yellow Labs. People with designer luggage, wheeling it awkwardly across the cobblestones, others making their way to Young’s Bicycle Shop, where they’ll rent scooters to get around the island.
“The Juice Bar!” I shriek excitedly to Annie. “I remember that! They have the best ice cream!”
“Can we stop and get some?” Annie asks, not unreasonably.
“We’ll come back. Let’s get to the house, then we’ll come back into town and wander round.”
* * *
I had forgotten just how beautiful it is here, the streets charmingly cobbled, the pretty stores lining Main Street, then, as we drive farther up the street, the grand old trees, the beauty of the terraced houses, close together, a mix of grey weathered shingle and white clapboard, window boxes spilling over with geraniums and impatiens, clouds of blue lobelia.
We turn onto Cliff Road, driving slowly so we can fully appreciate the beauty of the homes, these large and impressive, each one seemingly bigger and more beautiful than the next. High privet hedges giving an illusion of privacy, crushed oyster shells or gravel driveways, hedges of huge hydrangeas flanking the houses.
“My God, this really is like Fantasy Island,” breathes Sam, who insists I stop from time to time so he can photograph some particularly beautiful house.
“I can’t believe we’re staying here,” I murmur, knowing from these houses this must be an expensive part of town. We drive past a patch of green. “Lincoln Circle,” says Sam, reading from the map on his phone. “Take the next left. There it is. Oh.” His voice is flat as I pull into the driveway, not of one of the large, beautiful homes but of a modest grey shingle house, with a single-car driveway and a few weeds growing through.
It does have the requisite hydrangeas, although they’re rather sorry for themselves, struggling to bloom in the shade of a gnarled old tree on the side of the driveway.
“This is where we’re staying?” Sam says, and I know he’s disappointed.
“It’s not grand but what did you expect?” I ask. “Do you have any idea how lucky we are to find anything? It will be fine. I know you’d like us to have one of those mansions, but this is perfect.”
“I love it!” Annie dances out of the car, and I turn to Sam, speaking quietly.
“We’re on vacation, Sam. It doesn’t matter what the house is like. We’ll probably barely be at home anyway.”
He sighs. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry I’m being princessy. I’ll stop. Let’s go inside.”
* * *
The house is perfectly comfortable. It’s not the white-slipcovered, French-doored, white-marble-kitchened stately home that clearly Sam had hoped for. It doesn’t have a swimming pool, or en suite bathrooms (other than the master, which I give to Sam, if only to shut him up for a bit), or a brand-spanking-new stainless steel fridge.
But it is clean, and bright. And it has a screen porch that has an old but incredibly comfortable-looking wicker sofa on it, and I know we will all be perfectly happy here, if Sam can get over his disappointment.
He walks around the house, not saying anything. He glances at the greige suedette sofas in the living room, and says nothing. He looks at the slightly orangey pine coffee table upon which sit a remote control and a wire basket of fake lemons, and says nothing. He takes his Louis Vuitton suitcase upstairs, then clatters back downstairs minutes later, his face now lit with excitement.
“I’ve got it!” he says. “I need to dress the house. I’m sorry, darling, I know it’s fine for you, but I can’t. I just can’t. It offends me sartorially, and I need to be happy where I live. It won’t take much, just a few things. I already saw the perfect shop on Main Street. It won’t take long. I just need to zhuzh it up.”
I roll my eyes. “Sam, that’s ridiculous. You’re going to go out and spend money on a house that isn’t yours just so you can be happy for two weeks? It’s a complete waste of money, and I won’t let you.”
“Darling, I can have you write a feature about it, so I can expense everything. How to turn your bland rental into a summer palace. Done! Commissioned! And now we’re going shopping. Don’t look like such a sourpuss. I promise you’ll be happy when it’s done. And we can go get ice cream at the juice place too.”
“Yes!” shrieks Annie from her tiny bedroom upstairs. “Let’s go!”