{"product_id":"island-girls-isbn-9780525618355","title":"Island Girls","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNancy Thayer returns to her beloved Nantucket in a highly emotional, wholly entertaining tale of three sisters forced to confront the past over one event-filled summer on the island.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Charming ladies’ man Rory Randall dies with one last trick up his sleeve: His will includes a calculating clause mandating a summer-long reunion for his daughters, all from different marriages—that is, if they hope to inherit his posh Nantucket house. Relations among the three sisters are sour thanks to long-festering jealousies, resentments, and misunderstandings. Arden, a successful television host in Boston, hasn’t been back to the island since her teenage years, when accusations of serious misbehavior led to her banishment. College professor Meg hopes to use her summer to finish a literary biography and avoid an amorous colleague. And secretive Jenny, an IT specialist, faces troubling questions about her identity while longing for her sisters’ acceptance.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e To their surprise, the three young women find their newfound sisterhood easier to trust than the men who show up to complicate their lives. And if that weren’t problematic enough, their mothers descend on the island. When yet another visitor drops by the house with shocking news, the past comes screaming back with a vengeance. Having all the women from his life under his seaside roof—and overseeing the subsequent drama of that perfect storm—Rory Randall might just be enjoying a hearty laugh from above.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Nancy Thayer’s novel insightfully illustrates how the push and pull of family altercations make us whole. It’s how the Randall sisters come to forgive, and learn to open their hearts to love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eIsland Girls\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nancy Thayer is one of my favorite writers, and \u003ci\u003eIsland Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is one of her best. The Randall sisters are like your own family members or your best friends: funny, smart and emotional, infuriating and good-hearted. Here is a book to be savored and passed on to the good women in your life.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Susan Wiggs\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“Full of emotion and just plain fun, this novel is delightful.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Romance Reviews Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this touching summer read, forgiveness benefits both the person bestowing it and the recipient.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003ePRAISE FOR NANCY THAYER\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIsland Girls\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nancy Thayer is one of my favorite writers, and \u003ci\u003eIsland Girls\u003c\/i\u003e is one of her best. The Randall sisters are like your own family members or your best friends: funny, smart and emotional, infuriating and good-hearted. Here is a book to be savored and passed on to the good women in your life.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Susan Wiggs\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Full of emotion and just plain fun, this novel is delightful.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Romance Reviews Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this touching summer read, forgiveness benefits both the person bestowing it and the recipient.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMoon Shell Beach\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nancy Thayer has a deep and masterly understanding of love and friendship, of where the two complement and where they collide. Read \u003ci\u003eMoon Shell Beach\u003c\/i\u003e and get swept away.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Elin Hilderbrand\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A beautifully textured story about love, friendship, and forgiveness, a great beach read. It will make you want to pack your bags for Nantucket.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Kristin Hannah\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eBeachcombers\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Thayer’s sense of place is powerful, and her words are hung together the way my grandmother used to tat lace.”\u003cb\u003e—Dorothea Benton Frank\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A charming and fun summer read . . . Readers will love this story of family and love.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Plain Dealer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eSummer Breeze\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nancy Thayer is the queen of beach books. . . . All [these characters] are involved in life-changing choices, with all the heart-wrenching decisions such moments demand.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Star-Ledger\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An entertaining and lively read that is perfect for summer reading indulgence.”\u003cb\u003e—Wichita Falls\u003ci\u003e Times Record News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eNancy Thayer \u003c\/b\u003eis the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Nantucket Wedding, Secrets in Summer, The Island House, The Guest Cottage,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eAn Island Christmas, Nantucket Sisters,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eA Nantucket Christmas, Island Girls, Summer Breeze, Heat Wave, Beachcombers, Summer House, Moon Shell Beach, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Hot Flash Club\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives on Nantucket.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden’s half-hour television show for Channel Six, a local Boston station, was called Simplify This, which Arden privately knew was a ridiculous title because, really, nothing in life was simple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe couldn’t remember when she’d last had a vacation, and even when she had a weekend off, she’d worked, tapping away at her laptop or considering DVDs prospective entrants had sent her, or reviewing call sheets or expenses. Even watching television was work because she recorded and savagely studied competing shows, comparing theirs to hers, searching for what she was missing, what she could improve. Reading books and magazines: same thing. Even exercise was work for Arden because she had to keep her thirty-four-year-old body in shape for the merciless cameras that made everyone’s butt look ten inches wider and ten pounds heavier. Same with having her nails and her hair done. She was fairly certain she worked when she slept.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSimplify This expressed her hard-won life’s motto: to simplify your life, to stuff useless old family heirlooms like grandmothers’ tea sets and framed photos of relatives so distant you couldn’t remember their names into neat cardboard boxes, tidily labeled and piled in the attic or basement, or given away to the secondhand shops so you could claim a tax deduction. As you did this, you vanquished the ghosts of the past, the should-haves and could-haves, the expectations of parents, the dreams of childhood. Then your present life was clear and spacious, facing forward, not back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden had spent her adult years simplifying. She had created a television show and her own life’s battle cry out of the desire to simplify her odd, complicated family (if you could even call it that), which was like a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces scattered by the winds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday she parked her posh little Saab convertible in her reserved spot in the station’s lot, whipped through the glass doors, nodded to the security guard, and strode down the corridor to her private lair. She unlocked it, stepped inside, leaned against the door, and kicked off her high heels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a hot day for early May. Arden stripped off her suit jacket and unzipped her tight skirt. She collapsed in the wonderfully padded chair behind her desk, put her feet up, and listened to her voice mails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMessages: The dry cleaner said the stain wouldn’t come out of the lavender silk dress. The masseuse reminded her she’d changed the time of her appointment. Marion Cleveland understood that all entries to Arden’s wonderful show should be sent by mail with a DVD, but Marion was a close personal friend of Ernest Hilton, the program director of Channel Six, and so Marion thought Arden wouldn’t mind Marion phoning directly because Marion’s house would be perfect for Simplify This.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour forceful thuds sounded at her door, and before she could speak, Ernest Hilton barged in, followed by a tiny wide-eyed brunette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ernest.” Arden swung her legs off her desk and straightened in her chair, yanking her shirt down over the undone zipper of her skirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Arden.” Ernest hauled a chair from the corner of the room, moved the stack of folders off it onto the only empty space on Arden’s desk, and set it next to the visitor’s chair facing Arden. He gestured to the size zero to sit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m not going to like this, Arden thought. She knew Ernest well enough after six years of working with him. He was fifty, jovial, and fat, and he never appeared in front of a camera.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’d like you to meet Zoey Anderson.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden smiled. “Hi, Zoey.” The young woman was dazzling, with enormous dark eyes and long dark hair clipped loosely to the back of her head. Her dress was a simple sleeveless sheath of linen, at least two sizes smaller than what Arden wore, and Arden was slim.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So here’s the deal,” Ernest continued, after Zoey gave a brief smile. “Channel Six has been bought out. New management. Now new show.” He held up his hands and spread them in a banner. “Simplify This from A to Z. Get it? From Arden to Zoey.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden’s heart turned to ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What the numbers are telling us, see, Arden, is that we’re not getting any of the younger demographic. You’ve captured the marrieds, the empty nesters, the first new homes in the suburbs, but no one under thirty watches ST.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I wouldn’t say no one,” Arden objected.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Time to move on, any old hoo.” Ernest slapped his hands on his mammoth thighs. “Things get old fast. Gotta change.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“ST has excellent ratings,” Arden reminded him. “The ratings show—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course, of course,” Ernest interrupted. “But they could be even better, and they will be once we’ve got Zoey on board. She can work with the under thirties. Who needs help simplifying more than they do? They live in lofts, share apartments, don’t know how to do their taxes or keep records, trip over all the wires for adapters for their thousands of devices. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZoey spoke up for the first time. Her voice was high pitched and girly girl. “One week I’ll do the youngies, and the next week you can do the oldies.” Arden was surprised Zoey didn’t put her finger in her dimpled chin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe youngies, Arden thought, inwardly moaning. The oldies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother tap at the door. Once again it opened before Arden could speak. Sandra, her secretary, stuck her head in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry, Arden, but you’ve got an emergency phone call.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden stared. She had no husband, no children. She didn’t even own a pet. “Thanks, Sandra.” She nodded toward Ernest. “Excuse me. I’d better take this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer mother spoke. “Arden? Honey?” Her voice sounded different. It didn’t crack with its usual take-charge, You know I’ve found the perfect house for you, Boston real estate agent’s pizzazz.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mom? Are you okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m fine, darling. But, Arden, . . . your father died.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My father died.” Arden repeated in robot tones, trying to make the words compute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, that’s so sad.” Across from her, Zoey’s enormous eyes filled with real tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He died on the island,” Nora continued. “I’ve spoken with Cyndi and Justine. The funeral will be on Monday.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mom, can I call you back?” Arden asked. “I’ve got people in the office. I need just a minute. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer mother clicked off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have to go to Nantucket,” Arden reported in a stunned monotone. “My father died. The funeral is Monday.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eErnest nodded lugubriously and got to his feet. “Terrible thing, terrible thing,” he intoned, although for all he knew, Arden’s father could have been an ax murderer. “Take all the time you want, Arden. In fact, you’ve got a lot of vacation due you. Why not take a month. Or two. Or three? I’m sure Zoey can handle it. The timing is just right; she can start her part of the series, and then in the fall we can segue you back in.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden sat dumbfounded, staring at her boss and his new, young, discovery. She knew how Ernest worked. With some degree of accuracy, she could interpret his every mouth crimp or eyebrow lift. Terror struck: was she losing control of her own show?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat would be a horrible thing, a betrayal of her and the years she’d put into Simplify This, and into this station, but as Arden sat quietly smoldering, there stood little Zoey with her eyes full of tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucky little Zoey, who wept when someone’s father died. Obviously, Zoey’s father had never abandoned her and her mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden could imagine Zoey’s life clearly: parents who adored each other and never divorced, brothers and sisters who were real siblings, a father who was a strong disciplinarian but fair, a mother who attended the school plays where Zoey had the leading role.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing like Arden’s mess of a life. Or like Arden’s oh-so-charming disaster of a father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had always assumed she would somehow get more of him later. My God, Rory Randall was only sixty and in good health. He golfed, he played tennis, he swam! How could he be dead? Arden still had so much to say to him, so many difficulties needed to be discussed and settled—he had so much to say to her, she knew he did, she knew! She was his first daughter, his first child. Because of that, she was special! Her mother had made a mistake, someone had gotten their information tangled; Rory Randall might be ill, perhaps in the hospital with a minor heart attack, but not dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEmotions shifted within her like fractures in the earth, warning of a tidal wave surging her way. Arden reminded herself she was a pro. Some people in the station considered her practically a goddess; she was gorgeous, clever, energetic, invincible. If she allowed herself to display anything except expertise bordering on disdain, everyone in the station from the janitor to the CEO would think she’d broken down because of Zoey’s arrival. It wouldn’t matter that Arden’s father had died. Everyone knew Arden’s only love was her work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe would not humiliate herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll pencil in another meeting for next Wednesday,” Arden said decisively. “I’ve got to leave now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course.” Ernest and Zoey went out, closing the door respectfully behind them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArden zipped up her skirt, then grabbed her purse and jacket. She slipped her feet back into her murderous high heels and trotted out of her office to her secretary’s desk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sandra, I’ve got to go to Nantucket for a week. My father died. You can reach me by cell.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh,” Sandra began, “I’m so sorry—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Arden didn’t trust Sandra. She knew the moment she was out of the building, Sandra would be gossiping about her with the other employees and interns. Really, there was no one you could trust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAtop those impossible heels, she stalked, head high, out of the station. She got into her car, fastened her seat belt, and drove away. She didn’t allow herself to cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeg Randall sat in her ancient Volvo tapping her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as she waited for the car ferry to bump into its place in the pier so the vehicles could be unloaded. She considered herself one of the most moderate, gentle, easygoing women she knew, but at this moment she felt as impatient as Secretariat stalled behind the starting gate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe steamship Eagle rumbled, shuddered, and groaned into its berth. Chains clanked as the dockworkers raised the ramp into place, jumped aboard, and waved the cars off. With a flash of triumph, Meg drove onto Nantucket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was here before Arden!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had been years since she’d been on the island. She’d never been old enough to drive here before, but her car carried her with perfect assurance down Steamboat Wharf, through the cobblestone grid of town, and along the winding narrow lane of Lily Street, into the driveway of her father’s house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stepped out into the sunshine and looked around. The street, with its houses clustered closely together, its narrow brick sidewalk, and tidy trimmed privet hedges, lay in timeless peace beneath the morning sun. It was very quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeg stretched. She had actually arrived before Arden, and she passionately wanted to have first choice of bedroom. That was why she’d hardly slept last night, and had left Boston before six a.m. to make the nine thirty ferry from Hyannis. Meg was going to claim the back bedroom overlooking the yards, lawns, and rooftops of the other houses in the village.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe beeped her station wagon locked, reached into her pocket, and took out the small key to the front door. It lay in her hand like an icon, like a treasure. It was a treasure. She had never had a key to this house before. Even though she had lived here, she had never belonged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhite clapboard, three stories high, with a blue front door sporting a bronze mermaid door knocker, the house was similar to the others in the neighborhood. The driveway next to the house was short, ending at a privet hedge centered by a rose-covered arbor. Already some of the pale roses were blooming. On either side of the front door, blue hydrangeas blossomed, and pink impatiens spilled from the white window boxes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA storybook house. A house with many stories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeg went up the eight steps to the small porch, took a deep breath, and opened the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCleaners had been in; she smelled lemon polish and soap. Ignoring the first floor, she took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. Like all old Nantucket houses, this one rambled oddly around, with rooms that had fireplaces or closets built in at odd angles. But the path to the bedroom, her bedroom, was embroidered into her memory like silk thread on muslin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere it was, at the back, with the morning glory wallpaper and two walls of windows gleaming with light. An old-fashioned three-quarter mattress lay on a spool bed, covered with soft old cotton sheets and a patchwork quilt in shades of rose, lemon, and azure, echoing the colors in the hand-hooked rug covering most of the satiny old pine floor. An enormous pine dresser stood against one wall, still adorned with the posy-dotted dresser scarf that had been there when Meg was a child. This room had no closets, only hooks for clothes, but that had never mattered to Meg. She had cherished the room because of the slightly warped, ink-stained wooden desk and creaking cane-bottom chair placed against the back window, where she could sit and write or contemplate the starry sky and dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen she was a girl, for a year this had been her bedroom. Then Arden got into one of her jealous snits, claiming that since she was the oldest, she got first dibs. Meg had to take the side bedroom, which should have delighted her. It was twice as large as the odd back bedroom, and actually decorated. The theme was mermaids, and Meg’s mother, Cyndi, who at the time had been the current Mrs. Randall, had gone a bit wild, draping the windows with mermaid curtains, covering the twin beds with mermaid sheets and comforters, softening the floor with a thick Claire Murray mermaid rug. Even the bedside lamps were held up by mermaids. It should have been a young girl’s paradise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt just made Meg cranky. She wouldn’t give her older, snotty half sister Arden the satisfaction of showing she preferred the back room, and she really wouldn’t beseech Arden to exchange rooms with her. She just accepted it. She was used to acceptance as a way of life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen their father married Justine and adopted Jenny, and Meg got to spend one blissful summer there. The next summer was when what Arden and Meg called The Exile began. After Justine took over, Meg and Arden didn’t get invited to spend any time at all at their father’s house, not one summer month, not one summer day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut that was then, and this was now, a new stage in life, a new day. Years had passed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeg would pretend to be selfless, thoughtful, taking the small back bedroom, allowing Arden one of the big front rooms. Jenny had the other front bedroom, years ago done up in pinks and greens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe needed to unpack quickly, before anyone else got here. She needed to spread her belongings out all over the room, claiming her territory.New York Times bestselling author of Secrets in Summer","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233275490533,"sku":"NP9780525618355","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525618355.jpg?v=1767730214","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/island-girls-isbn-9780525618355","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}