By You never forget your first Elin Hilderbrand novel. For me it was Nantucket Nights, its glossy lavender cover calling out to me during a .
I devoured the descriptions of skinny-dipping moms and forbidden love as I became enraptured with Hilderbrand’s sun-drenched world, often trading soft-cover copies with friends and discussing boss-employee affairs and potential murder suspects in a conspiratorial tone usually reserved for gossiping about people we actually knew.To read Elin Hilderbrand is to join a delicious subculture.
One that whisks you away to a lightly fictionalized Nantucket, where friends, frenemies, and billionaires populate the seasonal island.
The characters are as flawed as they are fabulous, passing time between micro-dramas and major life changes, tanning on Jetties beach, drinking a few too many martinis at well-known establishments like The Club Car, booking the captain’s table at The Nautilus, and generally experiencing the island like real-life tourists and locals, which Hilderbrand herself has been since 1993.—as her ardent fanbase calls themselves—are almost a Swiftian-level army for the feminist beach-read set and often flock to the island to interact with the author.
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