Page 1 of The Holiday

PartOne

Sunday

Three days until Christmas. Three days to wrap all the gifts, bake all the desserts, fill the stockings, and enjoy the festivities of the island. Three days of having both of her girls on Shipwreck Key, and also of having her beloved grandson there in her arms.

Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas" is playing in the front room, and from where Sunday Bond stands, she can see the twinkling lights of the tree she's set up in the corner of her dining space. A long strand of glittering white tinsel is draped across the mantel of her fireplace, and her kitchen table is covered in a red-and-white striped cloth with little embroidered Santas dancing across it. Banks, Sunday's boyfriend, has strung colorful lights around the outside of her beach bungalow (is it even kosher to call one another "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" in their 50s? Sunday doesn't care--it just feels so nice to think of having a boyfriend instead of a jerk of a husband, and she lets the wordboyfriendroll around in her head like a smooth marble in her palm), and she loves the juxtaposition of sunny blue skies, sparkling sea, and white sand against her festive Christmas decor.

Sunday is beside herself with joy. As she stands in her small, cozy kitchen with its window over the sink that looks out at the water, she feels an enormous sense of gratitude and goodwill towards her very best friend, Ruby Hudson. Who could have imagined all those years ago, when they first met, that one day they'd be living on an island in the Gulf of Mexico, enjoying the fruits of their hard work in raising solid daughters and surviving Washington D.C.? Could they ever have pictured themselves without the husbands who had turned them into political wives (Ruby, now widowed because President Hudson had flown his single engine plane nose-first into the water, and Sunday, single because she'd finally made good on her long-held promise to divorce Peter Bond after their time in the White House was finished)? And furthermore, what crystal ball might they have looked into in order to see that after all the child-rearing, charity volunteering, political-wifing, and heartbreak--after all of that--they'd find themselves both wildly in love with good men? Really, truly, honestly good men?

Sunday takes a kitchen towel from the top of a mixing bowl where her dough has been rising, and she leans forward to inhale deeply the warm, yeasty smell. Baking bread for the dinner she's hosting that evening is the last thing on her to-do list, and Sunday prepares the dough for the oven, sliding the pan inside to bake while she takes a quick shower.

Having a big Christmas on the island was an idea that came to life at a book club meeting, and everyone had agreed that inviting their family and friends to Shipwreck Key would make for a perfect holiday. For Sunday, it means the culmination of so many good things that she can't even count them all, and as she stands under the hot shower, she hums "I'll Be Home for Christmas" to herself as she thinks about how blessed she is.

It's Christmas! And her girls are here on Shipwreck Key! With her grandson!Sunday pours shampoo into her hand and lathers up her hair.Banks is staying at her house for the holiday--her wonderful, loving, hilariously dry and wise Banks. And Ruby is happy, too, with her girls on the island, and her own boyfriend arriving that afternoon!It's all going to add up to the best Christmas on record--Sunday just knows it.

However, there is one tiny catch with the whole situation, and her humming stops as she rinses her hair, eyes closed, face turned up towards the ceiling. She clasps her hands together as hot water streams down her shoulders and over her body. The fly in the ointment is her ex-husband, Peter Bond--former Vice President and current thorn in her side.

Sunday turns off the water and reaches for the towel that hangs on a hook. She puts it over her face, drying the water from her eyes.

"I seriously invited Peter for Christmas, didn't I?" she mutters to herself as she steps out of her white tiled shower and onto a thick navy blue bathmat. "I took pity on the old bastard when he never once took pity on me."

Sunday walks over to the mirror with her towel wrapped around her body. She leans in close and examines the image that stares back at her: fifty-five; curly brown hair shot through with bits of silver; fairly smooth face; bright blue eyes. She's never thought of herself as a stunning beauty, but neither is she terribly offended by the face that looks back at her. And she's always been lucky to have a body that responds well to long walks and eating healthily; for that she's grateful. She knows plenty of women who have gone through menopause and fought like hell to hang onto the physical self they've always known, but to no avail. That's not to say it's easy, but Sunday has always been athletic and hasn't ever had much of a sweet tooth, so she counts herself fairly lucky. She'll take the spider veins on her calves and the crow's feet around her eyes and keep her mouth shut, thank you very much.

But there are other things that have changed for her--some good, some bad. Finally divorcing Peter and falling in love with Banks: good. Improving her relationship with her daughter, Cameron: good. Becoming a grandma:great. But seeing herself in the mirror and in photos as she slowly turns from a juicy grape into a wrinkled raisin: not so fabulous.

“Sunday?” Banks enters the house by calling out for her—always. As a Secret Service agent, he knows exactly how to be stealthy and to go unnoticed, but he also knows that announcing himself when walking in the front door of a single woman who lives alone is just polite.

“In here!” she shouts back. Sunday walks over to her closet and opens the door as she admires her sparse wardrobe. She brought a lot of the things with her that she’d worn as a political wife: chiffon skirts, linen trousers, tailored men’s shirts—but she’d mostly given them up in favor of shorts, jeans, and loose, easy shirts. Part of the beauty of being a woman of a certain age (and one who lives on an informal tropical island) is that she can pretty much wear whatever she wants and not worry about it. And so she does.

“Well, hello there,” Banks drawls. There is suggestion in his voice as he sidles up behind her, setting his big, strong hands on her waist. Sunday is still wearing only a towel, and she smiles lazily. She turns to face him. “Are we in a hurry?” he asks.

Sunday shakes her head, but says nothing.

“Then let me help you get dressed,” Banks says. He watches her face for signs of protest, but when there are none, he slowly unfastens her towel and lets it fall to the ground, kissing her neck as he wraps his arms around her.

Now this—thisis something Sunday loves about being in her mid-fifties: she loves feeling free. The expectations of perfection are gone, and it’s okay for her to love the fact that a man wants her in spite of (or maybe because of) her rounded hips, her warm folds, her softened angles. She’s no longer beholden to motherhood every minute of the day, wondering where the girls are, if they’ll need her for something soon, whether what she said to them that morning will have a lasting negative impact on their tender sensibilities. For the first time in a long time, she’s just Sunday, and she loves it.

“Oh,” Sunday says, tilting her face to the ceiling as Banks kisses her collarbone and lifts her off her feet as easily as if she weighed nothing. “This is nice.”

“We really have time?” he asks, pulling back to look at her.

“I just have to listen for the oven timer,” she says throatily, pulling him close again. “I’m making bread.”

“I have a timeframe?” Banks asks as he nuzzles her neck. “I can work with a timeframe.”

Sunday gives a deep laugh. “Okay, buddy. You’re on.”

They end up under the covers together, giggling like teenagers until the timer on the oven goes off and Sunday sighs contentedly.

“We have guests coming,” she says, climbing out of bed with obvious reluctance. “Want to help me get everything ready?”

With a groan, Banks throws off the covers, stands, and stretches. As usual, his strong back and shoulders, toned body, and general masculinity takes Sunday’s breath away. After decades of being married to a man who preferred the company of other men, Banks is a revelation. She watches him with one eyebrow arched as he pulls a t-shirt over his head.

“You got it, boss,” he says, stepping into a pair of running shorts. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

Sunday pulls a sweatshirt over her head just as Banks lunges at her and lifts her off the ground again. With a squeal of laughter, she throws her arms around his neck. “Banks! People will be here in an hour! We have to set the table, get the sides done, and I still need to clean up the kitchen.”

Banks sets her down again, looking at Sunday with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “Okay, okay.” He puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m ready to work.”

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