year. Busloads of old folks from all over. Families with children who haven’t reached school age. Weekenders, when the weather’s nice like this. The whole island used to lock down Labor Day weekend. Now it’s Columbus Day.”
“Good for the locals.”
“I suppose,” he said, as if he had doubts on that score. “Anyway, I was in Chilmark a couple days ago, so I did a quick drive-by. Sweet little place you’ve got. Priced right, it should sell in about two seconds flat.”
“You can tell that without going inside?”
“Honestly? Out there? Almost to Aquinnah, on a lot that size? Many buyers will consider it a teardown.”
Lincoln felt himself wince. “You just hurt my mother’s feelings, and she’s been dead for years.”
“Sorry.”
Lincoln waved him off. “No need to apologize. I’m in the business.”
“Commercial, did I read? Things still bad out West?”
“We’re starting to turn around in Vegas. Just not fast enough.”
“None of my business, but are you selling because you need to?”
“No, because I might need to. And if I do, I might need to in about two seconds flat.”
“I only ask because the revenue stream must be decent out there. I gather you rent the place in season?”
Lincoln said they did and told him the name of the management company that handled things.
“You and your family don’t use it?”
Lincoln shook his head. “We’ve got six kids. For Catholics, three bedrooms and one bath just don’t cut it.”
“Any of those kids still home?”
“The youngest graduated last year.”
“Okay, so you’re basically free. You and the wife could retire here.”
“Nah, we’re confirmed westerners.” One of us, anyway, he heard Anita say, clear as a bell. Lincoln’s being one of these, in his wife’s view, was yet another way that he was Dub-Yay’s son. An unfair criticism, surely. Anita herself might be an eastern transplant, but their kids—the older ones married, with kids of their own—were spread up and down the West Coast from San Diego to Seattle. Fond as Anita had been of the island back when they used to visit, there was no chance she’d ever live three thousand miles from her children and grandchildren. Until the recession, they’d planned to hold on to the place, steal a couple weeks’ vacation from time to time. Anita still had family in western Massachusetts and she remained close to a couple of her Theta sorority sisters who’d settled in New England. Anyway, the best-laid plans.
“When I got back to the office,” Martin was saying, “there was a message from one of your neighbors wanting to know if you were putting the place on the market. Must’ve seen the logo on my car. A guy named—”
“Mason Troyer,” Lincoln finished. “He’s been pestering me to sell for years. No idea why. His place is already twice the size it was when his parents owned it.”
“Wild guess? He wants to turn your Cape into a guesthouse, then sell both. They’re worth more together than separately. Which could be good for you.”
Lincoln hadn’t thought of that. Too long in commercial real estate. “Can I ask if he’s a friend of yours?”
“Never met the man. Know of him.”
“He’s an asshole.”
Martin chuckled. “That’s the conventional wisdom. He’ll probably come at you with an offer before we list it. To avoid paying commissions.”
This, Lincoln recognized, was probably a trial balloon: the other man gauging if Lincoln was the sort who’d be susceptible to such an offer.
“Like I said. An asshole.”
Instead of looking relieved, Martin frowned.
“What?”
“Stay on his good side would be my advice. He has a reputation.”
“You Googled him, too?”
“Didn’t have to. It’s a small island. People out in Chilmark steer well clear of him.”
“I intend to do the same,” Lincoln assured him.
“What time do your friends get in?”
“One later today. The other tomorrow morning.”
“And leave?”
“Sunday or Monday.”
“But Monday morning’s still good for us?”
Lincoln said it was. When they rose and shook hands, Anita piped in again: Apologize at least. “Sorry to interrupt your morning coffee,” he said as they headed for the door.
“That’s all right. Time the day got started.”
“My wife sometimes accuses me of inconsideration. Among other things.”
“Well, enjoy her while you can. Mine died last year.”
Lincoln sighed. “That’s another thing she accuses me of. Putting my foot in my mouth.”
Martin smiled. “I suppose we could all be priests.”
* * *
—
THE CHILMARK HOUSE SAT perched on a hummocky, picturesque two-acre plot of land that sloped down toward State Road and beyond that the Atlantic, perfectly blue today under a cloudless sky. As he stood on the back deck,