announced Ms. Morgan as she navigated her cream-colored Mercedes into a circular pale-pink crushed-seashell driveway. Finally. After a grueling four hours stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway, they had finally arrived at the James-Morgan-Grossmans’ gray-shingled nouveau-Victorian Amagansett mansion. Vanessa stepped anxiously out of the car, feeling the foreign crunch of the seashells under her feet. The sky overhead was turning a dusky sunset pink, and the air smelled like a far-off barbecue and freshly mown grass. She felt a sudden wave of relief—maybe getting out of the city really was just what she needed. Ms. Morgan stepped ahead of her, pushing the heavy antiquered front door open. The boys scrambled inside, jostling Vanessa, who was smiling goofily at nothing in particular. Not that Vanessa cared about these things, or usually even noticed, but she couldn’t help but gape at, well, all of it. The double-height windows framing the front entryway.
