I nod and pretend I’m following more than every second word out of Tom’s mouth. Clovelly Cottage, I’ve gathered from my exchanges with Emilia, is the name of the Bellamys’ home. Because of course these people name their houses. They’ve been here eight years if they moved in the year Paisley was born. Everything else, I guess I’ll figure it out when we get there.
“Where did you move from?” I ask.
“Upper West. Great commute, but Emilia didn’t want to raise a family in the city.” He shrugs. “Everything’s a trade-off.”
Tom slows down as we turn onto Main Street. Everything’s Tory Burch and Ralph Lauren and what looks like a small house converted into a pop-up shop for Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle line. It’s like they took a slice of Fifth Avenue and plopped it down on a quaint, tree-lined village street with brick sidewalks and an abundance of benches and parking.
“This isn’t the most direct route home, but I wanted you to see downtown before it gets dark. I’m sure Paisley will drag you into town tomorrow. Or to the beach.”
I close my eyes for a second and hope for the beach. I can hear my phone chirping again, surely another series of pissed-off texts from Kaylee, and reach into my backpack to turn the ringer down.
We take another couple turns off Main Street, and then Tom’s steering us onto Linden Lane. He slows down again. “This first house is Seacrest. Belongs to the Fulton-Barrs, our newest neighbors. Jeffrey and Arvin had it designed by Michael Kent, which you can see in the angles and use of glass.” I tilt my head to peek out the window. The house is set back on the property and concealed partly by a privacy hedge. Only the second floor is visible from the road, or what I assume to be the second floor, because Seacrest is all sweeping glass windows and sharp angles that make no structural sense. I can’t tell if the building is actually futuristic or more like a model of what some architect in the seventies thought the future would look like.
“Hideous, right?” Tom laughs, and I’m so relieved, I laugh too. “Seven point two million. It’s what we call a starter home around here.”
I swallow to keep my jaw from dropping open. A starter home?
“This next one’s Magnolia House. 1920s construction, still in great condition. Kyra and Jacques take excellent care of the place. Can’t see much from the road, but it’s the largest property on the block, a full five acres. Real beauty. And this”—Tom slows the car to an almost stop, and I crane my neck to get a good look—“is Windermere. Owned by the Talbot family since the estate’s construction in 1894. Real shame how they’ve let the place go these past few years.”
What was once a privacy hedge has grown to soaring and unsteady heights along the side of the road. Through gaps where the shrubbery has parted, made flimsy in its reach for the sky, I can catch glimpses of a stone drive leading to a large, wood-shingled house with vines creeping up the walls and white-painted columns. The house is three stories, plus what looks to be a steepled attic up top. A long balcony terrace wraps around what I can see of the third floor, and an unused porch swing and several rocking chairs populate a front porch on the ground level. It’s beautiful and creepy all at once. Gothic. Through the leaves, I think I see the front door open, a tall shape step onto the porch. But before I can be sure, we’re driving on, and Windermere is swallowed again in a curtain of green.
“Who lives there?” I ask.
“Meredith Talbot’s the sole owner now; her husband left her widowed about fourteen years ago. Their son Caden’s home from Yale this summer, looking after things.”
I raise my eyebrows. Yale, naturally. The thought of having someone close in age nearby is nice, but I’m sure he has more important things to do than befriend the nanny next door. Before I can give Caden Talbot too much thought, we’ve pulled up in front of what must be Clovelly Cottage, and Tom is pressing the remote to open the entry gate. Two sturdy wooden panels on stone pillars part to swing soundlessly inward on their hinges, and we drive on through.
For a moment, all I can see are lush green trees to my right and a long line of flowering bushes to my left, in full powder-pink bloom in front of still more trees. As we curve around the end of the long, pebbled drive, a building slowly emerges.
“This,” Tom says, “is your home for the summer. Welcome to Clovelly Cottage.”
What stands before us is hardly a cottage. It’s not even a house. Clovelly Cottage is nothing short of a mansion. I can see at once what Tom meant by the building blending in with the older architecture in the area. The estate is clearly in pristine condition, but it doesn’t look like something built in 2011. Unlike the oddly angled Seacrest down the street, Clovelly Cottage is perfectly symmetrical and very grand. The front of the house displays two clear wings joined by a rectangular midsection with a curved front entry. The house is painted a dusky rose, one shade darker than the flowering bushes we passed on the ride in. It looks like it belongs in the English countryside, surrounded by windy moors and horse-drawn carriages, which I guess is the point. English country traditional, Tom called it.
He steers us around a stone fountain big enough to fulfill a child’s swimming fantasies and shifts the car into park in the circular band of driveway abutting the front door. With the house to my right, I can see that, beyond the fountain, the trees and flowering bushes give way to a private tennis court, its crisp turf and netting concealed entirely from the road. My palms feel clammy all of a sudden, and I wish again for pockets I could shove them into.
“Do you play?” Tom asks, catching me looking.
I shake my head, no. My hair falls forward into my face, and I lift my arms to tame it, grateful for something to do with my hands. I thought about cutting it after graduation, a new look to go with the new Anna, but I love my hair too much to crop it off. It’s my best feature.
“Well, maybe you’ll pick it up. We have plenty of spare rackets. I’m sure Paisley would be thrilled to have a new opponent.”
I nod gamely and wonder if I’ll have any time to squeeze in some practice before getting my butt handed to me by an eight-year-old. I don’t tell Tom I’ve never held a tennis racket in my life.
“Come on,” he says, swinging his door open and stepping out onto the drive. “Paisley is dying to see you. She’s been chattering nonstop all day. One of the many reasons I don’t make a habit of working from home.” Tom explains that I’m unlikely to see him much during the week, from this point forward. Monday through Thursday, he stays in an apartment in the Financial District. He’s only home today to meet me, then he’ll disappear into the city before I’m awake tomorrow.
I swing my door open too and grab my backpack from the floor while Tom pops the trunk and effortlessly hefts the purple monster from the back. The sun has dipped now behind the house, and I prop my sunglasses back on top of my head to get a better look. It’s stately. I guess that’s the right word. The house embodies the same mix of classic beauty and money that seems to seep out of the Bellamys’ pores.
“Emilia wasn’t kidding,” Tom says, appearing suddenly next to me. “You really do look just like her.”
Before I can ask who she is, the front door bursts open and Paisley runs out and down the three stone steps to the drive, fine blond hair and eponymous green paisley sundress streaming behind her. Emilia stands in the open doorway in pressed linen pants, a pale blue blouse, and a matching linen blazer. She gives me a smile and neat wave. Paisley comes to a sudden halt before her father and me, clearly conflicted about who to wrap her arms around first.