“Yes!” Phoebe says. “We’ll have someone on the inside.”
Coco feels like a spy but also weirdly relevant.
As the cars pull out of the driveway, Coco stacks the dirty plates, then carries the melting remains of the ice cream cake into the kitchen. Andrea and the Chief are there, but Kacy is nowhere to be seen.
“I’ve got all this, Coco—thank you, though,” Andrea says.
“Are you sure?”
“Ed likes to help me,” Andrea says. “This is when we catch up on our days.”
That’s Coco’s cue to make herself scarce. “Good night, thank you for dinner, it was delicious, your friends are wonderful people.” Has Coco forgotten anything? “It’s nice of you to let me stay. It should only be a few days.”
“Happy to have you,” the Chief says. “Good night.”
Coco climbs the stairs and finds Kacy waiting for her in the hallway. “I’m sorry I cut out,” she says. “I’m not ready for all the questions.”
Coco opens her arms and says, “Thank you for letting me stay here. It was a real act of kindness and trust, and I’m grateful.”
Kacy gives her a quick squeeze. “Meeting you was so random,” she says. “And yet I feel like this was meant to be.”
Random, yes, Coco thinks. Meant to be? She supposes they’ll find out.
6. The Cobblestone Telegraph II
The Richardsons close on 888 Pocomo Road at noon on June 11 and by 12:05, Leslee Richardson is on the phone with contractors.
“We aren’t doing much to the house,” Leslee confides to Avalon Boone, whom Leslee has summoned to the Hotel Nantucket to give her an in-suite massage. “After all, it was decorated by Jennifer Quinn, the host of Real-Life Rehab.”
Avalon loves Jennifer Quinn. Real-Life Rehab is the best show on HGTV, in Avalon’s opinion. If Avalon were moving into a house that JQ designed, she wouldn’t change a thing, but to each her own.
As Avalon sets up the massage table, she says, “Which house is this?”
“Triple Eight Pocomo Road.”
Avalon takes a beat. This is the woman Eric’s parents and their friends were talking about at dinner the night before. What does the Chief always say? It’s a small island. She wonders if she should correct Leslee Richardson’s pronunciation or let it go. “You know what’s so funny?” Avalon says. “It’s pronounced ‘Pock-ah-moh.’ It took me a long time to get it right too, but yeah, that’s how you say it.”
“‘Pock-ah-moh’?” Leslee says. “You’re sure?”
Avalon smooths a sheet over the table. “I am very sure.”
“I’ve been saying it wrong this whole time. In front of the real estate agents and the lawyers and everyone. Why didn’t anyone tell me? I thought it rhymed with Kokomo. I feel like I’ve had spinach stuck in my teeth for the past week.”
Avalon laughs. “I’m going to step out of the room while you get comfortable on the table.”
“You won’t tell anyone else, will you?” Leslee says. “That I don’t even know how to pronounce the name of my own street?”
Avalon presses Play on her iPhone and the room fills with the sound of crashing ocean waves. “I won’t tell a soul.”
The next day, vans start pulling into the driveway at 888 Pocomo Road. Leslee has hired painters from off-island and a power washer from off-island, but, thankfully, we see a familiar face: Benton Coe, the foremost landscape architect on the island, who also happens to be very easy on the eyes.
Benton Coe has seen 888 Pocomo Road only from the water. It’s a destination for every boater cruising around Nantucket Harbor; everyone takes pictures of its distinctive facade. It evokes old-school, gracious summer living—but with originality. Triple Eight is composed of two wings, each with a gambrel roof, joined in the middle by a spacious octagonal deck on the second floor and an octagonal screened-in porch on the ground floor.
Leslee Richardson meets Benton in the white-shell driveway. He agreed to take on this job—even though he stopped accepting new clients years ago—after Leslee called his office every day for a week. Benton has had people do that before, but he relented this time because 888 Pocomo is such a legendary property.
They walk around to the front of the house. The large sloping lawn leads to a slice of golden beach that’s curved like a smile.
“The elephant in the room,” Leslee says.
Benton sighs. Yes, big elephant, small room. He read the forensic geologist’s report that Leslee sent him. The property is slowly being consumed by the harbor. The beach is eight feet wide, six feet at high tide; ten years ago, it was double that.
“There’s nothing I can do about the beach, unfortunately,” Benton says.
“I didn’t hire you to perform a miracle,” Leslee says. “Well, I did, but a manageable one. Follow me, I’ll show you.”
Leslee takes Benton to an area tangled with brush and Spanish olives on the far side of the garage. “I’d like you to clear this and create a hedged-in circular garden,” she says. “I want it to feel like you’re entering a secret room.”
“Okay!” Benton’s spirits lift a bit. He likes this idea.
“I want you to leave a space open in the middle. Guess why?”
For a fountain, maybe? Benton is known for his water features.
“I’ve ordered a custom octagonal hot tub,” Leslee says.
“An octagonal hot tub?” Benton says. Did he hear that correctly?
“It’s the third eight,” Leslee says. “The deck is an octagon, the screened-in porch is an octagon, but we need a third to make it Triple Eight.”
