That would cost millions. No wonder my in-laws wanted someone to talk to her. “And your price range . . . ?”
“Well . . . to be honest, if it’s the right house, I don’t have one. I’ve been blessed with financial security.”
That must be nice, I thought. “We have some lovely properties. Describe your dream house, and let me see what we can do.”
I could hear the smile in her voice as she answered. “Oh, gosh. Well, big enough, because I like to entertain. Lots of windows, somewhere quiet and safe. It’s time to get out of the city. We need a change, and a small town just sounds so lovely right now.”
“And your partner?” I asked. “Any preferences on their part?”
“Sadly, I’m a widow,” she said.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” Raising a twelve-year-old alone . . . gosh.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind.” There was a pause. “Another reason for a change.”
“You won’t regret it,” I said. “I’m a fifth-generation Cape Codder, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Ophelia.”
I winced. Who names their kid after the doomed innocent who commits suicide in Hamlet? Rich people, that’s who. “Such a pretty name.”
“Thank you!” There was genuine warmth in her voice. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Dylan,” I said, as ever feeling a rush of pride and love (and panic, because he was a senior in high school and life as I knew it was ending).
“And he’s been happy on the Cape? With school and, um . . . opportunities?”
I understood the code. Are you hicks? Because I’m from New York. “Very happy. The kids from Nauset High get into the full range of schools, from Harvard and Stanford to the Air Force Academy.” It was true. Our school system rocked.
“Wonderful! I plan to come up this weekend. Would that be okay?”
“That would be perfect.” Wanda, my boss and friend, would be on call at the hospital. “It’s pretty quiet up here, and there’s nothing like the winter beach. It’s so pure and majestic. Can I take you to lunch first?”
“Thank you, Liliana!” she said. “That’s so kind of you!”
“Call me Lillie,” I told her. “And it’s my pleasure.”
Thus began my doom.
She came up, without her child, who was with a friend that weekend, and we met at the Ice House, Beth’s restaurant, which was one of the few places open year-round. Melissa Finch was very pretty, much younger than I had expected. “I can’t believe you have a twelve-year-old!” I exclaimed. “You don’t look a day past twenty-five!”
She smiled. “Actually, Ophelia isn’t my biological daughter. She came from a troubled background, and Dennis—my late husband—well, we just couldn’t say no.”
“How lucky for you and her both.”
Melissa had been born in the Midwest, went to school in Connecticut and landed in New York City. “I was planning on going to medical school,” she said, “but Ophelia came into our lives and I needed to devote all my time to her.” The answer sounded as if she’d given it a hundred times.
“There’s nothing like being a stay-at-home mother,” I said, though I’d worked part-time all through Dylan’s childhood. But Brad had juggled his schedule, and it was only on the rare occasion that we’d ever needed someone other than ourselves to take care of him.
“But now you work in real estate?” she asked.
“Actually, I’m a certified nurse-midwife,” I said. “My in-laws are the Fairchilds in Fairchild Properties.”
“Does your husband work in the business?”
“No, he’s a therapist. But sometimes I show houses or stage them. Family, you know.”
“Of course. Now that Ophelia is a little older, I’m thinking about doing something myself.” She sipped her seltzer water. “I’ve even considered becoming a therapist, but I’m also looking into becoming a yoga teacher. Kind of the same thing, right?”
“Mm.” I admit that I had to smother a snort. I mean, sure, everyone loved yoga. I took yoga classes with Beth. My mother’s wife and Hannah did yoga together twice a week. My father, a crusty scallop fisherman, had to do yoga when he hurt his back last year. The Cape was glutted with yoga studios and yoga on the beach and yoga at dawn and yoga at sunset. Sure, it was wonderful. That being said, if I’d told Brad he and yoga teachers were kind of the same thing, he’d be furious and insulted. He took that PhD of his very seriously.
“Brad has a doctorate in psychology,” I said. “I’m sure he’d love to talk to you.” Insert the sound of my heavy sigh in hindsight.
But in that moment, I thought she was lovely. Her beauty was breathtaking—she wasn’t just pretty, she was perfect, and it all looked natural. Her hair was long and blond, and her eyes were a pale, pure green. Beautiful, subtle makeup of the kind I could never pull off with my chubby cheeks (and lack of patience). Expensive, tasteful jewelry, a cashmere dress in ivory with a funky belt and high leather boots. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been this close to a person who was so beautiful, so . . . smooth. Her voice, her manners, the way she talked and listened . . . she was the epitome of grace and class, old money and education, and I wanted her to like me.
We talked about the pros and cons of having an only child, the beauty of the Cape light, the natural glory of the sea and shore. Then I paid the check on the Fairchild credit card with a 30 percent tip for Jake, Beth’s nephew, who’d waited on us.
I showed her two pretty good houses first, as was the Fairchild strategy . . . two almost-great places, then the big kablammy. We started with a lovely place on Lieutenant Island, which was stunning, but subject to accessibility . . . the bridge was underwater twice a day.
“Some folks don’t mind,” I said. “The views are incredible, but you would need a vehicle that can handle the tides. Sometimes, it’s too high even for a truck, so maybe with an adolescent, it’s not the best choice.”
She agreed. The next one was an architectural tree house of sorts, one of a kind, weird and beautiful, listed at $2.3 million. But it “only” had three bedrooms, a too-small kitchen and just a glimpse of the bay.
Ah, rich people. That being said, the sunsets on the bay were incredible, and if she could afford it, why not? It was nice to picture her daughter running around at low tide, throwing a stick to a dog, maybe.
The final house was a modern monstrosity of glass and cedar on Griffins Island Road with an unfettered view of Cape Cod Bay and the sky. The driveway was marked by two stone pillars and an engraved granite slab that proclaimed the house’s name: Stella Maris, star of the sea.
As we pulled into the crushed-shell driveway, the sun was setting, and God had graced us with a gorgeous winter sunset of violent red, pink and purple. As soon as I saw Melissa’s face, I knew it was the place for her. Sure, it was over the top, and to me, a bit grotesque. I preferred cozy to . . . vast.
Stella Maris had a two-story, vaulted living room with a massive stone fireplace. A library had French doors to a private deck and custom-made shelves with a ladder and under-shelf lighting. There was a huge chef’s kitchen with dozens of drawers and cupboards, three sinks, a six-burner Wolf stove, wine fridge, vodka freezer, marble island with six stools and butler’s pantry with two more sinks and another dishwasher. There were five bedrooms, each with their own full bathroom and private deck, each with views of the water and surrounding pine wilderness. The dining room would seat twenty easily, with another smaller screened-in dining room for nice weather. The basement sported a home theater and bar with an area for games.