning this Kim Nanny ‘special’ person, and making her demands--demands that her Uncle Max solve her problem. Find out about Santa Claus. And do it now. Right now!

“Cannot!” Kendall countered. “Cuz it isn’t so!” Kendall was just old enough to counter anything and everything. And she did. And to her this was a no brainer because she was starting to even wonder if there really was a Santa Claus. She saw packages in her mother’s closet, and later saw them under the tree from Santa Claus. Santa Claus didn’t come early and come down the chimney and put things in Mom’s closet just to make his work load easier on Christmas Eve like Lily said.

There was a pretty good possibility that Santa Claus wasn’t even real because if Santa Claus wasn’t, well he could hardly have a summer place on Nantucket. And if there was a Santa Claus, well would Nantucket be his first choice? Come on, what about the Hamptons? So much closer to New York City ... Or New York City itself--far more exciting.

If there was a Santa Claus, well she was sure Santa Claus would have a trendy loft in So Ho or a brown stone on Madison Avenue because that’s where you lived, if you were some one. And if Santa Claus didn’t live at either of those addresses, well common on, he couldn’t possibly be real. And so the loop went. Round and round in her eight year old head.

“Is so!” Lily was now screaming at the top of her lungs, because Kendall really got to her--pushed all her buttons. And picking on Santa Claus or worse yet, doubting him, was the last straw--the very last.

And then Max heard the key in the door of the elegant Madison Avenue brownstone and his sister was home. And he could leave to his So Ho loft.

And quiet.

***

Belle Nichols was back--just for a quick visit. Back to Nantucket to see Miss Tabatha Tucker, her grandmotherly friend who owned the Tuck You Inn and Magee, somewhere in age between Miss Tabatha and her own youth, who owned The Bake Shoppe … because she missed them, was home sick for their friendship. So she’d slipped away for a few days, just a quick trip, just a break.

They were having lunch at Neptune’s Under the Sea, one of Nantucket’s premiere restaurants. “Gwyn has another tough wedding to deal with,” Magee began as she opened her little cello bag of oyster crackers and plopped them in her quahog chowder. Gwyn owned the smartest and most expensive dress business on the island.

“Really?” Belle cut into her crab cakes. As the steam escaped and she inhaled the sweet scent she sighed. Belle was a bride, a new bride, married just a season or two. She still felt like a bride. Still kept her album on the coffee table, still had her cake top in the freezer, still reminisced about the loveliest day in her life. Yes, she was still a new bride.

“Same old story,” Miss Tabatha, the proprietress of the Tuck You Inn, and their senior friend, began. “She can’t find wedding dresses--well, unique ones that is. You know, to compete.” Well Gwyn had no real competition on Nantucket but, the majority of her brides, serious brides, didn’t just shop on the island--of course not. They were a stone’s throw from Boston and another stone’s throw from New York City. No, her customers were pretty sophisticated. And then of course, there was the internet. And everyone knew that was unlimited. One click and you could see what they were wearing in Milan or Paris.

Miss Tabatha began again because she understood, “Gwyn needs a dress maker for formal affairs and of course weddings. She needs someone to make outrageous things for her and her customers, and maybe someone who could just take her stock to a new level, so the average browser would be wowed. You know, so word would get out--one of a kind, unique, wow. Not just any seamstress though, she needs, uh, an artist I guess, but not an artist temperament of course.” Then Miss Tabatha pushed back a stray silver tendril off her round sun kissed face. “And not full time--just, you know, on call.”

There, that summed it up, the old inn keeper hoped. And of course it was a huge request list, not to mention then tossing in the part time part. That could go either way; give a creative person a little freedom or not enough of an income. Tabatha knew it was an impossible search. That type of person just wasn’t floating around looking for work on Nantucket. Nantucket was the play ground of the wealthy, or vacation novelty of the curious day trippers. It was not the stomping ground for the ambitious yet part time creative dress designers.

Miss Tabatha was simply grateful she only ran an inn. She didn’t have to constantly come up with new merchandise. She didn’t have to constantly try and impress her customers and win them over--over and over. No, she simply had to keep all her lovely appointments dusted and fluffed and well, ready. And breakfast of course. But she had a friend, Magee, who owned the Bake Shoppe so; actually breakfast wasn’t a problem either.

Magee knew what she meant, but she also knew it was virtually impossible to find that specialized person to help in your business, or join your business for that matter. As the owner of a small run bakery she knew good help was difficult to come across. And help that understood what you stood for, the gem that made your business special, well … that just was next to impossible; and on a tiny island, well virtually impossible to find help of any kind. Good or bad. It was just impossible.

Belle looked off into middle space, and then surfaced. She hesitated but then decided these were her people. They had helped her get her memory back. They had cared for her. Still did. And she cared for them. They had supported her outrageous struggle and then planned the perfect wedding for her. No, if she had even a slight chance of helping, well she would, even if it seemed a tad out there.

“I know the perfect person,” She started quietly but of course Magee and Miss Tabatha both perked up. Way up. Belle went on, “She makes ball gowns and … well, exotic formal things. She’d love to try her hand at wedding dresses, if she hasn’t already. She’s truly creative. And she loves formal, the fancier the better, though I should add she’s a little unusual …”

“Works out there with you guys?” Magee ventured. The ‘little unusual’ phrase stuck in her mind, it was the tip off. Not that Magee objected, she didn’t, and still it was just something to keep in mind. What with help and all because that little unusual could mean any number of things from not showing up, to being temperamental, to whatever. Of course they weren’t talking about someone to make cakes in her bakery or frost her cookies. So … she could afford to be very open minded.

Belle caught on, couldn’t help it. Actually at first she had been surprised what a hard time her friends and neighbors on Nantucket had to accepting her own situation. And she wasn’t really sure why. After all, it was not a new concept, actually one of the oldest. Still … She was beginning to understand. Understand that people weren’t as opened minded as she had always thought. No not really--not at all. They needed convincing. Often times brain washing.

Still she kept talking, “She does work out there with us but you know our work is seasonal, sporadic. She could use some part time work.” Then Belle sighed, “I’m afraid if we don’t help her fill the dull times, and the slow times, she’ll leave. And she’s irreplaceable.” And Belle looked almost sad tinged in frantic. “You’d be helping us out.” And she meant it.

And as they spoke who walked in but Gwyn. They waved her over. “Hi girls,” Gwyn was a true islander but with a touch of glitz. a flare of glamour. It was a natural for her to be in the fashion business. And locals and tourists turned to her for something special to wear. Often they had no idea what they wanted, but when they entered Gwyn’s they found it, captivated by her exquisite taste and flare. So they learned to count on her, and her shoppe. And that was part of the reason Gwyn felt she had to step up her formal and bridal selections. She didn’t want to let her customers down, or lose them for that matter.

She noticed Belle was at the table. They had met briefly, at Belle’s wedding but then again everyone literally was at Belle and Harv’s wedding. They had opened it up to the island, and the island came. So Belle just smiled and Gwyn smiled back. “Good to see you Belle …” But she didn’t sound good--she sounded distracted, and maybe a little tired, though she looked perfect, as always.

“Sit. Join us.” Miss Tabatha encouraged, “And talk to us. We were actually just talking about you.”

Gwyn ran a hand through her elegant hairdo, disrupting it in her stress. Still she looked better than most. “Oh girls, I’ve got Mary Beth Jamison coming in this afternoon to talk about her wedding …” Gwyn figured the name was all she needed to drop. It was a small island--very small.

“Ooh …” Magee jumped on it, “So she’s getting married.”

“Yes to Chas Herrington from Connecticut--should be a huge affair. She’s giving me a shot at her dress though she’s been everywhere already, and I mean everywhere including a little jaunt to Paris, if you can even imagine,” Which of course they all could as they had just said Paris was part of the competition now. As if you got out of a plane at Charles De Gaulle and racks of bridal dresses were all just there by the baggage claim calling your name … in English. But of course who knew … “And if that isn’t bad enough this morning Tiffany Bartlet was in for something for the Daffodil Ball. She might be queen.”

“Well that all sounds like good business …” Magee encouraged, just trying to be nice because of course she knew it was rough. She just pretended it was a society wedding cake she was competing for and then some society party that wanted extra special little tid bits, and of course had no idea what they should be--except the extra special part. So she did understand, to a certain degree, and she could feel that stress alright.

But Gwyn was staring off into middle space worrying her bottom lip. “Well girls it could be good business but I just don’t have anything … well fabulous enough. Outrageous or or … different. You know? We’re talking ‘Princess time’ here, and we are just one boat ride and car ride from New York City and Boston. There’s a lot of competition out there …”

The owner and chef extraordinaire brought her the seafood salad she always ordered, knowing her time was short. She started stabbing absently at the Romaine.

“Well you are and always have been the most elegant and, well, outrageous clothing boutique on island …” Miss Tabatha tried to sooth, but she knew what Gwyn meant, the princess time part. The average princess not only wanted fabulous but one of a kind and racks of fabulous one of a kind to pick through. It was a rat race for Gwyn. And one she felt she was losing.

The chef was back with crispy rolls. “Thanks E.J.” Gwyn gave him the smile that said she appreciated all his attention. Then she turned back to her meal and her friends. “But girls I need an edge. A secret weapon … to compete … Heaven knows I’ve been to every trade show from here to kingdom come and still, it is tough to well, be original.”

Miss Tabatha and Magee turned to Belle. Belle looked nervous but decided to take the plunge. She didn’t want, after all, to interfere, or suggest something that might not turn out good … later … “Uh …Gwyn. I have this friend …” Belle began.

Gwyn perked up and turned a hopeful head her way. She knew Belle’s only real friends on Nantucket were right at the table. Any of her other friends had to be from … home.

“Her name is Princess Noel but she goes by Noel.” Belle wanted to get this all out and get it out right, and maybe just once. So she wanted it to be clear from the beginning.

Gwyn thought, of course it is, but actually felt hope.

“She works for the family of course,” Belle thought she probably should be specific. Everyone seemed to treat back home as a mystical place. It was just back home, though it did have an aura about it. And she supposed that was of mystery and maybe it was a bit mystical, she couldn’t really say.

“Of course,” Everyone said with a look that they understood though they didn’t actually know firsthand, or even really understand. But they acted as though they did. After all, Belle was their friend. And she had married one of their own: Harv.

“She’s a dress maker of sorts. But she’s more than that, she well, she specializes in the formal, the exotic, the outrageous, and the romantic.”

Gwyn now flushed with excitement.

“And as you can imagine on a regular basis our workshop creates work clothes, mostly for the … uh … village people.” And of course she knew they for one second did not think it was that old band The Village People she’d heard about from the nineteen eighties. Or … people in a village either. No she meant the people back home.

“You can say elves my dear.” Miss Tabatha patted her hand, “We’re all island family here.” And she smiled like the grandmother Belle always wanted.

“Well yes then, the elves. So Noel, Princess Noel, well, she has a lot of down time. Now we all encourage her to work on those cute little felt waist jackets and those striped socks and pointy hats, but her heart is in taffeta, and silk--roushing and gathers: magic. She is a bit of magic herself, if I dare say so. She claims she creates dreams for people to wear. And if you ever saw some of the faerie princess dresses she’s made for our clients, well, you would have no doubt, none what so ever.” And Belle had a faraway look as though she were picturing one of these creations.

“She needs a challenge, craves it. But if we lost her … we’d be lost. And sometimes I think we are very close to her up and bolting. Heaven knows where she’d go, or how she’d survive and all that. Plus we need her. Things she has made for Nicole are heaven. She made Mother Nature a gossamer gown you would cry over … Who would we get? She sizes up a situation, and just knows what would be perfect, and then creates it.” And Belle stopped to catch her breath. Hoping, hoping she was saying it right. Making it clear how really special her friend Noel was.

Gwyn looked close to tears, her salad forgotten.

“I think she can pop in now and again for a special client and well, work for you. And when we need her, we’ll let you know.” Belle hoped she wasn’t over stepping her new role. Maybe she was, but the threat of losing Princess Noel was so huge, well drastic times and all that …

“She … she … she could be my answer to my prayers … my edge.” Gwyn wiped a stray tear off her perfectly made up face.

“She could,” Belle assured. “You would need to understand her and her ways.” And Belle wasn’t sure how to elaborate on this. “She’d need a workshop, a place to stay. She can supply her own materials … if you know what I mean.” And on this point Belle wasn’t sure how to elaborate, so she didn’t.

They didn’t, but none of them questioned any means the family used--ever.

“There’s the carriage house next door to me …” Miss Tabatha began, “Vacant, part of that old abandoned mansion. I’m sure Lawyer Trundle could, well arrange it. Her rent could go into the estate or just to help pay to restore it …” Miss Tabatha’s mind was spinning. Since no one had been in the carriage house, Miss Tabatha actually had no idea what it would take. But it would be nice to have it tidied up and to help her friend Gwyn. “She could take meals with me if she wanted. And that carriage house is so tucked back there I am guessing none of you ever even noticed it. So she’d have privacy to, uh, do what she does. And …” Miss Tabatha thought for one split second maybe she was going overboard offering the carriage house. It wasn’t really hers to put on the table like this, as a bargaining chip. Still she would like to see a little clean up going on over there. She’d check. Maybe she could persuade Mr. Trundle to bend the rules and let her get it fixed up and rented.

“She could lock up when she’s gone and no one would be the wiser,” Belle supplied with a grin.

“Exactly!” Miss Tabatha beamed. She wanted something to happen next door and this would be a start, a good start. Real estate on Nantucket was at a premium, and to have her immediate neighbor just forgotten … not to mention shabby, well, this would make Miss Tabatha happy no end.

Gwyn just listened, afraid to question. Afraid to believe it could happen. Afraid to get her hopes up. And afraid this would all take time … tons of time.

“Doesn’t that place need a lot of work? I mean a ton of work? Hasn’t it been locked up forever?” Magee pictured a shingled ancient carriage house next to the derelict mansion, over grown with beach roses and well, riff raff. Who knows what had crawled in and taken up residence, not to mention dirt, probably a century of dirt.

“It does …” Miss Tabatha conceded. She knew better than anyone what a wreck it was. It was right next door. She had to look over at it all the time. When she got her mower out, and worked on the back yard, she had a chance to really look at it. Her heart broke because it was neglected and forgotten, and an eye sore. And of course she agreed with Magee, it was probably shocking inside, beyond her wildest imagination of a wreck. Still … it was extra space, a lot of extra space. And she suspected it could be quite a prize if it had a little attention, okay a lot of attention, still a prize none the less.

Miss Tabatha was sure Magee and Gwyn thought she could just take this Noel on. Make room for her at the Tuck You Inn. And if she could read minds pretty good, and she could, they thought she had tons of space; that her inn was gigantic. She did and it was. Her inn was full of furniture, priceless and fabulous furniture. All her rooms were set up for guests. Lovingly decorated, beautifully accessorized, each detail perfect whether she had guests or not. Each room its own lovely escape, waiting for a visitor. She would dust them carefully, tenderly, almost as though they were alive. And in some ways to her they were. They were full of spectacular antique furniture that if it chose to talk could tell wonderful tales.

So much old furniture was either left to grandchildren, ended up at Good Will or was scattered in homes among the modern and the semi modern. Miss Tabatha’s rooms were restored to a detail. No IKEA mixed in. No scrub-able vinyl wall paper to keep it all practical. No latest trend color combinations. No, they were better than pages out of magazines or designer showcases because they were as they should be authentic and yet very useable. And she loved them all, thought back fondly to guests over a long period of time, guests that in some ways defined some of the suites. She heard laughter when there wasn’t any. And quiet words when for all intensive purposes the inn was silent.

As big as her building was, unless she were to dismantle a couple suites, there would be no where to roll out bolts of fabric, house a fabric collection or whatever it took. No spot for cutting tables and steamers, racks, and drawers for supplies. Endless piles of trim and whatever a seamstress needed to have a good work area. She just didn’t have the room. Unless she were to take her bedrooms apart and have her furniture put in the attic, which was already stuffed, or in the cellar, which of course would not be good for her priceless antiques. And besides it was stuffed with basement stuff …

But if the carriage house was cleaned up, well there was a ton of space, she was quite certain, and she would be able to walk in her back yard and not see such an eye sore. It would be the beginning, though a very small chip, of cleaning up that mess next door. A mess that had been there, vacant and going to rack and ruin for one hundred years. No, that would be her first choice, actually her only choice. She could keep an eye on this Noel princess and still keep her lovely inn intact. And she would ultimately see that part of the yard tidied up. The building itself painted, hopefully and well, brought back. Even if it wasn’t brought back on the outside, if the inside was restored, well that would be a start, a good start. She looked at Belle expectantly.

And Belle looked back at her thinking she was being given a cue. One she was missing. And then it sank in, of course. She had the where with all to make it come together. “Well, I could, of course, check with Harv. Maybe he’d send a crew and well zap it together.”

“Of course he could!” Miss Tabatha was used to getting her way, so she said it with a smile in her voice. “It could be Bippity Boppity Boo for Harv’s people and well, we could get Gwyn calmed down …”

And Gwyn let out a breath and started to pick at her salad again.

Belle knew it would be asking a lot out of Harv but she also knew if they lost Noel, well, it would be far harder to replace her--if even possible. And Noel would love the opportunity … she felt sure of it. She could see it in Noel’s eyes, that longing for an adventure, for something new, a challenge. And Gwyn really did look desperate--very desperate. “I’ll put it in motion.” Belle promised shooting up a little arrow prayer. “I’ll call Harv this afternoon and see how soon he can get a crew out here.”

“And Noel …” Gwyn whispered, daring to have hope. “How soon could she come?” Not even daring to guess what kind of answer Belle might give her.

Belle stopped to consider. It was off season up north. “Well I think she could come--whenever. She could stay with Miss Tabatha while her carriage house comes together. And I’m guessing she could send her silks and velvet and trims, and all of her supplies ahead separate …”

Gwyn simply nodded, not even caring what that actually meant. Then Gwyn had an idea and dared to just toss it out. “And maybe she could, uh, design some stock pieces … you know, to give my clients some ideas of what is available?” Gwyn was eating again, buttering a crispy roll, daring to be happy, and picturing her shoppe full of exotic and wondrous designs.

“Of course, she’d love to just design and create from her heart without any client restrictions,” Belle assured Gwyn. “And I would suspect if you asked her nicely … she probably has some samples she could bring … so you could instantly have your new image. I want you to talk to her after I do. Gwyn, you can explain it all to her, and you’re very convincing, tell her what all you need. I don’t want her to think I’m doing this on a charity level. You’d sound sincere--even desperate.” And Belle knew it had to all be worded carefully or Princess Noel would turn up her little nose, and laugh at them or worse yet sneer. No, they needed a plan, a tactful one.

“I … could …” Gwyn was already forming her requests, “Because I am desperate. Let’s call her.”

“Okay but I need to tell you just a tiny bit more …” Belle ate a little of her now cold chowder, stalling. Of course it was still delicious. She still wasn’t used to all the wonderful seafood on Nantucket.

“Come on Belle—give,” Magee demanded because now Magee felt like this was her project too.

“Well I know I called her Noel. But Noel is really her last name. Her name is Princess Noel, and she is a bit of a princess. Okay, a lot of a princess.” There it was out. She’d said it, but did she make herself clear? Well, as Belle looked at the still questioning faces she felt no, not at all.

“Well if Noel is her last name …” Magee asked right out, “What is her first name?” Like how different could it be in this day and age of well, made up names. Even celebrities made up names for their little precious’.

Belle gave a little cough, “Princess.”

The girls all stared at her stunned. Not even believing Belle; surely Belle was teasing them, not really getting how desperate Gwyn was, how serious the situation was. She was having a little fun at their expense at such a desperate time.

Belle tried to read their expressions. All she could come up with was not good. “Now, now remember she’s from … you know … home. We just all need to, well, treat her special.” And she wanted to add very special, like royalty because of course Princess Noel thought she was all of that and more--lots more.

“Like a Princess?” Gwyn asked, still thinking perhaps Belle was just going over the top for affect, “Because I can do that! If she can convert my business, and solve my problems, I’ll treat her like a queen!”

Relief shown in Belle’s eyes, “Okay then I’ll call her …”

***

Chapter 2

Max got on the ferry--without his car, didn’t need it. It was a huge expense to take a car to Nantucket. And what for? He could be a walk on. After all, he wouldn’t be there long. He slung his Ralph Lauren duffle over his shoulder. The small luggage held a change of clothes, which he was sure he wouldn’t need, after all the ferries ran late, his notebook, a tape recorder, his cell phone and his camera. A few toiletries, not many, after all, he wouldn’t be there long.

The ferry was crowded; whiny kids, tourists from who knows where, and of course people from the city, escaping to Nantucket for just a bit. A bit of that romantic escape the island offered. The magazines seemed to feature, the travel agents liked to promote. It was the height of the season, or as far as he could figure out it was one long high season, and then it was over and the island folded, except for a handful: the faithful, the hard core.

The harbor was full of sail boats and impressive yachts. The air was tangy. He could taste it as the ferry grumbled to life; salt, in the air. It ruffled his hair as he leaned against the railing and looked out at the stretch of endless water ahead of him. Lapping gently, it was hard to believe that where he couldn’t see off in the distance … was an island.

Nantucket.

With a shingled, rose covered life of lobsters, and cobblestones, and tourists.

And possibly Santa Claus.

Sea gulls dived, water sprayed, and suddenly the sound of impatient children and yakking tourists disappeared. And he was just out to sea, on an almost vacation … almost.

He never took time off--ever. He might miss a breaking story. In fact this wasn’t really time off at all, it was the hunt, though rather farfetched. Still it was the hunt. He had a life, one that was just an extension of the newspaper he seemed to live at. He had a home. Actually he had a loft, contemporary, well, ultra modern really … stark, almost severe. Okay severe, and why not? It came that way, and then he had hired some contemporary designer to finish it off.

None of this really didn’t matter to him because he was never there except to sleep. He ate out--always. He wasn’t even sure if he had plates. Someone at work had needed some kitchen things after a divorce and he told him to help himself. He never opened the cupboards. He thought he had a toaster, in a box, a gift from his mother … somewhere.

His life was busy, edgy. He went where the story was. Poked, intruded, friended, pushed, even barged. He wrote, and then he left.

For the next story.

That’s why he was good.

Very good.

The Santa Claus quest started as a demand from his nieces Lily and Kendall, and a dare and a laugh from his editor. But, now, with a spray of salt water on his face, and the sun over head, warm on his shoulders, well, this … this felt more like a holiday--a lovely holiday.

And he suddenly was six years old holding onto his nana’s hand on board a ferry like this very one going … maybe to Nantucket. The memory vanished just as fast as it had appeared and he was back in the here and now. And for one split second he wanted it back, that memory … with his nana.

“Maybe I’ll have some lobster while I’m here; some local chow and good wine, before I come back.” And his mind did something it rarely, if ever did, it drifted--drifted away.

The island was as the travel brochures described it, covered in quaintness, covered in pink beach roses. It was so charming he was almost tempted to linger, but he had a mission so he figured finding his inn was first on the list. He headed to the Tuck You Inn; everything else was booked--literally. He didn’t care. He didn’t even know what it looked like. He had an address, that’s all. It would be a bed for him to sleep in, and then he’d be gone--back in the city--early the morning. And if his quest was as foolish as he imagined it to be he might even be on the late night ferry, having paid for a room he didn’t even use.

Back on this ferry, doing this all backwards, and enjoying it twice as much, sure there would be less people … feeling the night around him, and the sea spray on him.

But the cobblestones under foot started a rhythm, and the quaint shingle cottages all tumbled over with roses set a mood. The air was balmy, not a trace of humidity or city pollution. Maybe he’d get an ice cream before he found the Tuck You Inn. He had just walked past Sparky’s Hand Dipped, Home Made. Back tracking, he felt a little frivolous. But if he was here to talk to people about Santa Claus, well, an ice cream cone could be where he started. After all people worked there, and there was a line, people in line to talk to; lingering people, lingering opportunities to get the ball rolling.

So he joined them.

The stand was crowded so he queued up behind a couple possibly on their honey moon, certainly in love. Raising an eyebrow he thought they should get a room, impatient for his turn, and embarrassed by their closeness. By the time he got to the window he thought he’d just get his vanilla cone and go. Until he saw the list: bubblegum, blueberry, Dutch chocolate ripple, cherry cheesecake, cranberry supreme, sea salt caramel, Santa’s peppermint.

Santa’s peppermint? Really. Wasn’t it summer? Was it a sign? Not that he believed in signs. Not even close. He believed in facts. Facts--hard and cold, soft and squishy, facts none the less--facts.

“Yeah Mister, are you gonna order or what?” The young man behind the counter looked impatient, sounded impatient. He should be, there was a huge line behind him, had been a huge one in front of him.

“Uh… Santa’s peppermint—a cone, double dip.” The kid was maybe seventeen, maybe younger, who hand dipped his ice cream. “Is this a popular flavor?” Max asked innocently, leading, hoping he was leading. Then again the kid was awfully young … to be led.

“Uh huh,” The kid continued to scoop.

“Because of Santa Claus?” But the kid looked at him like he was crazy so Max tossed him some money and left … with his Santa’s peppermint ice cream. He took a lick and stopped. “My goodness it’s fabulous!” Had he spoken out loud? Maybe. It was creamy with just the slightest hint of peppermint mixed in, and swirls of pink, to give it that peppermint look. It tasted like … childhood, and Christmas. There were little chunks of broken candy canes swirled in the soft creamy vanilla custard.

As he ate he saw a girl--well maybe more than a girl--sitting on a park bench enjoying her own cone. But she didn’t look like a tourist … or a local. No jogging shoes, and no oxford shirt, and Bermuda shorts. No belt with little whales or lobsters woven in. No I heart Nantucket tee shirt. Okay, maybe not a tourist.

She wore a calf length dress that looked like shreds of golden glitter. Tan legs peeked out from the ribbons of fabric. Her feet were bare yet he was sure she must have shoes somewhere because the cobble stones were hard on his Cole Hahn’s. Her hair was golden and well, glittery like her dress--long and flowing. Rather wild actually. She wore a star necklace that caught the sun light, and as she held her cone up to her red heart lips he saw more stars in bracelets up her arm.

Maybe he’d sit down.

Next to her.

And finish his ice cream.

“Hello.” But she barely opened her eyes and just gave him a rude little nod. “Great ice cream,” He tried again and got another nod. Then he noticed she was eating the same flavor as he was, “Santa’s peppermint … unexpectedly good.” Oh no, he sounded like a TV commercial, a tacky one. He shook his own head.

She opened her eyes; they were golden, like a sunset.

He stared dazzled, caught by their deepness, and maybe sadness. They turned down on the ends giving her a wistful look. A wisp of her gold glitter hair fluttered over one eye. He wanted to brush it back very gently with a finger tip, but of course he knew he couldn’t. So of course he didn’t.

She’d stopped eating, “It’s the only flavor I eat,” She said. Her voice was soft, magical. He wanted to hear more because it had washed over him and he, well wanted that washed feeling again.

But she got up and headed away. Her golden glitter dress sparkled along with her waist length hair; and then she just seemed to blend into the sunlight and the crowd … and was gone.

His ice cream started dripping on to his hand. It was sticky. He lapped up the drizzles and just stared. Where she’d go, and more importantly who was she? Okay and where had she gone?

Reluctantly he got up and hunted for the Tuck You Inn.

***

“We’re going to have to call you Noel.” Miss Tabatha was adamant, and just ever so impatient. After all how many times did she have to repeat this? To a blank stare which she was very certain understood what she was saying. Well, pretty sure. All Miss Tabatha’s experience with young Walter and his five year old friend Billy had taught her the blank stare meant they were ignoring you, that whatever you said was sinking in, they were just choosing to turn deaf ears, or deaf eyes, on it. And as she looked at Noel she figured she was still doing what the average five year old did. But Miss Tabatha wasn’t buying it--hadn’t with the boys, certainly wouldn’t with this grown woman. Okay, maybe semi grown.

“But … but … but … my name is Princess.” Princess Noel protested. She stomped her glitter shod foot and little bits of gold dust shot off in every direction. Miss Tabatha watched, not impressed. And Miss Tabatha rolled her eyes knowing that the glitter would be a bear to Hoover up. None of this was working for her because Miss Tabatha knew she was the first contact for Noel, and well, it was all on her shoulders. So she held firm, to set the right tone--that old start as you mean to finish adage. And for her friend Gwyn, who literally had enough problems; she didn’t need a prima donna designer, or a ROYAL prima donna designer--no, not at all.

“That may be …” Miss Tabatha held eye contact with the glitter girl no bigger than a sprite, “But you’re not … uh … at home. You’re here, on Nantucket.” Implying she’d heard a rumor that in fact Noel had most anxiously wanted to come to Nantucket and Nantucket didn’t hold with royalty. Well, not from up north anyway.

“But …” More stomping, more glitter spewing about. And that meant more Hoovering later on for Miss Tabatha.

“We don’t call people Princess here!” Then Miss Tabatha retracted her statement. “Well we do--but we don’t name them Princess here!”

“But …” Noel turned dewy eyes on Miss Tabatha--again wasted.

“And I know you want to stay!” Miss Tabatha felt old, very old, and a wee bit tired even though it was only nine thirty in the morning.

“Well--yes I do. I love the isle of Nantucket.” Noel softened as she stared off into middle space. She loved the sun on her shoulders and the blue of the water and …

“You already dress like … like …” And Miss Tabatha knew she was on shaky ground here.

“A designer?” Noel raised one little eyebrow daring Miss Tabatha to be critical; okay, more critical.

“I was going to say outsider.” Miss Tabatha countered. “But designer will do.” Miss Tabatha was not backing down, she rarely did, and certainly not for princesses, real or otherwise.

“Well everyone on the isle of Nantucket dresses so … so … not plain exactly…” Noel stumbled for words, groped. “Quiet. They dress quiet. Pleased with herself she grinned. Of course she had meant plain but she was tactful sometimes when it helped her cause. And she figured her cause needed help--lots of help.

“Well I suppose they do.” It was early but Miss Tabatha was thinking about hot cocoa--laced with Peppermint Schnapps.

“I’m expecting a guest,” Miss Tabatha began, “An outsider.”

Noel perked up.

“So I’ll need you to … well … be careful.” And Miss Tabatha gave her the glare that had frightened most of the village for many years. Somehow it was wasted on Noel. Princess Noel. Miss Tabatha wasn’t even sure if she noticed.

“I am careful!” And as she pointed her chin defiantly, glitter seemed to surround her.

Miss Tabatha raised an eyebrow, “Yes, well then, more careful.” And Miss Tabatha thought heaven help me--literally help me.

“Well, I’ll be busy anyway. I have a new shipment of gossamer silk, and some heavenly lace I want to work with.” And Noel then reverted to a kind sweet girl in love with her chosen field. “So I’ll be holed up most of the day in the carriage house busy, working. And I suppose settling in.” Then she softened, “I love the carriage house. The main floor has all that open space for my work tables and my sewing machines, not to mention my supplies! And that lovely little apartment upstairs! I can see the sea of Nantucket from my window and watch the white birds sail on by.”

“It’s the ocean, and they’re gulls--sea gulls, but I’m glad you like it.” Miss Tabatha let out a breath, and shook her head. Even Noel’s language was a problem… major problem.

“And Gwyn--she’s perfect!” With a little implication that Miss Tabatha wasn’t. “No matter what I create she loves and sells! We’re meeting with a bride tomorrow.”

And Miss Tabatha could see how excited the young designer was.

“I … I owe you a thank you, and Belle of course. I know you encouraged Belle to let me leave.” And then Miss Tabatha saw a humbler side of Noel and started to soften; but just a tad because she knew she still had her work cut out for her.

And that this little princess could not just be left unattended. And for Miss Tabatha this just spelled work, or more work. Gwyn had her business to run; Magee was busy at the Bake Shoppe. The whole job fell on her shoulders to not only keep this sprite under her thumb, and under control, but to also make sure she was happy so she would produce for her friend Gwyn … and her friend Gwyn would be happy. And heaven knew Gwyn needed some happiness, so she had to stick with it--her policing of this princess …

Miss Tabatha sighed because when all was said and done, Noel was a breath of fresh air. “Noel--you’re just what the island needs.” And in a way she meant it. Retrained of course, but none the less probably good for the island. She was the independence Miss Tabatha normally admired. And the individuality Miss Tabatha thought showed initiative. No, Noel was a breath of fresh air, and it was her job to just make sure that breath didn’t turn into a gale.

Then she looked over Noel’s head. “Oh dear, I think it’s my new guest. That means you need to scamper!” And she did a little shooing motion with her hands.

And Noel just let that ethereal laugh of hers ring out as she flitted off.

Max checked the address again, certain he had the right place, and when he looked up he saw the golden sprite of a girl flit off between the blue hydrangeas and disappear. He stood and stared. Had he imaged her … surely not? She was just … well whatever she was, she was gone.

“Hello,” An elderly round woman walked down the path toward him. “You must be Mr. Kilmartin.” Max immediately found her to be the arch type of all grandmothers, his own included. “I’m Tabatha. Tabatha Tucker, welcome to The Tuck You Inn—my inn.”

And as she held the gate open he momentarily forgot about golden sprites, and found himself in front of a grand old inn. Something his Nana would have called Old Nantucket, stately and pure, and restored to an inch of its life; to that pristine level of perfection.

“Thank you, but it’s Max. Please call me Max.” And he joined her on an enormous porch with white wicker rockers and little tables. A mermaid weather vane stood at one end and swayed a bit as he took the steps. He admired the grandness of the porch and the immediate suggestion it send out to sit, sip a frosty lemonade, or cocktail, and relax i style, old money style.

“Welcome to Nantucket Max. Here for holiday?” Miss Tabatha asked innocently, just to keep the conversation going.

“Actually…” And Max looked her over closely.

And Miss Tabatha felt a chill ever so quickly wash over her.

“I’m an investigative reporter, and I heard a rumor Santa Claus has a summer house here, and I’m just snooping around!” And his black eyes twinkled with humor. Humor he expected her to laugh at.

Miss Tabatha felt a tremor of fear run through her. She suffered to pull herself together. “I … uh … I didn’t mention my associate accidently double booked you and well, I’m afraid I’m full. Full up. Can I drive you back to the ferry?” Good, she would get rid of him right now, not give him a chance to become a problem, or even step inside. Off he’d go. And they’d be okay. All okay.

And as she spoke her friend from the Bake Shoppe, Magee, bounced up the walk and breezed in. “Ah! Hello! You must be Miss Tabatha’s guest! Welcome to the island!” And she grinned happy for Miss Tabatha’s business, oblivious of course because there were bigger things on her mind all regarding Gwyn and her new designer. Still she could be polite, Miss Tabatha was her friend.

But Max was not easily, if ever, put off, and certainly not by an elderly woman. “Mrs. Tucker just told me her associate double booked and I’ll have to leave.” He knew it wasn’t true, and he caught the new comer and Miss Tabatha sharing a quick look--very quick. He swallowed a grin, like a cat.

“Oh …” Magee couldn’t think fast enough. “Uh …” And she turned to Miss Tabatha and gave her that oh well look. And she sighed; she’d missed and messed her cue.

“And I have a feeling the entire island is over booked because she offered to drive me back to the ferry.” He pushed it because that’s what reporters did--push it.

“Oh.” Magee squinted. Actually the entire island was probably over booked. It was tourist season, and not only was the island very small, the number of places to stay were very limited and always in demand. So on that count he was right.

“Uh that part is true, yes probably true--very true.” Magee felt like a traitor of sorts, and certainly a failure. She let out a whoosh of breath.

Miss Tabatha sighed, it hadn’t worked and she knew she better cover and cover fast. “Oh Mr. Kilmartin …” And she took in a deep breath because now she knew she’d have to be on her toes all day and night until he left … well, one night. She could do it.

“Max.” He felt like a cat … with a toy or maybe a mouse, but he smiled anyway because she did remind him of his nana.

“Max … I made a mistake, silly me. The years … you know. I’m getting up in years …” And Miss Tabatha went for her blank look which of course wasn’t even in her repertoire because she was anything but blank--ever. Still … she gave it a shot.

Getting up in years? Max almost choked, she’d gotten up in years many years ago--many. And if she was implying she wasn’t sharp … too bad, she’d make a great assistant: sharp, quick, posing as a grandmother. He liked all that, and he liked her, so he lightened up.

“I dither a little sometimes and er, mix things up. And, I think I meant tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m double booked. Yes that’s right. But today … well today is just perfect. And I can show you to your room.” And she let out a breath as she led him further into her home. Magee followed, more than curious.

They breezed through the gorgeous foyer filled with old seascape oil paintings, past a white washed living room with white lacquered book shelves, more old oils of the ocean, and plump inviting blue and white upholstery. An iron clock stood on an iron base in one corner and made its presence known by bonging like a ship’s fog horn.

Max turned and saw the most peculiar clock. All the numbers were shells or little gems from the sea. The number twelve was a gigantic pearl. The hands on the clock held a small bronze octopus with a wry look on its face. The clock hadn’t actually reached an hour but was bonging anyway.

Miss Tabatha looked at it fondly, “Just interested in a new comer,” Miss Tabatha explained about the clock.

“The clock?” Max was sure she meant the other woman.

“Perpetual clock, just runs and runs, and every now and again it has something to say.” Miss Tabatha so loved her old clock.

Max stared and kept going. Maybe she wasn’t quite so sharp …

They all trundled up to the third floor, as far from the living areas as Miss Tabatha could manage, and then she opened the door to a wonderful room. Huge, white washed with a wooden floor painted turquoise, the color of the sea. The oversized bed had a white duvet and more pillows than Max could imagine ever needing, but they looked inviting, comforting, and suddenly he wanted to flop down on the bed and sink into those pillows. And rest. He seldom rested. Okay never. He slept, usually passed out, revived, and went back to work. But he never rested.

There was a white armoire decoupaged with seashells in an intricate design. Miss Tabatha flipped the door open to a flat screen TV and DVD machine. An off white slip covered sofa and matching chair were grouped by a bow window. There was a man’s chair, oversized, with an ottoman facing out to sea. And Max was in love.

Miss Tabatha indicated a door, “I gave you a room with a porch--if you’d like to take coffee there or …” But Max was already out, way ahead of her. The porch was almost as big as an average room with a few vintage wicker pieces. He leaned on the railing and looked out at sea. The water was kicking up at the moment, talking to him possibly like the clock had been. He wanted to answer. Yes, he could adjust to this--easily.

Looking the other way, his eyes caught an over grown carriage house, barely visible. The structure looked derelict, almost buried in over growth fading into itself, but then a sparkle caught his eye, and he leaned to look and follow it. A golden raggy dress caught in the breeze and long golden hair a bit wild, and also moving all in a haze of certainly not gold glitter …

He stared and then the spirit turned and they locked eyes. She was the same sprite he’d seen in town eating ice cream, Santa’s peppermint ice cream. The only flavor she said she ever ate … well, now possibly the only one he would ever eat. She turned and like a golden gazelle bounded into the jungle of the carriage house--and was gone.

Miss Tabatha and Magee followed his gaze. Miss Tabatha flinched, almost kicking herself. Magee now understood, or at least a little. “Mr. Kilmartin is an investigative reporter.” The old inn keeper said this rather loud to break Max’s concentration over the edge, and the carriage house.

The carriage house she always felt was so hidden. Well, she’d not thought of someone leaning off the porch, now had she? “And this is my friend Magee. She owns the Bake Shoppe in town, where of course you might want to stop for a snack.” And that was all she had--period. Because he was sharp and she was out of her league.

Max was forced to turn.

And turn on the charm.

The spell over the railing—gone, “Glad to meet you.” He did have a few manners even if he usually misplaced them.

“Here on a little vacation?” Magee asked innocently enough, but she already figured of course not. He was alone, with basically no luggage. He was not here for pleasure. He was here on a mission.

“Actually I’m looking for Santa. Rumor has it he has a place here!” And he watched her face very carefully because as impossible as the whole thing had originally sounded, it was sounding; well, not quite so impossible now. Not real of course, just not ruled out, because he was making this inn keeper nervous, and now her friend, from the Bake Shoppe, equally nervous. And he liked doing that. It’s what he did, to get what he wanted.

“S … S …Santa? Santa who?” Well it was an attempt, though Magee knew a pitiful one. She knew then why Miss Tabatha had been double booked, and felt miserable at having failed at her cue.

“Why how many Santa’s are there? The big one! Santa Claus!” Max almost grinned at her but he kept his tone serious and he held her gaze because that’s how he usually got information--eye to nervous eye.

“Oh. Haven’t seen him,” And then she tried to laugh, but Miss Tabatha was a few moments ahead of Magee with this drastic news and tried to come to the rescue.

“Mr. Kilmartin, surely you jest.” Miss Tabatha gave her sweet old lady smile, which Max was sure was fake--well not the old part but possibly the sweet part.

“Max.”

“Max.” And she closed her eyes just briefly asking for help to anyone watching--not even picky. “I mean I think someone must be pulling a prank on you. Why don’t you forget that and just enjoy Nantucket. It’s a lovely day … I mean Santa, Santa Claus, come now Mr. Kilmartin, you are a grown man …” And she gave him a tone that was almost a scolding.

Max grinned. Maybe Lily was on to something, “Thank you. Maybe I’ll just go out and wander, see the sights and meet some of the locals,” Implying talk to the locals--locals who would tell him more than they were telling him.

“Well while you get settled maybe I can bring you a coffee or cocoa?” Out? She didn’t want him to go out! Out of her sight! Oh dear …

“That would be nice, thank you but I think I’ll just leave my things and head out.” Then he turned to the inn keeper’s friend. “Magee--are you headed back to town? I’ll go with you.” And he held out a hand as if to escort her.

“Uh … Uh …” Magee had no idea at this point what she was supposed to do or not do, say or not say so she hoped she could possibly walk with him and not say anything--anything at all.

Miss Tabatha gave her a little nod hoping Magee could keep an eye on him, though he didn’t look like the kind of man anyone kept an eye on--ever.

“Okay, great.” Magee resigned herself. More questions, more bad answers. She just prayed she could basically say nothing. Maybe she should snag something like an apple from the kitchen before she left so she’d be chewing. Then she looked at this determined young man, no, she didn’t suspect an apple would help.

“Then we’ll go …” Max held out a hand, a twinkle in his eyes.

Miss Tabatha panicked, “And can I bring you some supper on a tray later?” Anything she could say to keep an eye on him; even if she had to order it in from some fine restaurant. “Or maybe you’d like to take dinner in my dining room--just say the time.”

“Oh Miss Tabatha, that’s not necessary at all. I have a whole island to see … and meet.” And he knew he wanted to just get out there … and that she didn’t want him to.

And they left.

***

Noel started to unroll a bolt of diaphanous silk. The fabric was white, but if she turned it just so it shone iridescent--almost as though a rainbow had lightly kissed the cloth. She sighed, it really was beyond lovely. The bride to be wanted a faerie tale wedding and no amount of tromping through New York City and Boston had produced the dress--the dress of a faerie tale. Well of course not, New York City and Boston were not where the faerie tales came from, anyone knew that.

The bride to be and her mother turned to Gwyn almost out of desperation, almost for a laugh. Although they had a home on the island, they also had a residence in New York City. There was no rock left unturned where they hadn’t looked, scoured, including the internet. They were now turning to Gwyn.

The wedding was scheduled for the Wauwinet Inn, a cliquish hotel on Nantucket that catered to this very kind of event; exclusive, expensive, and written up in every social magazine. But the bride had wanted it more exclusive. She wanted the feel of an abandoned mansion where her prince would marry her and awaken their life together. It was theatrics of the worst kind, because Gwyn and Noel both realized the bride to be was serious--very serious.

Noel raised an eyebrow as she recalled the conversation. Beyond special, that’s what this bride to be wanted. Weren’t they all special? But Noel had learned while working with Gwyn--no they weren’t, not at all, not enough. And not with capitol letters either, which apparently this bride to be wanted. Weren’t all weddings magic? And besides, often the over indulged bride to be wanted more magic, more than her friends had at their weddings, more than her guests had seen at any wedding, more than the magazines printed. More was the operative word.

Well this one for Mary Beth would be more. The dress alone was a million yards of tissue silk … Math Beth and her mother Charlene had come to Gwyn’s shoppe with a superior, almost royal attitude. But Noel, Gwyn learned, was un-phased by anyone including real royalty … so faux royalty was nothing, meant nothing in Noel’s book. And Gwyn had upped her respect for Noel when she realized this. Mary Beth and her mother Charlene looked at Gwyn’s stock dresses--beautiful to say the least, but similar versions all the bridal salons showed. Gwyn could almost hear them tsking their disapproval.

“And ladies I now have an in--house designer.” Gwyn had saved this tid bit, to build up her offerings maybe, or for that element of surprise. Noel hadn’t been sure, but Gwyn did it smoothly so Noel went along.

“From where?” They’d inquired snootily.

But Gwyn already had a stock answer; because of course she’d expected this. “I think she’s from a moon beam. Honestly she was a gift to me, and I can’t pin down where she’s from.” Which was pretty much the truth, and the truth always worked best.

“And her work?” They wanted names, dates, photographs from shelter magazines.

“Oh I don’t have any references like that,” Gwyn had replied with a raised eyebrow of her own. “She has made a few items for me, and she can elaborate on any of these or design something for you alone.” Gwyn made it sound casual, very casual.

So casual Mary Beth and Charlene were practically salivating to hear more, see more, giving an air that they hadn’t softened, were not impressed. Of course they kept these emotions hidden.

Still Gwyn could read them, because this is what she did, day in and day out, with all the other Mary Beth’s and Charlene’s. But Gwyn was guiding them to a back room. A room she kept for Noel and her work. There was a sky light with natural sunbeams pouring in.

The room was ivory, a canvas itself. They felt it when they entered. Charmed was the only word for it--they felt charmed. A silk shantung chaise lounge sat next to a platform--under the sky light. A silk curtain separated a changing area. A gilt three fold mirror stood by the platform. And around the room were ivory shell trimmed armoires with Noel’s interpretations of magic. The armoires had appeared with Noel, and Gwyn felt they added just the right touch, never questioning where they came from, just making room for them. Their doors hung open, the dresses begging to be felt, released, and tried on.

The first gown Mary Beth and Charlene picked out was velvet--not too unlike Belle’s wedding dress. The ivory softness shone in the light, the folds creating shadows and depth. They pulled it out of the armoire, and the garment seemed to grow in volume as it cascaded onto the ivory floor, the velvet pillowing with softness. The fur trim on the hem and sleeves added that Royal touch they secretly sought, as if a queen herself would wear it for her own wedding. They held it out, “Uh … impressive.” Gwyn heard Charlene say softly to her daughter, and Gwyn knew she had them. It was just that simple. A look, a feel they conveyed, subtle … but there. Subtle couldn’t hide it.

Then they pulled out one that could have been a Jacqueline Kennedy ball gown in its simplicity and elegance; a moiré silk with a trailing train. It was formal, almost untouchable. In its simplicity it was elegant. And of course not like anything ‘in’ or anything they’d seen anywhere else.

The next shimmered, the fabric was so sheer. “Like gossamer wings,” Mother and daughter had said together. And so it went until they were literally pleading with Gwyn to meet their designer.

The next afternoon, with the Royal Doulton set out for tea, and Noel in house, Mary Beth and her mother returned to meet Noel.

Nicer.

Humbler.

And on time.

Knowing the answer to their dreams might just be right here at Gwyn’s boutique, on Nantucket, all along. Right here--waiting.

Introductions were made. Noel wore her standard tattered wisps of gold. Although she appeared very young, certainly waifish, she had an aura about her that somehow commanded respect. And an attitude, an attitude that somehow conveyed how lucky you were that she had time for you. An attitude that made Mary Beth’s and her mother Charlene’s attitude look amateurish.

And Gwyn was grateful for Noel’s attitude because it helped.

Mary Beth’s mother Charlene tried to quiz her as to her origin but Noel gave her elusive smile and basic reply, “Oh I’m from another rainbow.” And somehow both mother and daughter knew they weren’t going to get anymore out of her. “But this is about you.” Noel had turned her golden eyes on Mary Beth, “Not me. I’m just your tool to creating that magical day, the day that will signify the beginning.”

And both women were under her spell.

“Tell me what you envision--no matter how silly or personal,” Noel requested. And as she asked, they let their breath out, finally relaxing enough to talk truthfully.

And as Mary Beth opened her heart, talking about white knights and hidden castles, Noel sketched. No snide looks from Noel, no implying this was what so many young women wanted. No. She just listened attentively, as though Mary Beth was revealing wonderful facts. Things that had been hidden, and now she was exposing them to Noel.

And with an air of respect for Mary Beth’s descriptions Noel encouraged her on. The more Mary Beth talked the more Noel drew. Gwyn smiled, once again thrilled to have Noel on her little team. Charlene, Mary Beth’s mother watched carefully, waiting for the sham, or fraud, because Charlene was a pro--a pro shopper. And she could spot them.

Finally Noel held up her sketch pad. She’d drawn a princess heading to her castle and her prince. The dress billowed on a gravel path with just a hint of breeze picking up the endless train. The face was Mary Beth’s.

Mary Beth and Charlene gasped. Not only had Noel drawn Charlene’s daughter but the prince was a replica of the man she was engaged to--perfectly.

“Betrothed,” Noel corrected. “It’s an old word but it just seems to fit.” While they marveled over the drawing Noel went to her armoires and selected a gown quite similar to the one in the sketch. She held it aloft, “I picture you in something like this--with a longer train of course and a bit more fabric …” She twisted the hanger ever so slightly and the dress shimmered, tempting, exquisite.

And the stars created by that movement were locked in Mary Beth and Charlene’s eyes.

“Y … y … yes--yes, this is what I’ve always dreamt of.” Mary Beth whispered, forgetting to act casual, forgetting to be subtle.

Charlene dabbed at a tear. “But my dear we didn’t see this yesterday when we looked at your work.” She was so overcome with emotion she dropped some of her attitude.

And Gwyn could see a mother who loved her daughter and just wanted to make her every dream come true. So Gwyn softened and started to enjoy the ride, the ride that was Noel selling a dress, closing a deal, and keeping her in business.

And Noel just gave a dismissive little shake of her shoulders. “We hadn’t talked yesterday. Now I’d like you to try it on, and then we’ll talk about how I can make one similar but even better for you.” Her voice was kindness and authority, that perfect blend.

Noel smiled as she remembered because she liked Gwyn and wanted her happy--it was just that simple. And if creating the perfect dress for someone made Gwyn happy, well, she was happy also. Gwyn had become an instant friend and mentor, encouraging her to whip up whatever Noel saw in her mind. She never questioned, never challenged, and never raised an eyebrow. No, she not only liked and accepted, but she seemed to love everything Noel did. And this freedom of artistic license fed Noel’s very soul. It was the outlet she had always dreamt of, craved. And now she was able to bring forth the dresses and gowns of her inner most mind, and heart.

The first time Noel laid eyes on Gwyn and her very slick business, Noel knew this was a discriminating woman; this was a hugely successful business, and this was where she wanted to design, wanted her gowns to be show cased … wanted to work and create. So the fact that Gwyn just seemed to more than approve of everything she did well, Noel, for all her haughty ways, was not about to let Gwyn down. And that included closing the deal, getting that customer to the cash register, because there was no real closing of a deal without that step … and ultimately getting that smile on Gwyn’s face.

Gwyn paid for bolts of fabric, rolls of beading, and yards of lace, though where they came from Gwyn never asked. And it wasn’t as though Gwyn didn’t dare ask, she didn’t care. And Noel continued to come up with selections of fabric and trim the likes of which Gwyn had never seen: beading so rich it looked like it came from Tiffany’s, yet it ended up on hems and trains. Fabrics so delicate she herself was almost afraid to touch them. Yet Noel whipped them into pure magic and then swept them over Gwyn’s client’s heads, and stood back innocently while the oohs and aahs burst out of the clients.

Somehow Noel had instinctively picked up on not only the importance, but really crucial consequences, of pleasing the mother of the bride. And she played to the mother subtly while treating her like the matriarch and final decision maker--so subtle that the bride to be often missed it. Yet Gwyn saw it and knew, and was surprised, and grateful to discover Noel knew that if Mom wasn’t happy, well it wasn’t that no one was happy, it was that there was no sale, and they walked. So Noel not only created spectacular gowns, she created weepy mothers. It was part and parcel to why Gwyn not only adored her, she also respected her.

It was as though Gwyn had trained Noel by her side for years and years. But even if Gwyn had that opportunity, Noel was so young, the years just weren’t there. No, Noel came to Gwyn with all this training and instinct in place. And Gwyn was grateful, blissfully grateful.

And Gwyn loved everything Noel made almost as much as Noel loved making them.

Making this dress for Mary Beth was just one more time she and Gwyn had turned around a difficult customer. Price became immaterial to Gwyn’s clients once they realized their thoughts could be converted, converted to a gown, or frock, or dream come true. And even those who thought they had no idea somehow Noel pulled something out of them, opened them up to let their secret thoughts escape. And these were the thoughts she put together for them, and turned into the dress of their dreams.

Noel kept cutting, trailing the lengths of fabric as far as her carriage house work room allowed, and then she knew she needed a break, just a short one. Grabbing her drawstring satchel, slipping into her golden slippers, which occasionally she actually wore, she dashed out the door.

The island was still so new to her, and there was so much of it yet for her to discover. So beautiful, so very beautiful … she thought she understood beauty when she did her magic with lace and beading …but as she looked out at the sea, she was humbled.

“Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” Max came up behind her.

She hadn’t heard him, or even sensed him, which of course was unusual right there. “Oh, I didn’t hear you,” Noel admitted and hid a blush.

“The sand, it’s very quiet.” Max grinned. He wasn’t sure why this odd, very odd, hint of a girl attracted him. She certainly looked more street urchin than the sleek women of New York City he was used to. Still … “So we meet again.” And he knew that was corny, and yet it was how he felt so he said it, and wondered just where the slick writer in him was, the one with a whole parcel of grand words.

But Noel continued to stare out at the water. “Do you ever get tired of it?” She asked, totally out of context. But of course he knew she meant the water.

The ocean lapped gently, almost wanting to reach them, almost. It reflected the sky yet held a hint of green, its own secret color. A slight breeze brought it to them, a bit of the sea, a salty tang, as though pale aqua washed over them ever so slightly.

“Oh I’m a city boy, so no, I’m fascinated by it.” Max had to pull his eyes off her and back to the water.

“There’s a world they say, lives in the sea,” She said it so simply he had to fall in line with her thinking. She was lost somewhere else he supposed, and he rather wanted to be lost there with her.

“But we can’t see it,” He countered, playing along.

“Sometimes we can.” And she bent over and picked up a star fish. “I believe when a shooting star hits the water it turns into a star fish and finally has freedom from the heavens.” It was a simple bit of lore, but one she believed. She wondered what galaxy the star fish she held had come from as she studied the very perfect beauty right there in the palm of her hands.

He grinned, she had imagination, and he’d give her that.

“But now it’s trapped on the shore.” She said wistfully, maybe with just a touch of sadness for the star fish.

She handed her prize to him very gently. “We’ll send it back into the ocean, only be careful. Don’t throw it too high or it’ll take wing and return to the heavens.” She said this very softly, and gave it one last tiny graze of her finger before she let it go to him.

But he tossed it with an arm made for baseball, not ethereal wishes, and the star fish flew up, and then disappeared into the sky just as she had said it would.

He watched in amazement, stunned really because it was gone, even though he waited for the plunk and splash.

“See, now it’ll have to wait until it shoots down again for another chance.” She said softly, reflectively.

It was dusk just in between light and the change to the unseen and unknown. “Look!” She pointed, and the first star seemed to be winking at them. “I think its back up there.”

And he heard a little sigh in her voice.

They both started to walk, just ambling along. “Would you like some supper?” Now where had that come from? Max couldn’t ever remember asking someone out that way. And supper? Wasn’t it customary to ask someone out for a drink, or dinner? Not supper. Supper was a word his nana used to call him in after a day of playing. So they could eat together and share his day. Dinner or drinks—those were the words you used for dates and impressing a girl.

“Love some. Where shall we go?” Because of course she had no idea, she just hadn’t been on Nantucket long enough to know it all. And really, she relished every new situation, so she wasn’t the slightest bit picky, which might surprise some people. But she left all her high strung opinions and ideas back at the carriage house. They were resting and maybe building up steam until she needed them for Gwyn’s next client.

“I’m visiting,” He said in way of apology. And for just a second he wished he knew what was what and where to take her, impress her … and maybe somewhere quiet so he wouldn’t have to share her.

And they found they were walking along the cobblestones now into town, the beach behind them, the star fish forgotten.

“So am I, visiting that is, in a way,” She added then she brightened. “Let’s just see where we end up.” And they walked now in the historic district. The scents of the sea mingled with simmering chowder and grilling fish. Every time a restaurant door opened a new combination wafted into the early evening air arousing their taste buds.

“I’m getting hungry,” Noel began, “Next place is it.” And she said it all with a huge grin that made him sure she meant it.

Max almost laughed. His typical model date never ate; expensive food, all food,

any food, was wasted on them. They would push their selection around their plate ultimately ignoring it all. Sometimes they would make a little pretense and lay a knife over it as if to hide the untouched food. Other times they just stirred it up a bit possibly to keep their hands busy. He didn’t know, he just knew that it no longer surprised him or pinched at his wallet, that uneaten meal. He’d learned to expect that. He’d never heard a girl say she was hungry--ever.

It was just a door way but somehow when someone left and the door swung open, they slipped in. “Welcome to the Company of the Cauldron.” The Maître d’ was a cross between a sea captain and a retired rock star. He wore a black tee shirt with a little cauldron emblazed on it. He didn’t ask them if they wanted a booth or table, but simply guided them to a quiet corner. Max was grateful. Maybe it was what the Maitre d’ would have wanted if he had been with Noel. Regardless he was grateful.

And without even remembering ordering they were tackling oversized bowls of Portuguese lobster and cod stew with hot crusty bread. Their wine was a house brand, again with the black cauldron on its label--excellent. It was excellent whatever it was, and he inhaled the setting and the woman in front of him.

“Tell me more about you,” Noel asked as she soaked a piece of bread in the sauce like soup. And he stared because not only had she been eating she was not wasting a drop of her sauce--dainty of course but going for it.

“More?” He laughed wondering exactly what all he’d said. “I haven’t told you a thing yet!” He was pretty sure of this, because as a rule he was pretty guarded, okay very guarded. It was just who he was and how he operated. So he gazed at her very innocent face, and thought where was his ‘guard’; his usual tough boy guard? Maybe in his haste he had forgotten to pack it. And Max suddenly felt just a tad shy.

“Well in words you haven’t,” She said quite simply, setting down her bread, giving him her full attention.

And as he stared at her he felt the spell. The one he’d felt when he’d watched her eat ice cream, and when he saw her standing on the shore almost as though the sea itself had coughed her up, and if he wasn’t careful she’d be swept back in … and gone.

“Your eyes, they’re rather golden.” He heard slip out without any thought or plan. He wanted to say like your hair, and he wanted to reach up and just touch a strand of it, feel its softness, but he kept his hands in check.

“Like a cats?” She asked with a lilt to her voice, “I’ve always wanted to see a cat with golden eyes. Actually, I’ve always wanted one, a cat that is.” And he heard a tenderness that was new for him, another side, another layer.

“Then you should have one!” He said it as though he could just conjure up the perfect pet to make her smile. And the very idea made him smile, and he hoped her too.

“Oh maybe someday,” She sounded melancholy as if today was not the day at all.

But Max was programmed never to take no for an answer, “Today, today could be someday. We could look tomorrow. The island must have a pet shoppe …” Max was caught in the energy of being able to fulfill one of her dreams.

“I move around a lot.” She made it sound like she flitted, though there was a wistfulness in her voice. He felt it. It grabbed at him a little bit, somewhere he couldn’t remember even having feelings.

“Well maybe you’ll stay put,” He tempted. Their bowls were gone and a pistachio raspberry torte was between them with two forks. She picked up a tiny dessert fork and broke off a gigantic hunk of cake, passing it to her mouth, she sighed as the raspberry confection melted in her mouth. “Like I imagine fresh picked berries on a summer day.”

Max thought surely she meant like fresh picked berries with no need to imagine at all, since picking berries was a common thing, or at least a child hood thing. Hot days, stopping at the U Pick/We Pick stand. Usually with his nana, who always seemed to have time for him, and a drive up state out of the city. But then he was back on the cat idea. “Well we could at least look …” Max pleaded. He didn’t mean to plea, never pleaded.

But she was oblivious to his eagerness as she licked a bit of whipped cream off the ends of her fork. “We could, I could take a break, maybe mid day or so.”

“You work?” He raised his eyebrows. Now why did this shock him? She certainly didn’t look like a working girl or a career girl or … Really? No, surely not.

“Uh huh, I’m here working on the isle of Nantucket.” Then she stopped fork mid air remembering that the locals just called it Nantucket. She switched gears, “And you? Work?” She asked sweetly, letting the Nantucket reference go. Not drawing more attention to herself. Hadn’t Miss Tabatha told her repeatedly if she had to talk, to listen to the locals and try to blend? Blend in. Well, she wasn’t a blender. No. But for some reason she didn’t want to stand out tonight either.

“I do.” But he didn’t elaborate. For the first time that he could recall his life’s career seemed rude, invasive. Words he’d always described his reporting as with pride, bordering on arrogance--invasive being one of his favorites. Really? Now it sounded not right. “I’m a writer,” Was all he said.

“Oh.” And she gave him such an endearing look he went on, encouraged. Of course the invasive part was shelved. Not coming out. He hoped anyway.

“I want to write the great American novel.” Now where had that come from, fifth grade? Well, he did always want to write the great American novel, sometime, but not now … maybe now. No! No! He was investigating! He was a reporter--ace reporter. It was who he was. It was what fueled him, sustained him. The great American novel wasn’t going anywhere. That novel had a place in his mind--in the back, on a shelf.

But she didn’t pick up on his moment of panic. She just took his words literally, to heart. Tenderly she asked, “Here? Here in the land of Nantucket? Where the sea is so blue and the sky even bluer? Where flowers grow blue because they caught it from the sea and roses grow wild?” And she sighed as she recalled some of her favorite parts. Well, they were all favorites, because she was in love with the island--in love with Nantucket.

“Yes.” He heard himself and somehow he felt it. Through her eyes he was sure, sure he could do it.

They were leaving. Max had left a pile of cash on their table, and they were walking, casually, aimlessly. It was night now, balmy. Some of the shoppes were still open, capturing the tourist trade while they could. Max and Noel came to a quaint book store and both paused by the window. Best sellers were mixed with tomes on island lore. The business had that cluttered look that said there is a treasure in here you need … come in. Browse. Pick one up.

“I can see you there.” And she pointed dead center of the main display, “Right there. Your author picture would show the sea behind you, and your hair would be blowing over your eyes, but they’d still penetrate, through your hair, and the film--to the reader, compelling them to read your words, buy your book.” And she said it with conviction

Suddenly he wanted just what she said, wanted his work there, tempting people. A beach read, a lone night companion read.

“And that’s why you’d be here of course, to meet your readers, sign books for your adoring fans.” Then she laughed and her voice lilted in the night air. “Come on. Let’s go inside, see where they’ve stacked your books, and surprise the owner.” But he tugged her along laughing, though a bit nervously. He was afraid if they went inside they really would find his book, the book of his secret dreams.

They left the bookstore behind and passed other intimate restaurants, their scents no longer tempting, their quiet corners not for them. They’d had, and savored, their tranquil super. They walked on past antique shoppes, The Nobby Clothing Store, and The Toy Boat, the old fashioned drug store, and a train car turned diner, until they got to Gwyn’s Boutique. The sign simply said Gwyn’s. One of Noel’s dresses was in the window. Max stopped and stared. The hem fluttered a little as if giving a tiny wave. “You know … somehow that looks like you.” He said it softly because he could picture her wearing it.

And she threw back her head, golden hair spilling and laughed, “It should, I made it.”

And he stopped, looking at her with fresh eyes. “You’re a seamstress …” Of course, the artistic clothes, and attitude, “Then you’re Gwyn.”

“Oh no,” She gave a laugh smile combination. “I simply work for Gwyn.”

“I can’t picture you working for anyone …” He wasn’t sure why he said it; she just seemed so un--tame--able. No, he couldn’t see her working for anyone at all, uh uh.

“Well, she gives me pretty much the freedom to do as I like.” She said this very matter of fact as if it was the only way she’d work. And he suspected it probably was.

“So you live here.” He was digging, after all he was a reporter, it’s what he did best.

“Oh no, I’m just here for a wee bit helping Gwyn.” But she sounded melancholy as though she didn’t want to leave. “It’s nothing like I thought it would be,” She said it softly. And he caught a moon beam tangled in her hair.

“The job or the island?” He asked quietly, because he wanted to know.

And suddenly she lightened back up, “Both I guess. I’ve never been anywhere like this where the wind brings in a warmth that embraces you. And summer … well it had always been a word. Here it’s a place.” And she hoped she was explaining it right because she had a hard time explaining it to herself. Still she felt it even if she couldn’t put it in words.

“Surely you’ve vacationed somewhere like this before with a beach?” And so many of those beaches had so very much in common … a same-ness; well at least he’d always thought that until he came here.

Then she was looking off into middle space and they were walking again. “No, no vacation. I’ve never had a vacation, never seen a beach.” She said it lightly but he sensed heavy underneath.

And he stared.

“Or maybe you feel a beach--listen to it, sink your toes in it …” Now they were out of the shopping district, heading to the Tuck You Inn. She paused by the over grown drive for the carriage house, so he paused too.

“I’m home,” She said it simply.

“Where?” Surely she wasn’t staying at the inn. Was she? And he’d missed her. Let that slip by him? No, he couldn’t be slipping that much.

She tilted her head to the buried carriage house, the one that was really out of sight from the street. The one he’d seen off his porch, but just barely, and of course wondered about, because, he was a reporter. But at the time he hadn’t been mentally reporting, just wondering.

“I didn’t even realize that, uh, building was livable.” Max marveled.

“Exactly,” But as she said it she melted into the foliage and was gone.

***