The Beach House

Chapter Twenty-nine
Daniel puts the phone down, stands still for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath, knowing he has to be the one to tell Nan.
He looks through the window and sees her, bent over in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds out and placing them in a plastic bag next to a trug filled with peas. Jess is sitting on the grass next to her, laughing as she chatters away, shelling the peas into a large bowl from the kitchen which is balanced precariously on top of her crossed legs.
Daniel walks out through the back door and trudges wearily over to the garden, filled with sadness at the loss of a man he has always liked enormously, a man who has been, in many ways, more of a father to him than his own.
He hates being the bearer of bad news, but he would have to either tell Michael who would tell Nan, or tell Nan himself. Telling her himself feels cleaner, somehow, easier this way.
“You look ghastly.” Nan looks over the fence at Daniel with a smile. “Nothing can be that bad, my darling.”
“Nan, can we go somewhere and talk?”
Nan’s face turns pale. “Why? What is it?”
“I . . . I need to talk to you.”
“What is it? Who’s been hurt? Is it Michael?” Her voice rises in panic.
“No.”
“Tell me, Daniel.” She pulls herself up straight, steeling herself.
“It’s Evan . . . Everett,” he says. “He had a massive heart attack last night. The ambulance came quickly but there was nothing they could do.” His face is a mask of sympathy; he doesn’t know how to break this sort of news, nor how Nan will take it.
Nan nods slowly. “So this time he is truly dead?” she asks, her voice devoid of all emotion.
“Yes.” Daniel nods. “This time he is dead.”
Nan bends down and lays her clippers neatly next to the trug, straightening up and placing a soft hand on Jess’s head, almost as if to steady herself, yet there is no expression on her face, no sign of any sadness at all.
“I’m going inside,” she says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Nan, are you okay? Shall I come with you?” Jess has jumped to her feet.
“No, child.” Nan looks at her. “I shall be fine. It just wasn’t what I expected to hear.”
“I’m so sorry, Daniel,” Jess says awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. “How’s Bee?” she asks, once Nan has disappeared into the house, the pair of them watching her go. “And the girls?”
“The girls don’t really understand,” Daniel says. “Bee’s a mess. I’m going over there now. Maybe you could come and watch the girls, or give Bee a hand, just make sure they’re all okay.” He doesn’t think that Jess is only thirteen, too young to be given this sort of responsibility, and Jess is eager to help.
“Of course.” Jess jumps up and carries the bowl into the kitchen, scampering up the stairs to find her flip-flops, which are somewhere under an enormous pile of clothing in her room.
“Did you tell your mom we were going?” Daniel asks when she comes back down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“No. I don’t know where she is,” Jess says.
“She’s on the back porch,” he says. “Reading.”
Jess runs out through the living room doors and startles her mother. “Bye, Mom.” She bends down and kisses her mother. “I have to go and look after the girls. We just heard that Bee’s dad, Nan’s old husband, died last night, and Daniel and I are going over there to see them. Love you,” she calls, disappearing around the side of the house, leaving Daff open-mouthed in shock.
Not because of the news, not because of Everett, but because her daughter spontaneously kissed her, and told her she loves her. Something she hasn’t done for years.
She sits for an hour, replaying it over and over again in her mind, a tear of gratitude rolling slowly down the side of her face before she gets up to wander inside.
Daff knocks on Nan’s door, waiting a few seconds before knocking again.
“Yes?” Nan’s voice is soft.
“Nan? It’s Daff. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”
“Come in, sweet girl.” Daff pushes open the door to see Nan sitting on the window seat and looking out to the ocean.
“I heard the news.” Daff places the cup and saucer down on a low mahogany table. “I’m so sorry.”
Nan turns her head to look at her. “Isn’t it odd, that we are always sorry when someone dies, but with Everett I don’t know how to feel. I don’t feel sorry. I feel that I got all my sorries out all those years ago when I thought he was dead. I feel . . . I don’t know. Empty perhaps. Relieved. Oh dear, I don’t suppose I’m meant to say that, and poor Bee, she must be in so much pain to have lost her father. I feel as if there has been this huge upset in my life, and I was steeling myself for more, for more pain, yet another tumultuous event, but now, finally, I feel a sort of calm.”
“I can understand that.” Daff sits down gently on the seat next to Nan.
“I loved him so much,” Nan muses. “For so long. As the years went by I built him up into a superman, a demi-god, pouring all my love into his house, into the memories that Windermere held, turning our marriage into something so perfect that of course I would never marry again, never do anything to defile what I convinced myself was the greatest love of all time.” She pauses, looking out of the window again before turning back to Daff.
“To discover the lie, the betrayal, to see Everett again as an old man . . . to see him weak and ill, and, more, to know that he didn’t have the courage to face up to his defects, that he chose running away from us rather than finding a way for us all to work through it together . . .” Nan shakes her head and sighs. “I don’t feel sad that he is dead. I feel grateful.”
“Grateful?” Daff furrows her brow. “I don’t understand.”
“I am grateful that I got to see him again. Grateful that I saw him as human, and flawed, and weak. Grateful that I no longer have to live my life missing a perfect man, a perfect marriage, staying in this house because of all the perfect memories it holds.”
Daff frowns. “But, Nan, you love this house.”
“I do. I have always loved this house. The difference is I don’t need to stay here anymore. By holding on to Windermere, I was holding on to a memory of a marriage, a memory of a man who only really existed in my imagination. Seeing Everett again means I can let it go.”
“You want to move?”
Nan shrugs. “The house is too old and too big for me. Even if I had the money to make it beautiful, I can’t look after it, not even with Sarah’s help.”
“What about Michael?”
“Michael needs an old rambling house even less than I do,” Nan says. “It’s time to say good-bye. I wasn’t sure when I saw Mark Stephenson, but I’m sure now. Tell me honestly—” she leans toward Daff and takes her hand—“could you see you and Michael living in this house?”
Daff blushes and looks away. “I . . . I’m not sure . . .”
“Come on, Daff.” Nan smiles. “I know what’s going on with you two. I’m delighted. I couldn’t be happier. I haven’t seen Michael this at ease with anyone ever, and there is a light in your eyes now that was missing when you arrived. I think the two of you are perfect together, and I, for one, certainly see a long and happy future—” Nan stops short, seeing Daff’s eyes fill with tears. “What is it?”
“Oh Nan,” she says. “It has been so lovely but something has happened. I don’t know why, but Michael isn’t talking to me, he can barely look at me. It hurts so much. Oh Lord,” she says and begins to sob, “I had forgotten quite how much this hurts.”
“You love him,” Nan says simply, and Daff looks up with shock, not having thought about love, not thinking that love would find her, here, in Nantucket, so unexpectedly. She nods slowly as Nan smiles.
“Then go to him and talk,” she says. “And for heaven’s sake find out what the matter is. You know as well as I do, my dear, that the key to a good relationship is knowing how to communicate. Everybody argues, everyone has misunderstandings, but you have to know how to get through them, not to let resentment build up until you can’t find your way back to one another. Perhaps, ” she muses, “perhaps things might have been different if Everett had known how to communicate with me.”
“Thank you, Nan.” Daff leans down and kisses her. “You’re a wise woman.”
"You will be fine.” She pats Daff’s hand. “Go to him and tell him how you feel.”
Daff walks off as a rusty old jeep pulls into the driveway, and Nan walks over, unable to conceal her delight.
“Sarah!” Nan opens her arms as Sarah, grinning, climbs out of the car and runs over to give Nan a huge hug, noticing how frail she seems.
“Nan!” she scolds. “You’re so thin. You haven’t been looking after yourself.”
Nan laughs. “Oh I have, and I’ve been busy looking after everyone else. I missed you.”
She pulls back and suddenly holds Sarah at arm’s length, looking her slowly up and down with a knowing gleam in her eye. “Never mind me being thin,” she says, a smile spreading on her face. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Sarah’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “How do you know?” she sputters. “How can you possibly tell? I’m only six weeks!”
Nan raises an eyebrow. “You know some people say I’m a witch.” Nan winks at her before kissing Sarah on the forehead and taking her hand. “What lovely news. A baby. I can’t think of anything nicer.”
“I know, it’s so exciting.” Sarah grins. “But we’re not supposed to be telling anyone until twelve weeks.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Where is everyone?” Sarah asks. “How’s Michael? And the tenants? Any romances I ought to know about?”
Nan laughs. “Oh my goodness, Sarah. I don’t even know where to start. Let’s go inside and make some tea.”
The cars and bicycles are all there, other than the truck Daniel has taken to Bee’s, so Michael can’t be far.
Daff finds him, eventually, down at the beach, bobbing in the whaler that he is painstakingly oiling. He doesn’t see Daff as she strips her shorts off, quickly and quietly, wading into the water in her bathing suit without a sound, swimming noiselessly out to the boat.
Michael looks up to see Daff swimming, her hair slicked back, seal-like as she glides toward the boat. He feels an instant mix of desire, warmth, pain, confusion. He can’t avoid her here, so he puts the oil and rag down, extending a hand to help her onto the boat, silently handing her a towel to dry herself off.
“I’m sorry,” Daff blurts out, breathless both from nerves and from the swim. “Whatever it is I’ve done, I’m sorry. I would never do anything to hurt you, not intentionally, but clearly I have. I want you to know that whatever I have to do to make it better, I will do.”
“It’s not what you’ve done to me,” Michael says quietly, not looking at her. “It’s what you’ve done to my mother.”
“What are you talking about?”
Michael finally looks up and meets her eyes. “I heard you,” he says. “I heard you and Mark Stephenson. I heard about the dirty little deal you have with him, the fact that you’ll get money from persuading my mother to sell him the house, except—” he laughs bitterly—“I also heard the part about him reneging because you didn’t fulfill your part of the bargain by getting him the house cheap.”
“Oh Michael.” Daff hangs her head in shame. “I am so, so sorry you heard that. Listen to me.” She stands in front of him and takes his hands. “Mark Stephenson offered me a percentage the night of that party. I never said yes to it, although for a while, I’ll admit, I was tempted. I kept thinking I wouldn’t have to worry about child support running out, I wouldn’t have to lie awake every night worrying about money, about putting Jess through college. Then I realized I couldn’t do it.”
“It didn’t sound like that from what I overheard,” Michael says.
“I know. Because I was about to tell Mark Stephenson I didn’t want his money, didn’t want anything to do with it because it all felt too dirty, and because I didn’t want to lie to you, or Nan, or start this relationship with a betrayal. Before I had the opportunity to tell him I didn’t want the money, he said he wasn’t paying me anyway, and I was so stunned by how unethical he was, I couldn’t even speak.”
There is a long silence as Michael digests what she is saying.
“Do you swear you weren’t going to take the money?”
“I swear to you,” Daff says. “I couldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t do it. And . . .” She takes a deep breath. “This means too much to me for me to f*ck it up. I never ever expected to find this, but you’re the best man I’ve ever met. There’s no way I’d do something that stupid.”
Another silence. Daff looks away. When she looks back it is to see Michael grin. “You thought about it, though.”
“Yes.” Daff feels a pang of relief. She knows from his grin it will be okay. “I did.”
“I suppose I can forgive you.” He slides the strap of her bathing suit off her shoulder as he puts his arms around her and pulls her close, burying his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply, loving the feel of her, the smell of her, the taste of her. “You’re only human after all.”
As the pair of them sink to the deck of the boat, the water laps gently around them and the seagulls cry overhead.
“I love this house.” Stephen pauses at the bay window in Nan’s room and looks out at the water, turning to smile at Nan. “I have spent years sailing past and looking at it from the outside. It’s just as beautiful on the inside.”
“Thank you,” Nan says. “It has been a warm and happy home for us for many years.”
“I’ve heard about the parties that used to be held here,” Stephen says as he turns back to gaze at the lawn. “What a shame people don’t throw parties like that anymore.”
“Well,” she says, “perhaps if you buy Windermere you can hold those parties again.”
Keith’s eyes light up. “Oh we do love a good party.” He moves next to his partner to admire the view.
“We do too.” Nan muses, “I do think when we leave we ought to go out with a bang, don’t you think? A party on the lawn? A band? A wonderful supper?”
“Oh God.” Keith shivers with delight. “Even the word ‘supper’ makes me think of Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. This is the perfect house for a party like that . . . we could do white tie, or a black and white ball like Truman Capote! Oh Nan! Oh Stephen! Think of the parties we could throw!”
Nan laughs delightedly and turns her head slightly to whisper to Daniel, “Thank you for bringing them here. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see living here.”
“Do you mean that?” Daniel whispers back as he looks across the room and catches Matt’s eye.
“I do,” she says. “I love Stephen’s portfolio. I love that he brought it along, to show me that he really does want to restore Windermere. And Keith is a gas! I think they’re the perfect people to inject new life into the old girl.”
“They’re so much better than that Mark Stephenson,” Nan says to Michael and Daff when they are back downstairs and Daniel and Matt are walking Stephen and Keith around the garden. “What a dreadful man he was.”
“You did know, then?” Daff is amazed. “I was worried you were taken in by him.”
“Not for a second. I knew he’d tear down this house immediately, and frankly I expected it. I mind that far less than him lying about it, trying to tell me that he wanted to raise his family here because he thought I’d sell it to him for less.”
“Have you told him you won’t sell it to him?” Michael is worried.
“No, darling, of course not. I wanted Stephen and Keith to see the house properly first, and let’s just wait for them to make an offer. I must say I’m still keen to do a private deal—those realtor fees are extortionate—sorry, Daff.”
Daff shrugs and looks away, catching Michael’s eye as she does so, the pair of them exchanging a small smile.
“We love it,” Keith says, his eyes filling up as he wipes a tear away. “I think we’d be incredibly happy here, and Stephen already has wonderful ideas for restoring her.”
Nan smiles. “How funny, I have always thought of Windermere as a her, too. The grand old lady on the bluff.”
“Rather like you,” Keith says, “if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Not at all. Far better grand than mad,” she says with a wink.
“I love her!” Keith mouths silently to Matt, who mouths back, “Told you!”
“Perhaps you and I could go somewhere quiet and talk business? ” Stephen says softly.
“Of course.” Nan stands up and allows herself to be escorted out of the room. “Let’s go into the study.”
“Five million?” Michael looks confused. “But you wanted ten from Mark Stephenson. That sounds like far less than the house is worth.”
“But he wants less than half the land!” Nan says. “He wants the house, and three acres. Says the rest is too unmanageable for him. We could build another house, right here! It couldn’t be more perfect!”
“Wow!” Daff starts to smile as she turns to Michael. “That really does sound perfect.”
“We could even build two houses,” Nan says, her excitement barely contained. “One for me, and one for you two—well, three, including Jess.”
Daff blushes. “Us two? No . . . we’re . . .” She looks at Michael, embarrassed, for she would never dare think that far into the future, would never dare say something that would expose her that much, make her that vulnerable.
Michael takes her hand and grins at Nan. “What a splendid idea,” he says, and Daff feels stars of joy explode inside her.
“Now the question is,” Nan says, with a small devilish frown, “how do we tell Mr. Stephenson that the house is not his after all?”
“Oh let me!” Daff says. “Please let me! I’ll enjoy every second of it.”
Michael sits in the waiting room, flicking through a boating magazine as Daff goes into Mark Stephenson’s offIce, where the walls are so thin Michael can hear every word.
“I thought it only fair to come here in person,” Daff says quietly, “to inform you that Mrs. Powell has had an offer on the house that she has decided to accept.”
There is a silence, then an explosion. “What?”
Daff starts to repeat herself until Mark Stephenson interrupts.
“I heard you! What do you mean, she’s had another offer? What the hell are you playing at? You can’t just accept another offer without coming back to me first!”
“Do we have anything in writing?” Daff plays dumb.
“No we damned well don’t, but we had an agreement.”
“We did? I thought our agreement was off.”
“No, it’s not off!” Mark Stephenson yells. “Get me that house, and of course I’ll pay you! What’s the offer for? How much do I need to pay?”
“I’m sorry,” Daff coos. “I’m afraid the deal is now off the table. I only came here as a courtesy, not as a negotiating tactic.”
His voice turns menacing. “You listen here. There’s no such thing as f*cking courtesy in this kind of deal. You tell me right now how much I need to pay, or I swear to you . . .”
“You’ll swear to her what?” Michael appears in the doorway, just as Daff is starting to worry.
“Oh!” Mark Stephenson’s expression changes instantly, affecting a charm he quite clearly doesn’t have. “Michael.” He extends a hand which Michael ignores. “I had no idea you were here.”
“Clearly,” Michael says wryly.
“I was just making the point that this is no way to do business, ” Mark Stephenson says. “I understand that your mother has an offer on the table, and I’d like to come up with a competitive offer. Whatever it is, I’ll top it by . . . half a million.”
Michael shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, how much is the offer? I can go up if I have to.”
“No,” Michael says firmly. “I don’t think you understand. Some things, and some people, cannot be bought. My mother is one of them. Come on, Daff, we’re done here.”
Taking her arm, he leads her out of the room.



Summer 2008
Bee wakes up, as she does every day, just before five thirty a.m. In the old days, living in Westport, married to Daniel, waking up was always a struggle for her—she’d lie in bed trying to sleep her life away, until one of the girls woke her up, and bleary-eyed she would be forced to get up, stumble downstairs and blindly reach for the coffee as she made breakfast for the girls.
Now it is an effort to sleep past five. She awakens every morning filled with energy, jumping out of bed, padding across the floor, stepping onto the deck outside her bedroom to watch the early morning sun, listen to the crickets, the soft silence, and gaze at the boats bobbing lazily on the water in the distance.
She runs downstairs, pours herself some coffee and sits outside on the doorstep, sipping slowly as Albert, a stray kitten that seems to have adopted them, winds himself around her ankles, mewing for breakfast, before jumping on her lap and purring contentedly as she absentmindedly rubs him under the chin.
Every morning, as she sits here, she is filled with bursts of joy, a happiness she didn’t know she would ever find, for she always looked for it in the wrong places.
For years she thought a man would bring her happiness. When she married Daniel, she expected to finally find it, but it is only now, now that she is truly on her own, with her girls, doing work she adores, that she knows what happiness is.
She and the girls are still in the house on Quidnet, but it has been a year since they moved in, a year of testing the waters, finding out whether Nantucket is a place they could live, rather than just stay until they find their footing again.
A year later, Bee knows Nantucket is home.
When her dad died, it was a huge scandal. There had already been gossip about Everett Powell returning but a tenacious journalist had followed it up and got the story, and for a few weeks Bee had the unpleasant experience of being at the center of a news story that felt like it had no end.
The New York Post got hold of it, running the story for days, photographers and journalists camped outside her house to get pictures of her and the girls. The local papers all tried to woo her into talking, as a new-found member of island royalty, but she didn’t speak.
Eventually they all left her alone, moved on to the next story, and other than a few stares when she went to do her shopping, she was able to live her life. In some ways, she was relieved the story came out. Arthur Worth wrote to her, and she went to his house, staying for hours to listen to stories about her father as a young man, putting together the pieces of the puzzle that made up her father’s life.
There have been others. Many others. People who had known her father, who had loved him, who were shocked by the story but eager to get to know Bee, help her put her history together, find out who she really is.
Now she is writing a book. Part memoir, part biography, she is writing about her life: growing up thinking her family was perfect, marrying a man with whom she thought she could mirror her parents’ marriage, then discovering everything she thought was true and real was in fact a sham.
She is writing about the Powell family. How they reached the island, how they came to be such an important part of Nantucket’s history. And she is writing about her father. His life, his marriage to Nan, the trouble that led to him faking a suicide; how life came full circle, finally bringing him home.
She misses him still, but writing this book has brought him to life again. She feels him around her, supporting her, loving her, gently encouraging her and leading her to people and places she is convinced she would not have found had he not been somewhere, watching over her.
After a few minutes of feeling the early morning sun wash over her, Bee takes her coffee to her computer in her bedroom, and opens her notebook, reviewing what she wrote yesterday, what she has to write today.
She still doesn’t think of herself as a writer, yet over the past year she has had three short stories published, one in the back of the New York Times magazine. Just a few weeks ago she sent a synopsis of her book and three sample chapters to one of the big New York agents, fully expecting never to hear from them.
Three days later the agent called her, said she loved it, could they meet.
Now she has an agent, and as soon as the book is finished they are sending it out to the publishing houses. Bee still can’t quite believe it. She celebrated with the girls when she found out: champagne for Bee, sparkling apple cider for the girls, as they danced around the deck, cheering.
Today will be a difficult day to write. Some days it comes so easily, like writing on auto-pilot, the words flowing from her fingers, her mind so calm it is as if the book is writing itself. Other days it is like squeezing blood from a stone.
Bee has learned the secret—the magic tool that separates the true writers from the people who merely dream of being writers, who have a wonderful idea but never get started, or get started but never finish. She has learned the secret of discipline, of plowing through even when it feels like she has nothing to say; of writing even though she doesn’t know what to write; of writing even when there are days, like today, when she is fighting the excitement of the party tonight—the farewell bash at Windermere, for Nan is moving out of the house next week.
Bee has come to love Nan, to think of her as a second mother. She has taken to dropping in at Windermere almost daily, often with the girls, who now, unsurprisingly, call Nan “Nanna,” since Nan is more of a grandmother to them than Bee’s own mother.
Bee had never quite understood what family meant. She had always ached for a large family, had grown up feeling she was missing something. What she has come to understand since her father passed away, is that the people with whom you surround yourself, the people you love, become your family. Whether there are blood ties or not.
Nan is now her family. And Michael, who she thinks of as her brother, and Daff, and Jess. These people, who she didn’t know a year ago, are now part of the fabric of her life, have helped her settle down on this island that is already more of a home than anywhere else she has ever lived.
There is more to it. For the first time in her life, Bee is comfortable in her skin. No longer buttoned up, playing the part of the successful suburban housewife in her pink and green Capri pants, her sparkly gold and diamond jewelry, her hair perfectly blown out twice a week at Peter Coppola, lunching with girlfriends at V or Zest, or swinging into school in her Lexus wagon to collect the girls.
Now her hair is long and curly, with natural golden highlights from the sun. Her skin is bronzed, her face makeup free. She lives in shorts, T-shirts and flip-flops, and dresses up only for very rare occasions, and when she does so she pulls on something she already owns, instead of doing what she used do: buying something new at Mitchells, for you didn’t want to be seen out wearing the same thing twice in a row.
Bee does yoga four times a week, joining a small group of women on the beach early in the morning, women who are slowly becoming friends. She takes her girls to school every day, and bakes cookies with them in the afternoon, plays with them on the beach, brings them with her as she looks at houses to buy.
The time has come for her to buy a house. This house on Quidnet, while beautiful, is not hers, and she and the girls need to build life anew, in a place that is home. She wasn’t going to buy anywhere until she was absolutely sure, but these past couple of months she has started to look at houses, knowing that Nantucket is where she wants to raise her children, where she wants to spend the rest of her days.
The house in Westport has been sold, the furniture divided, although Daniel didn’t want much. Her share of the furniture sat in storage for a while, Bee eventually selling it all, wanting to start all over again, wanting a true beach house, in blues and whites, fresh and beachy, to signify the new beginning.
Last week she saw a cottage that was so perfect, she almost burst into tears walking through it. A bright hallway led into a small office, and beyond a large archway you came into a huge open kitchen and family room that had three walls of windows overlooking the bay, sunlight streaming through, creating dappled patterns on the floor, a fan spinning lazily from the vaulted ceiling.
Upstairs were three bedrooms: the master suite at the back, with a wide bay window opening onto a deck, a bay window that would be the perfect place for her desk and her computer, and the girls’ bedrooms at the front, sharing a Jack and Jill bathroom.
The girls had scampered up the stairs with excitement. “Mommy! I love it!” Lizzie had cried, running into the bedroom she immediately claimed would be hers.
Outside was a beautiful garden. High, clipped privet hedges separated a small swimming pool from a cutting garden; there was a stone terrace covered with a pergola, honeysuckle and clematis tumbling over the top. Bee instantly saw herself at a small glass table under the pergola, glass of wine in hand, having dinner with the girls.
She didn’t want to show the realtor how much she loved it, but she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. This was, she knew instantly, home. This was what she had been waiting for.
She had checked the details. It was a fortune, but then everything on the island was a fortune, and thanks to her father she wouldn’t have to worry about money again.
Her father had been, it seems, a very wealthy man. Since conquering his gambling addiction in his former life, he had learned to be clever with his money, had grown the family business into something huge, and had invested his own money in the right deals.
When he died, he had left Bee a third of his money.
The rest was split evenly. Between Michael and Nan.
Nan pushes the boxes out of the way and grabs the phone.
“Hello? . . . Why, Mr. Moseley! Again! What a lovely surprise, but I do hope you’re ringing to tell me you’re coming to our little get-together tonight . . . No? . . . Oh I am sorry.” A pause and Nan catches Sarah’s eye and grins at her. “Why, that’s so sweet of you to think of me, Mr. Moseley, but I’m afraid my money is busy working elsewhere . . . Absolutely you can call me again . . . Yes . . . No . . . No. We’ll miss you too. Cheerio!”
Nan makes a face as she puts the phone down. “I always thought that Mr. Moseley was terribly nice, but I do wish he wouldn’t keep asking me to give him money to invest.”
“You’d think after what happened last year he’d be too embarrassed, ” Sarah says.
“He’s a financial adviser. I think he was born without the embarrassment gene,” Nan says with a chuckle. “Sarah, let’s leave the packing for now. There’s still so much to do for the party.”
“There really isn’t.” Sarah smiles. “Stephen and Keith have sent over their party planners and the caterers are setting up in the garage. Keith’s outside with a walkie-talkie telling people where to hang the lanterns. I honestly don’t know how we could help.”
“Isn’t this so much fun!” Nan claps her hands together. “Finally throwing a party like the ones we used to!”
“And, more to the point, throwing it with the new owners.” Sarah laughs. “I love that they’re insisting on paying for other people to do all the work.”
“I’m going to take a rest upstairs before I start getting ready,” Nan says. “I can finish packing my clothes up while I’m at it.”
Nan walks up the stairs slowly, running her hands over the mahogany banisters, feeling every nick and groove, thinking about all the years she has spent in this house, loving it, thinking she would never leave.
And yet, now that the time has come, it feels easy. More than easy, it feels right. Not that she was forced to sell it. The day before going to contract with Stephen and Keith she discovered she was a beneficiary of Everett’s will.
He had finally done the right thing.
He left her more than enough money to do the repairs at Windermere and live out the rest of her days here, but once she had made up her mind she knew there was no going back.
Now she truly is a wealthy woman, and most of Everett’s money has been put in a foundation that will fulfill the work the Powell family started on the island, making Powell once again a great Nantucket name.
There was some put aside for investment purposes, hence the repeated calls from Andrew Moseley, but Nan no longer wants to put her money into stocks and shares, things she doesn’t understand. Instead she has bought a couple of rental houses, knowing that with the prices on the island going up as they do it is a far safer bet than risking anything on the stock market.
The money from the sale of the house has gone into building a cottage on the other two-thirds of the land, half of which she is keeping, and half of which she has deeded to the town, to preserve as conservation land and a bird sanctuary, in perpetuity.
The phone rings again as she walks into her bedroom, and this time she is genuinely delighted when she picks up.
“Daniel! How I’ve missed you! Are you back? Are you on island? More important, are you ready for tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Daniel says with a smile. “I’m on my way to Michael and Daff’s. I can’t wait to see you.”
Michael walks up behind Daff, who is standing in the kitchen washing up the leftover breakfast things in the sink, puts his arms around her and kisses her shoulder. She smiles, looking at their reflection in the window, and turns, careful to keep her soapy hands off his clothes, letting herself be drawn into a long hug and kiss.
She watches him as he moves around the room, his long, muscled legs striding confidently through the little kitchen, and she can’t help but smile as she thinks how happy she is, how she didn’t know she deserved a relationship like this, didn’t know what love was until a year ago.
Nor did she dream she could be so happy, so settled, in so short a time. She moved up here permanently two months ago, bringing Jess with her. Richard and Carrie agreed that for now Nantucket seemed to suit Jess, and Carrie was pregnant, Richard busy focusing on his new family. Jess would be going back to them for the holidays.
Although Daff didn’t ever want anything to come between the relationship Jess had with her father, she also knew Jess could be happy, happier, on Nantucket. The beach life suited her, the simple life; she adored Nan, and was still helping Bee babysit the girls some afternoons and weekends.
Jess was busy, and happy, feeling both needed and wanted. She had found, in short, her place in the world, a firm footing on this island, which she had never felt before.
When Michael first found out he was a beneficiary, he and Daff bought a pretty house that came with some run-down cottages, run as bed and breakfasts, just outside town. Together they have renovated them, spending weeks and weeks in overalls, directing plumbers, electricians, attempting much of the work themselves.
Outside, a profusion of blue hydrangeas sprout in front of a low white picket fence, an old brick path taking you to the front door of the house, winding paths off to the sides, leading to the cottages.
Roses climb haphazardly over arbors, hidden archways cut into high privet hedges surround secret gardens. There is an air of magic that seduces everyone who comes over.
Windermere Cottages are now finished, ready to throw open the doors to welcome the summer guests.
“I love it!” Daniel exclaims, dropping his bags in the middle of Honeysuckle Cottage, the one they had picked out for Daniel this summer. Modern without being minimalist, the cottage is decorated in shades of sand, white and blue, with scrubbed pine floors, whitewashed reclaimed barn siding on the walls, sisal rugs strewn on the floors. The curtains are chocolate-brown linen panels, edged with white, the sofa and armchair in the living room slip-covered in white denim, patterned pillows scattered neatly at the back.
It is the personal touches that make it so special. Whelk shells they have found together on the beach, now varnished and left on a white painted table. Pretty beach scenes Daff has painted, which are for sale, and books everywhere—fiction, nonfiction, books about the island, and on the wall above the sofa in each cottage, a large antique map of Nantucket.
“God, it’s good to see you.” Daff winds her arm around Daniel’s waist and beams up at him. “It feels like years.”
“It’s only been six weeks!” Daniel says. “Remember? I was up in April to see the girls, except you wouldn’t let me see the cottages until they were finished. Do you swear I’m the first guest?”
“Absolutely.” Daff laughs. “first and hopefully not the last. So . . . what are your plans this summer?”
Daniel looks at her suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” Daff tries to look innocent. “I just meant . . . any news from Matt?”
Daniel looks away. “As a matter of fact we’re meeting for a drink before the party.”
“Good.” Daff nods. “You know he cleaned up all the landscaping here? We had no idea there was such a beautiful garden hidden underneath. He did an amazing job.”
“I did know that,” Daniel says. “I speak to him almost every day.”
It’s true. While Daniel has been back in Westport this past year, he has flown to Nantucket every month or so to see the girls, or they have come to him, and during that time he and Matt have formed a close friendship.
A true friendship, one that is built on history, rather than merely an instant attraction they felt for one another when they met.
They have had dinner every time Daniel has been on Nantucket, but have really gotten to know one another through first e-mails, then, later on, when e-mails didn’t feel like enough, through phone calls, which soon became a daily occurrence, some of them going on half the night.
Neither has broached the subject of a relationship, and Daniel has been honest with Matt about the flings he has had over the past year. Matt has listened, given advice, never once shown anything other than support for Daniel’s journey, although Daniel couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy when Matt revealed a fling of his own.
Daniel is ready. Ready for the next step. His rental in Westport has just ended, his stuff is in storage while he decides where to go next. He isn’t entirely sure. He saw a small house in Cornwall, Connecticut, that he loved, and there’s always New York City, and now, of course, Nantucket.
But wherever he is, he’s ready for Matt to be there with him.
Windermere is filled with excitement, you can feel it as you crunch up the gravel driveway, lined tonight with torches blazing in the warm night air.
People have dressed for tonight, long chiffon dresses being held up so as not to get dirty on the gravel, and people are chattering away, squinting through the darkness as they make their way up to the house to wish Nan well on her way, to welcome the new owners, trying to see who else is here.
And in the living room, about to go outside to greet the first of her guests, is Nan, glorious in a floor-length turquoise gown, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of seeing Windermere come to life, and come to life with such style, the night before she moves out.
There is no furniture left inside the house. The rooms are empty, the memories still intact. This evening, before she got ready, Nan moved around the house, whispering her good-byes, thinking of the memories this house contains, thinking first of all the wonderful years she spent here, then about all those years she felt were sad. But, finally, she realizes it wasn’t the house that was sad. It was her.
She doesn’t have to be sad anymore.
Michael opens the champagne as the others cheer, then he peers out of the window.
“Mom!” he urges. “The guests are starting to arrive.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” Nan says, taking a glass. “Stephen and Keith are there to greet them. We’ll be out in just a second.”
“May I make a toast?” Daniel asks when the champagne has been handed around, the small group standing in a circle.
“Of course.” Nan smiles, and Daniel raises his glass then looks slowly at Nan, Michael, Daff and then Matt, standing slightly apart until Daniel beckons him closer, into the inner circle.
“To Windermere,” he says firmly. “May she be as happy, happier, with her new family.”
“To Windermere,” they all echo.
“Wait!” Michael stops them as they’re about to take a sip. “One more. To new beginnings—” he raises his glass, looks over at Daff with love in his eyes—“and happy endings.”
With a cheer they step forward to hug one another, before moving outside to begin the night.




Acknowledgments
My thanks and love to my usual “superteam”: Louise Moore, Tom Weldon, Anthony Goff, Deborah Schneider, Clare Ferraro, Carolyn Coleburn, Nancy Sheppard, Natalie Higgins, Liz Jones, Louise Braverman, Clare Parkinson, Harvey Tanton, Elise Klein.
To the people who helped, knowingly or otherwise, during the research and writing of this book: Walter and Gina Beinecke, Maxine Bleiweis and all at the Westport library, Chloe Chigas, Dia Wasley and their families for welcoming us so graciously into their wonderful home, Keirsten Dodge, Karen and Franklin Exkorn, Laraine and Alan Fischer, Shirley and Bob Siff, Maximiliana Warburg.
To my family and friends who carry me through: Harry, Tabs, Nate and Jasper, the Greens, the Warburgs, Dina, Nicole, Heidi and Deborah.
Thank you.