Nan has made a special effort for the sale. Resplendent in one of her vintage dresses, her hair is pulled back in a chignon, her lipstick is perfect, and she truly does look like the lady of the manor.
Sarah, on the other hand, is exhausted. She doesn’t want Nan to be humiliated, but she can’t see any other outcome. She has spent the last few days cleaning furiously, attempting to patch up the furniture to make it presentable, trying to justify the absurdly large price tags Nan has insisted on placing on everything.
Nan has set up a folding table by the front door. At the back of the hallway is a large chestnut table ($25,000) on which are two enormous glass decanters filled with lemonade, a platter of chocolate chip cookies in front to entice the buyers.
The first people arrive at 8:45, and Nan flings open the front door and invites them in.
“We just bought a home in town,” says the wife, enthusiastically entering the hallway. “And we’re desperate for furniture. We’ve found fabulous pieces in estate sales at home in Boston, so we can’t wait to see what you’ve got.”
“Oh how wonderful.” Nan welcomes them in, and proceeds to walk them around the house, not seeing how their faces fall as they see the condition of the furniture, nor their shock at the prices.
“I think she’s crazy,” Sarah hears the wife whisper to the husband at one point when Nan, playing gracious hostess, excuses herself to personally welcome some more people who have turned up.
The house fills up, and Nan notices something curious: there are several men on their own, clearly disinterested in the sale, but interested in the house. More than once she finds someone on the widow’s walk, gazing out to the ocean, or walking around the garden, winding their way through the long grass to the beach.
“Developers,” she says to Sarah and sniffs, watching one man get out a notebook and scribble something.
“You’re right,” a voice says, and she turns to see Mark Stephenson, builder of the twelve-and-a-half-million-dollar house, standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Stephenson,” she says, genuine warmth in her voice as she extends a hand.
“Mrs. Powell,” he says, stepping over the threshold and bending down to kiss her cheek.
“Nan,” she corrrects.
“Nan. Of course. I saw you were having an estate sale and couldn’t resist. I’m still waiting for my invitation for drinks, you know.”
“I can offer you lemonade.” Nan gestures to the table with raised eyebrows and a smile, and Sarah watches with fascination, for while Nan is twenty years older than this man, she is clearly flirting, and Sarah suddenly sees how stunning, how irresistible, she must have been.
“I’ll take it,” he says, taking her arm as they cross the room. “And you are a clever woman. I know most of these men.” He nods hello and waves at someone walking upstairs. “They are all developers and they’re all checking out your house.”
“I’m not selling it, you know. Everything inside the house. Not the house.”
“You wouldn’t want to sell it to any of them anyway,” Mark said. “Even if you were interested they’d tear it down in a heartbeat and have four McMansions up before you could blink.”
“I take it you wouldn’t do that sort of thing?” Nan looks at him with a smile. “You’re, what? A developer with a heart?”
“I’m an artist who fell into developing,” Mark says. “I’d love a house like this but not to tear down, I’d love to live in a house like this.”
“An artist?” Nan gazes at him coolly. “I knew there was more to you than met the eye. What sort of an artist?”
“I paint,” he says. “I went to Parsons many moons ago, but couldn’t make a living out of it and fell into my father’s business of real estate. I hate saying I’m not like all the others, but it’s true, and I think it’s one of the reasons why people like working with me. I’m not a shark. I live in Nantucket because I love how strict the planning and zoning regulations are, I love that the houses have to be shingle, and although I have built ridiculous houses, it’s to cater to the changing market, not because I would ever want to live in a house like that. Basically,” he adds, shrugging, “I have always believed there is