charming Jessica with her warmth and humor.
“Jessica, stop this!” He pulls the car over to the side of the road as Jessica dissolves into full-blown sobbing. “We’re going and that’s the end of it. I suggest you pull yourself together right now.”
“I hate you!” she starts shrieking through her sobs. “I hate you and I’m glad you don’t live with us anymore!”
And Richard shakes his head, utterly helpless. He has no idea what to do.
Nan strides up the dirt driveway, narrowly avoiding a small bulldozer that’s shifting a pile of earth from one side to the other.
“Good morning,” she calls out to the men standing around, most of whom just smile in return, until she calls out jauntily, “Buenos días.”
“Buenos días, señora!” they say in return, parting to let her through. They are not sure who she is, but surely she belongs here, perhaps she is someone who is interested in buying this house? Perhaps a realtor coming to inspect the property? It is, after all, nearly finished.
Nan steps gingerly along the plank leading up to the front entrance—the stone steps are not quite ready—and then pushes the front door open, striding through the enormous living room to the French doors at the back.
“Good God,” she says to herself, turning and looking up at the twelve-foot-high coffered ceiling, the sweeping staircase, the elaborately paneled walls. “Who in the hell needs a house like this in Nantucket?”
She takes her time. Walks down the corridor to the kitchen, gasps at the size of the kitchen, the Viking eight-burner stove, the Sub-Zero fridge and the marble countertops.
“But where’s the pantry?” she mutters, opening doors and walking around. “How do you have a kitchen this size and no pantry? Where are you supposed to put the food?” She directs these questions to a Guatemalan plumber who’s lying on the floor tightening something under the sink. He doesn’t understand but smiles widely and nods.
“Ridiculous,” she says, continuing her journey. Up the stairs to the bedrooms—the master bedroom having walk-in closets that are each larger than her bedroom in her house—and then downstairs to the basement.
A fully equipped gym, a steam room that easily accommodates ten, a massage room fitted out with professional massage table. A pool room and bar, and then through to a twelve-seat movie theater, complete with leather reclining seats and a full-sized old-fashioned popcorn machine in the foyer.
“Hello? Can I help you?” A large man walks into the movie theater as Nan is trying out one of the reclining seats.
“I don’t know,” Nan says. “Can you? Do you know how to make these go all the way back?”
“I do,” he says. “You push on the arms.”
Nan pushes on the arms and goes flying backward until she’s lying prostrate. She starts to giggle. “Oh well done.” She thanks him. “I think I may have to have a nap. It’s terribly comfortable. You ought to try it.”
“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
“Jessica, stop this!” He pulls the car over to the side of the road as Jessica dissolves into full-blown sobbing. “We’re going and that’s the end of it. I suggest you pull yourself together right now.”
“I hate you!” she starts shrieking through her sobs. “I hate you and I’m glad you don’t live with us anymore!”
And Richard shakes his head, utterly helpless. He has no idea what to do.
Nan strides up the dirt driveway, narrowly avoiding a small bulldozer that’s shifting a pile of earth from one side to the other.
“Good morning,” she calls out to the men standing around, most of whom just smile in return, until she calls out jauntily, “Buenos días.”
“Buenos días, señora!” they say in return, parting to let her through. They are not sure who she is, but surely she belongs here, perhaps she is someone who is interested in buying this house? Perhaps a realtor coming to inspect the property? It is, after all, nearly finished.
Nan steps gingerly along the plank leading up to the front entrance—the stone steps are not quite ready—and then pushes the front door open, striding through the enormous living room to the French doors at the back.
“Good God,” she says to herself, turning and looking up at the twelve-foot-high coffered ceiling, the sweeping staircase, the elaborately paneled walls. “Who in the hell needs a house like this in Nantucket?”
She takes her time. Walks down the corridor to the kitchen, gasps at the size of the kitchen, the Viking eight-burner stove, the Sub-Zero fridge and the marble countertops.
“But where’s the pantry?” she mutters, opening doors and walking around. “How do you have a kitchen this size and no pantry? Where are you supposed to put the food?” She directs these questions to a Guatemalan plumber who’s lying on the floor tightening something under the sink. He doesn’t understand but smiles widely and nods.
“Ridiculous,” she says, continuing her journey. Up the stairs to the bedrooms—the master bedroom having walk-in closets that are each larger than her bedroom in her house—and then downstairs to the basement.
A fully equipped gym, a steam room that easily accommodates ten, a massage room fitted out with professional massage table. A pool room and bar, and then through to a twelve-seat movie theater, complete with leather reclining seats and a full-sized old-fashioned popcorn machine in the foyer.
“Hello? Can I help you?” A large man walks into the movie theater as Nan is trying out one of the reclining seats.
“I don’t know,” Nan says. “Can you? Do you know how to make these go all the way back?”
“I do,” he says. “You push on the arms.”
Nan pushes on the arms and goes flying backward until she’s lying prostrate. She starts to giggle. “Oh well done.” She thanks him. “I think I may have to have a nap. It’s terribly comfortable. You ought to try it.”
“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
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