Page 21 of The Holiday

Heather reaches out to take his hand, touched by his thoughtfulness. "You can go back down there and have a wonderful Christmas Day with your daughter, her husband, and their kids. I mean that." Heather is looking at him with sincerity. "I'm completely happy here for now, and if I need something, I'll come down to get it."

Dave gives her hand a squeeze and lets it go before standing. "Okay," he says. "As you wish."

After he's gone, Heather looks out the window at the overcast sky. She feels over-caffeinated and like she wants to shower and brush her teeth. But rather than get up, she snuggles down further under her blankets, pulling them up to her chin. Bed is where she belongs today. She and Celia need to be in their own separate corners on such an important holiday, and then they can regroup later and try to find common ground.

She'll deal with it all tomorrow.

Molly

It's been happening more often lately: she's been waking up feeling like she's on her boat again, sailing the world. In fact, one day in November it had taken Molly a full minute after waking to remember that she was on Shipwreck Key, in her little house, and not drifting on the open sea to a new location.

And it isn't that she's unhappy--quite the contrary. It's been some time since Molly has felt as settled and at peace as she does right now, and she's starting to think that maybe that's the problem.

For years on end now, she's woken up each day at three o'clock in the morning, made her way to The Scuttlebutt in the dark to bake that morning's muffins and scones, and brewed the coffee for the islanders. She's welcomed locals and visitors, poured, swept, mopped, counted change, bantered with Ephraim, who has been making her deliveries to the island for ages, and walked outside to shout at Bev Byer whenever she saw him opening up his bar across the street. It's all gotten so workaday and ordinary that Molly has begun to toss and turn at night, feeling the need to change things—to shake up her life somehow.

Take today, for instance: it's Christmas, a day when she should feel wonderful about keeping the shop closed and just lounging at home. But she doesn't. It isn't loneliness that's got her in its grips, at least not entirely. But there is a feeling that she's missing something, and more than once today she's wanted to walk down to the dock and get into her boat just to be out on the water and not on dry land.

But there's a big shindig happening this evening, and at least she has that to look forward to. For months now, the women in her book club have been planning to have an Open Doors Christmas, as they're calling it. The idea is that everyone will open up their own home during a specific window of time and serve different foods and beverages, and that people can come and go as they please, driving around the island on golf carts wrapped in tinsel and lights as they sing Christmas carols and visit one another for the holiday. And when people are done in one home, the owner closes things up and follows along, allowing everyone the chance to both host and be a guest.

It kind of reminds Molly of the holiday spirit she'd felt on the island of Rotuma in Fiji. There, she'd spent the entire season decorating, prepping, baking, and celebrating with the locals, who'd made it feel like they were one giant family. And that's the same feeling she has this year on Shipwreck Key, only there's something missing for Molly. She's been on her own for so long now that she isn't sure if it has anything to do with the fact that her friends and neighbors will all close their doors at the end of the night and still have family surrounding them, but she's got this itch to yank the rug out from beneath her own feet.

By five o'clock, Molly has her favorite dish, taco casserole, set out on the breakfast bar. Her Christmas tree is plugged in and looking festive. She's playing tropical holiday music--basically steel drums and ukuleles doing Christmas classics--and she's donned a red silk blouse and earrings, which are both slightly outside of her comfort zone. She won't bring herself to apply makeup, which is not for her, but she runs a brush through her short, stylishly messy graying hair and swipes on some cherry Chapstick.

"Ho, ho, ho!" Sunday calls out, stepping in through the front door with Banks right behind her, and a bottle of bubbly in one hand. She passes the champagne off to Molly, eyeing her dressed-up look with awe. “I love your blouse, Moll. Very elegant."

Molly puts the champagne in the fridge to hide her shining eyes; she can't help but feel choked up at having people in her home, and there's a part of her that wonders how her simple bungalow and her modest holiday decorations will compare to say, Ruby’s house, which is a five-bedroom home on the water. Ruby was once in charge of decking out the White House for the season, so Molly’s simple tree and strings of lights can’t be all that impressive.

“I think this is a wonderful idea,” Heather says, coming into the house with a tin full of cookies. Dave is with her, and they unwind the thin scarves from around their necks and lay their coats casually on a chair. “I love going to everyone’s houses and sharing hors d’oeuvres and desserts and wine.”

Dave, who is taller than everyone else in the room, looks like he’s bowing slightly, though there is no need for him to do so, as the ceiling is nowhere near his head. “You have a lovely home, Molly,” he says.

Molly walks around with glasses of champagne, handing one to each person. “Thank you.”

The evening rushes past with small talk, laughter, music, and everyone bundling back into their golf carts as they travel to the next location together, singing as they go. The only thing missing is Ruby, who has made a fairly speedy recovery from her feverish state the day before, but whom everyone agreed should stay put and they’ll come to her place.

When they finally arrive at Ruby’s, she’s sitting down and wearing a mask out of politeness and consideration for her guests, and while it’s made of fabric and covered in festive holly and ivy, it still leaves everyone feeling like they’re intruding on a sick person, so the merriment is somewhat dampened and the chatter and laughter is calmer.

As Molly drives back to her house at the end of the night, she feels a warmth spread through her at the thought of being surrounded by so much love and friendship. This has been a true gift to her, this past year or two, getting to know these women and, in effect, developing their own little homegrown family. She takes none of it for granted, but as she bumps along the sandy road in the moonlight, there is a part of her that wants to know what else there is that she might be missing. Because no matter where you settle or how happy you are, making a choice to be in one place and with one group of people means you’re actively making a choice not to be other places, not to be with other people.

The moon is visible through a thin, patchy cloud cover, and the night, though cold, isn’t nearly as chilly as it was just twenty-four hours earlier when it snowed. Molly slows down, driving and thinking and in no hurry to get back to her own house and sit alone by her tree.

More and more frequently, her mind returns to the places she’s traveled on her boat—specifically to the journey she’d taken as a young widow after her husband Rodney died. She’d been to Madagascar, Fiji, Japan, and Spain. And she’d been fearless, or, if not fearless, at least not afraid to try things. When had she gotten afraid to try? To uproot? To step into new situations? When had she grown so complacent that staying on this tiny island, living alone, and running her coffee shop had felt like the final chapter in her book?

Because, to Molly, she still feels like she has—if not a whole new act—at least a few new chapters left in her story. She slows her cart to a complete stop near the water, letting it idle as the headlamp casts a light out onto the sand and the water. The waves roll in and crash as she watches, thinking of what it feels like to let the water lull her to sleep on a boat. It’s been too many years since her only companions were the ocean and the sky, the marine life, the birds, the weather. Too many years since she didn’t have to wake up to make the scones, since she had to be in bed early every night in order to get enough sleep, since she’d met new people each day and encountered new languages, new foods, new situations. And she still wants that—very much.

Molly sits there a while longer, mapping out the possibilities in her head. Could she rent out her bungalow? Bring in management to run The Scuttlebutt? Give herself three years to travel and to get it all out of her system? Maybe if she’s back on dry land by the time she’s seventy…or maybe she should just sell it all and hit the road for good.

Start fresh.

Do it all again.

Make a new life.

Molly puts her cart in drive and heads home. The lonely, twinkling lights of her little tree beckon to her from the front window as she gets closer, and she’s never felt more certain in her life that home isn’t a house, but a feeling. A place that resides within her. A place she can take with her wherever she goes.

Ruby

“I have news,” Dexter says, planting a kiss on top of Ruby’s head as she sits at her kitchen table on New Year’s Eve morning, nursing a cup of coffee and waking up. She’s feeling a million times better than she felt at Christmas, and while she was disappointed to have missed out on being a fun hostess as people showed up at her house, she’s happy to be back on her feet for Heather’s wedding day. This is important to her.

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