Free The Beach House by Jane Green

half.”
    “Twelve and a half?” Nan is confused. “Twelve and a half what ?”
    “Twelve and a half million.”
    “What?”
    Mark Stephenson repeats himself.
    "But that’s ridiculous ! That’s a fortune. Why would anyone pay twelve and a half million dollars for a house? And especially a house that doesn’t even have a pantry.”
    “Ah, well, the type of people who will be buying this house probably won’t cook very much. They’re more likely to be eating out.”
    “Not the type of people I want to have as my neighbors, I shouldn’t think.”
    “I love your house.” Mark Stephenson decides to change the subject. “I got lost one day and drove up the driveway, and I have to tell you, you have one of the most special properties I’ve seen. Tell me, how many acres do you have?”
    “Well, we used to have eighteen, but after we sold off the cottages it went down to nine. It is lovely, though, isn’t it? I must say, even without a massage room or a movie theater it does still somehow work for me.”
    The developer throws his head back and laughs. “It’s the sort of house I could see myself in,” he says. “It’s a true family house. One that has clearly seen generations of people and ought to have children growing up in it. Lord knows I know how my own children would love that sort of space.”
    “Oh you have children?”
    “Three boys.” He makes a face and Nan laughs.
    “And where are you?”
    “We’re in Shimmo,” he says. “Great for town, but I’ve always loved Sconset. We come out here with the kids and they just cycle around the center of the village for hours.”
    “So why don’t you move into your house?” Nan asks.
    “I wish I could!” Mark laughs. “I can’t afford it. Anyway, I’m building what the market demands, not what I would necessarily choose for myself. I far prefer older houses.”
    “Oh me too,” Nan says. “You’d doubtless love Windermere. Say, I’d really like to show you the inside of the house sometime. Why don’t you come and join me for a drink one evening?”
    “I would love to, Mrs. Powell,” he says, stretching over with a business card that appears to have materialized from nowhere.
    “Oh call me Nan,” she says with a laugh, a girlish giggle. “Everyone else does.”
    Jessica sits at the table and stares at her plate.
    “So what grade are you in?” Carrie leans over and tries to engage Jessica.
    “Seventh,” Jessica mutters, not looking up from her food.
    “Oh I remember seventh grade,” Carrie says, and Richard shoots her an encouraging yet sympathetic look from across the table. “I had a terrible time in seventh grade. Lots of bullying and there was a dreadful girl called Rona Fieldstone who made my life a misery.” There’s a pause. “Is it still tough in seventh grade or do you like it?”
    Another long silence as Jessica tries to ignore Carrie, her whole being clouded in misery.
    “Jessica!” Richard says. “Carrie is talking to you.”
    Jessica shrugs, and Carrie looks at Richard helplessly.
    “How are those pancakes?” Carrie tries again. “I love the smiley face,” although this was a lie. She doesn’t quite understand why a thirteen-year-old is ordering the chocolate-chip smiley-face pancakes from the children’s menu, nor does she understand why she holds her father’s hand throughout the entire meal, only letting go when Richard laughingly points out that he won’t be able to eat the French toast without his right hand.
    The day before, when Jessica had refused to go to Belucci’s for lunch, Richard had watched her tantrum in the car, and honestly didn’t know what to do about it. Where was his lovely, happy, smiling daughter? Who was this evil, screaming being who couldn’t be consoled?
    “Fine!” he’d eventually snapped, grabbing his cell phone and stepping out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
    “I’m so sorry,” he’d said to Carrie, hating that he was disappointing her. “We’re going to