Elin Hilderbrand - The Rumor

Eloise said to Clarence, “I’m surprised more reporters aren’t calling.”

“It was the FBI who caught the guy, El, not you,” Clarence said.

“Oh, I know,” Eloise said. She had been a bit disappointed when she found out there was a second informant, one with more clout than Eloise. “But you’d think, I don’t know, that they’d offer me some kind of reward.”

“Reward?” Clarence said.

“Yes, you know-like money,” Eloise said. “Or a plaque.” Even a plaque would be fine, as long as it was presented to her on a stage, in front of an audience. Eloise would stand before photographers with the chief of the Nantucket police, each of them holding one side of the plaque, smiling for the cameras. That was sure to make the evening news: EMPLOYEE UNCOVERS PROSTITUTION RING.

But Clarence had stopped listening, and there was little hope of her getting his attention back. Giada De Laurentiis was on the tube, making homemade gnocchi with sage and brown butter.

Eloise sighed. Reward. Then she retreated to the kitchen table, where she would scour the classified ads. She needed another job.

The third house that Eddie Pancik was building on Eagle Wing Lane was bought immediately by Glenn Daley of Bayberry Properties, who, we later learned, had bought the other two spec houses from Eddie in a private deal. Rachel McMann begged Glenn for the first crack at selling the three houses once they were finished. But Glenn Daley had other ideas. He hired a new real-estate agent to join his agency-none other than Barbie Pancik! On the day that Barbie moved into her new desk-as it happened, the desk right next to Glenn’s-Glenn pulled a diamond ring out of his drawer and proposed marriage.

“Will you be my wife?” he asked.

Barbie Pancik, too overcome for words, placed her perfectly manicured hand over her mouth and nodded an emphatic yes. All the other agents and associates in the office clapped and cheered, Rachel McMann a little less enthusiastically than some.

Grace Pancik put her Wauwinet Road house, “with three acres of gardens designed by renowned landscape architect Benton Coe,” on the market for $3.5 million. In less than a week, Barbie Pancik (soon to be Barbie Pancik-Daley) had sold the place for full listing price. Grace and her two daughters moved into a charming cottage on Lily Street with a postage-stamp yard. It was hard to give up the hens, Grace said, but it would be nice to live in town and be able to walk to coffee, and to the post office to mail Eddie’s care packages.

Jean Burton happened to see Grace at the Federal Street post office one morning, nestling a brand-new Panama hat in straw to send to Eddie, along with three bottles of cherry Tums and an index card with her lip prints on it.

“She’s standing by her man,” Jean said. “I really admire that.”

We all agreed that it was laudable. What, after all, was to keep Grace from following Benton Coe to Detroit? The two of them had been madly in love. We had NOT been wrong about that.

Jody Rouisse said to Susan Prendergast, “Well, if she isn’t going to Detroit to chase him, then I just might.” But Jody Rouisse, as we knew, was all talk. The most she would ever do would be to follow Benton on Twitter, using the hashtag #belleislepark.

Speaking of Panama hats, rumor had it that Philip Meier, a longtime loan officer at Nantucket Bank, ordered a Panama hat online, a cheap imitation one that cost him $19.99. Philip then approached the bank employees who worked at the teller desk, all of them women.

He said, “I know it’s only August, but how many of you want to dress up as prostitutes for Halloween and come with me to the Chicken Box? We’re sure to win first prize. I’m going as Eddie Pancik.”

The tellers laughed nervously. None of them wanted to go anywhere with Philip on Halloween. He was too touchy-feely; even the office holiday party was trying.

Finding he had no takers, Philip Meier went back to his computer and ordered an orange prison jumpsuit. He didn’t need five girls; he could win Best Costume all by himself.

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.