The Beach House (8 page)

“I have,” he says. “I’m Mark Stephenson. I’m the developer. And you are?”

“Oh how horribly rude of me!” Nan struggles to sit up but finds she can’t quite manage it so extends a hand instead. “I’m Nan Powell. Neighbor.”

The man’s eyes light up. “You’re Nan Powell? You have that wonderful house on the bluff?”

“I do indeed,” Nan says. “And I have a question for you. Who exactly is buying houses like this on Nantucket? Who needs a massage room, a games room and a movie theater?”

Mark Stephenson chuckles as he settles into the recliner next to Nan. “You’d be surprised,” he says. “Nantucket isn’t what it used to be.”

“Tell me about it, my dear.” Nan shakes her head. “I’ve been here for over forty years, and my late husband’s family even longer. But do you really expect to sell this?”

“I do.” He nods.

“And what’s the price?” Nan says.

“Why? Are you interested?”

Nan laughs. She likes this man.

“It’s twelve and a half.”

“Twelve and a half?” Nan is confused. “Twelve and a half
what
?”

“Twelve and a half million.”

Mark Stephenson repeats himself.

"But that’s
ridiculous
! That’s a fortune. Why would anyone pay twelve and a half million dollars for a house? And especially a house that doesn’t even have a pantry.”

“Ah, well, the type of people who will be buying this house probably won’t cook very much. They’re more likely to be eating out.”

“Not the type of people I want to have as my neighbors, I shouldn’t think.”

“I love your house.” Mark Stephenson decides to change the subject. “I got lost one day and drove up the driveway, and I have to tell you, you have one of the most special properties I’ve seen. Tell me, how many acres do you have?”

“Well, we used to have eighteen, but after we sold off the cottages it went down to nine. It is lovely, though, isn’t it? I must say, even without a massage room or a movie theater it does still somehow work for me.”

The developer throws his head back and laughs. “It’s the sort of house I could see myself in,” he says. “It’s a true family house. One that has clearly seen generations of people and ought to have children growing up in it. Lord knows I know how my own children would love that sort of space.”

“Oh you have children?”

“Three boys.” He makes a face and Nan laughs.

“And where are you?”

“We’re in Shimmo,” he says. “Great for town, but I’ve always loved Sconset. We come out here with the kids and they just cycle around the center of the village for hours.”

“So why don’t you move into your house?” Nan asks.

“I wish I could!” Mark laughs. “I can’t afford it. Anyway, I’m building what the market demands, not what I would necessarily choose for myself. I far prefer older houses.”

“Oh me too,” Nan says. “You’d doubtless love Windermere. Say, I’d really like to show you the inside of the house sometime. Why don’t you come and join me for a drink one evening?”

“I would love to, Mrs. Powell,” he says, stretching over with a business card that appears to have materialized from nowhere.

“Oh call me Nan,” she says with a laugh, a girlish giggle. “Everyone else does.”

Jessica sits at the table and stares at her plate.

“So what grade are you in?” Carrie leans over and tries to engage Jessica.

“Seventh,” Jessica mutters, not looking up from her food.

“Oh I remember seventh grade,” Carrie says, and Richard shoots her an encouraging yet sympathetic look from across the table. “I had a terrible time in seventh grade. Lots of bullying and there was a dreadful girl called Rona Fieldstone who made my life a misery.” There’s a pause. “Is it still tough in seventh grade or do you like it?”

Another long silence as Jessica tries to ignore Carrie, her whole being clouded in misery.

“Jessica!” Richard says. “Carrie is talking to you.”

Jessica shrugs, and Carrie looks at Richard helplessly.

“How are those pancakes?” Carrie tries again. “I love the smiley face,” although this was a lie. She doesn’t quite understand why a thirteen-year-old is ordering the chocolate-chip smiley-face pancakes from the children’s menu, nor does she understand why she holds her father’s hand throughout the entire meal, only letting go when Richard laughingly points out that he won’t be able to eat the French toast without his right hand.

The day before, when Jessica had refused to go to Belucci’s for lunch, Richard had watched her tantrum in the car, and honestly didn’t know what to do about it. Where was his lovely, happy, smiling daughter? Who was this evil, screaming being who couldn’t be consoled?

“Fine!” he’d eventually snapped, grabbing his cell phone and stepping out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d said to Carrie, hating that he was disappointing her. “We’re going to have to try to reschedule. Jess is just melting down. I can’t do this to the poor kid. I’ll call you later.”

He’d finished the phone call and turned to see Jessica smiling brightly as she sat there, her window wide open as he said good-bye.

“I love you, Daddy,” she’d said, as he got back in the car. “I just didn’t want to have our alone time spoiled.” She’d held his hand all the way to Four Brothers, and the only thing he could feel was relief that the tantrum was over, that she was back to his lovely, happy daughter again.

Today he hasn’t given her a choice. He takes her to the diner for breakfast, as he always does, and they sit in the booth they always do, but when Carrie joins them, sliding in opposite them and telling Jessica how thrilled she is to meet her, how many lovely things she’s heard about her, Jessica disappears—the Jessica he has been enjoying all morning is replaced by the same truculent horror as yesterday.

Richard watches this behavior, aghast. He is embarrassed that his daughter is being so rude, mortified that she refuses to answer but a single question, helpless as he watches Carrie struggle to make conversation, only to be rebuffed again and again. But what can he do? He can’t force his child to be polite, and he so wants to show her off—he wants her to show Carrie that she really is his funny, creative, sweet little girl. He wants Carrie to understand why he loves her so much.

Carrie gives up and turns to Richard. “So how was your meeting on—”

“Daddy?” Jessica interrupts, finally looking up at Richard. “Ellie got into trouble at school on Friday. She was caught writing a note to Lauren and Miss Brookman found it and read it to the whole school.”

“Really? That sounds embarrassing. Sweetheart, Carrie was talking. I’m sorry, Carrie, what were you saying?”

“I was just asking you about the meeting on Friday.”

“Oh I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about—”

“Daddy! I don’t like these pancakes. They taste weird. Here. Taste one.”

Richard leans forward and tastes her pancakes. “They’re fine, Jess. Delicious. Sorry, Carrie. So we were pitching—”

“They’re gross.” Jessica spits her food onto the table.

“Jessica!” Richard reprimands her sharply. “Pick that up right away. That’s disgusting.”

“It’s not disgusting.” Jessica’s voice starts to rise. “What’s disgusting is you surprising me with your friend. This weekend is supposed to be about you and me. Why is she here? Why is she ruining everything?”

Carrie stands up. “I should go,” she says gently.

“No,” Richard says firmly, “I want you to stay.” And Jessica dissolves into a mass of heaving sobs.

Daniel sits on the bench outside the Hub while Bee stocks up on newspapers, shells for the girls and funny books about Nantucket. The road is absolutely quiet, although everyone they met yesterday said they wouldn’t believe how busy it would be next month once the season had truly got underway; that you would barely be able to move for tourists wandering up and down the cobbled streets; that the traffIc would be terrible, old beaten-up Land Cruisers owned by the islanders replaced by Range Rovers and Escalades too big, too flash for the down-to-earth island.

On the other side of the road a dog barks from the cabin of a pickup truck while his owner has scrambled eggs and bacon in the garden of the Even Keel, and locals wander up and down, shouting good morning as they bump into one another while buying the local paper.

It is lovely here, and Daniel is surprised at how relaxed he feels, how easy it is to be here with Bee, how, for the first time in months, he doesn’t feel tangled up in knots.

They are staying at the Summer House, in a tiny little cottage covered in tangled roses that makes Daniel think of a fairy tale, the enchanted house in the middle of the magical forest.

But it isn’t in a forest. It’s in Sconset, across the road from the ocean where they sat last night, listening to the waves crash and talking about—what else?—how much they miss the girls.

They drove home after dinner in town and Daniel felt the familiar fear as he climbed into bed. How could they possibly not make love on a weekend away? He braced himself as he listened to Bee in the shower.

She came out in pretty, white, broderie anglaise pajamas, and climbed into bed next to him, immediately opening up her book, and he began to relax. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting anything after all.

But then, when they’d turned out the lights, just as he was drifting into sleep, Bee started tenderly stroking his thigh, and he lay with his eyes closed for a while, feeling her fingers circle him gently. He was so relaxed, and it felt really quite good, and so when she snuggled into him he nuzzled her back, and they ended up kissing, then one thing led to another . . . and when they had finished Bee lay her head on his chest and smiled.

She knew this weekend was exactly what they needed.

Daff parks her BMW in the driveway and taps her way up the garden path to the front door, her file in one hand, cell phone in the other.

"Daff !” The front door is flung open and a short blond woman with a small child attached to her right leg extends her arms to give Daff a hug.

“You look wonderful!” Daff says, and it is true. She has not seen this woman, Karen, since she sold her this house—one of her first big sales—and now she is returning to value it as Karen is unexpectedly pregnant with her third child, and they need something bigger.

“And who’s this?” Daff crouches down to say hello to the small person. “Oh my goodness!” She looks up at Karen. “I haven’t seen Jack since he was a baby. Look how big you are!”

She has careful notes about all her clients, their children’s names, ages, where they are in school, their hobbies, interests, where they go on vacation. She has developed a reputation, in a very short time, for being one of the nicest realtors to deal with—always honest, a hard worker, known as being someone who can close a deal and, more importantly, someone everyone likes being around. Most of her clients go on to become friends, and Karen is one of the few that Daff doesn’t see regularly, only because Karen is so busy with her children, her PTA work and her charities.

“I can’t believe what you’ve done!” Daff says, following Karen into the kitchen. “It’s beautiful.”

“I can’t wait to show you. The addition is wonderful and I love this house more than anything, but it’s still not going to be big enough when the baby comes.”

They have coffee, then do the tour, Daff exclaiming over the new master bedroom suite, the walk-in closets, the beautiful sun room with floor-to-ceiling French doors, which used to be a rickety and rather dirty screened-in porch.

The cherry kitchen, always dark and depressing, has been replaced with white wooden cabinets, black iron hardware and white marble countertops. The whole house has been beautifully decorated, and Daff pauses as she walks up the stairs, the wall being covered with family photographs.

“I love what you’ve done here.” Daff smiles as she looks at the family pictures, remembering how she once had a picture wall of happy family snaps—until the marriage split up, when she had to take down all the photos of Richard. And knowing that it would pain Jess immeasurably to see just the pictures of her father removed, she proceeded to take down all of them, putting up a large mirror instead, and placing the photos carefully in a box in the garage.

“Where’s this?” She points to a picture of the family sitting on a deck at twilight, the ocean behind them. “It’s beautiful.”

“That’s Nantucket. We go there every summer. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I’ve never been, but this looks truly gorgeous. Do you have a house there?”

Karen laughs. “Years and years ago my parents were looking to buy, and back then, for a couple of hundred thousand, you could have bought something wonderful on the ocean, but they decided it was too expensive. Now we’re all kicking ourselves because no one can afford it anymore, but we rent there every summer.”

“The same house?”

“Never. Some years we’ve had wonderful houses, and others we’ve had horrors, but the island is still wonderful and when you’re outside all the time it doesn’t make much difference.”

“I’d love to go,” Daff says. “Nantucket is one of those places people always tell me I would love.”

“Oh but it’s true,” Karen says. “You really would.”

“Maybe I’ll take Jess there sometime,” Daff says. “Although right now I’m public enemy number one. I’m lucky if she even comes to the diner with me, never mind Nantucket.”

“I think there’s something magical about the island.” Karen smiles gently. “Amazing things happen there. It’s where I met my husband, for starters.”

“Well, the very last thing I need is another husband.” Daff laughs. “Perhaps I won’t be going there after all.”

Carrie pours herself a glass of wine as she gets dinner ready, still feeling jarred by the events of the weekend. She has always considered herself someone who loves children. She has nieces and nephews, and is adored by them, and although she has no children of her own, she has always assumed that if the man she would eventually end up with had children, it would be nothing but a blessing.