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