her like a piece of trash, scuttling back to her baby sister and their oh-so-perfect life together. And now Connie was supposed to be grateful to have her airfare paid so she could sit in their $60-million home and watch the two of them canoodling?
It was Michael who forced the issue.
âIâd like to go. It was generous of Lenny to invite us, and I could use a break from New York. Some sailing, some sea air.â
Michael had always liked Lenny. But that was Michael. He liked everyone. When Lenny extended the invitation last night, Mike practically bit his hand off.
If he knew where Lenny Brooksteinâs hands have beenâon my breasts, my ass, between my thighsâhe might not be so quick to bite.
But Michael Gray did not know.
As long as Lenny Brookstein did the decent thing and gave Connie what was coming to her, he would never have to.
F IVE
L ENNY AND G RACE B ROOKSTEINâS N ANTUCKET ESTATE was an idyllic, sprawling, gray-shingled mansion set just off Cliff Road on the north side of the island. The main house boasted ten bedroom suites, an indoor swimming pool and spa, a state-of-the-art movie theater, a chefâs kitchen and an enormous, gabled roof terrace (known on Nantucket as a âwidowâs walk,â because in the olden days, sailorsâ wives used to climb up to their rooftops and gaze out to sea, hoping to spot their husbandsâ long-lost ships returning). Formal gardens, planted with lavender, roses, and box hedges in the European style, cascaded down the hillside to Steps Beach, one of the quietest and most prestigious beaches on the island. At the bottom of the garden were four guest cottages, charming, wisteria-clad dollhouses in white wood, each with its own miniature front yard and white picket fence. Anywhere else the cottages would have looked impossibly twee. But here, on this magical island frozen for all time in some simpler, bygone era, they worked.
At least Grace Brookstein thought so. It was she who had built and designed them, down to the very last Ralph Lauren pillowcase and antique Victorian claw-foot tub.
Grace adored Nantucket. It was where she and Lenny got married, without question the happiest day of Graceâs life. But it was more than that. There was a simplicity to the island that did not exist anywhereelse. Of course, there was money on Nantucket. Serious money. Tiny, three-room fishermenâs cottages in Siasconset changed hands for upward of $2 million. During the summer, Michelin-starred restaurants like 21 Federal and the Summerhouse charged more for their lobster thermidor than Georges V in Paris. Upscale boutiques on Union and Orange streets in town showcased thousand-dollar cardigans in their windows. Galleries representing local artists regularly sold pieces for six figures, sometimes even seven, to the islandâs wealthier residents. And yet, somehow, Nantucket remained determinedly low-key. In all the years sheâd been coming to the island, Grace had never seen a sports car. Billionaires and their wives strolled around town in khaki shorts and white cotton shirts from the Gap. Even the yachts in the harbor were conservative, far less flashy than the ones at East Hampton or Saint-Tropez or Palm Beach. Lenny never moored anything but a modest, forty-seven-foot bareboat in Nantucket. He would have died of shame before he showed up in the three-hundred-foot Quorum Queen, even though in Sardinia, Grace could hardly get him off the thing.
Nantucket was a place where rich people pretended to be poor. Or at least poor er. It made Grace nostalgic for her childhood, for a simpler time in her life, a time of innocent pleasures. It thrilled her that Lenny loved the island just as much as she did. Other than Le Cocon, their bastide -style retreat in Madagascar, there was nowhere else on earth where Grace felt so totally relaxed. The Brooksteins were happy everywhere, but they were happiest of all here, in this house.
Grace and Lenny
It was Michael who forced the issue.
âIâd like to go. It was generous of Lenny to invite us, and I could use a break from New York. Some sailing, some sea air.â
Michael had always liked Lenny. But that was Michael. He liked everyone. When Lenny extended the invitation last night, Mike practically bit his hand off.
If he knew where Lenny Brooksteinâs hands have beenâon my breasts, my ass, between my thighsâhe might not be so quick to bite.
But Michael Gray did not know.
As long as Lenny Brookstein did the decent thing and gave Connie what was coming to her, he would never have to.
F IVE
L ENNY AND G RACE B ROOKSTEINâS N ANTUCKET ESTATE was an idyllic, sprawling, gray-shingled mansion set just off Cliff Road on the north side of the island. The main house boasted ten bedroom suites, an indoor swimming pool and spa, a state-of-the-art movie theater, a chefâs kitchen and an enormous, gabled roof terrace (known on Nantucket as a âwidowâs walk,â because in the olden days, sailorsâ wives used to climb up to their rooftops and gaze out to sea, hoping to spot their husbandsâ long-lost ships returning). Formal gardens, planted with lavender, roses, and box hedges in the European style, cascaded down the hillside to Steps Beach, one of the quietest and most prestigious beaches on the island. At the bottom of the garden were four guest cottages, charming, wisteria-clad dollhouses in white wood, each with its own miniature front yard and white picket fence. Anywhere else the cottages would have looked impossibly twee. But here, on this magical island frozen for all time in some simpler, bygone era, they worked.
At least Grace Brookstein thought so. It was she who had built and designed them, down to the very last Ralph Lauren pillowcase and antique Victorian claw-foot tub.
Grace adored Nantucket. It was where she and Lenny got married, without question the happiest day of Graceâs life. But it was more than that. There was a simplicity to the island that did not exist anywhereelse. Of course, there was money on Nantucket. Serious money. Tiny, three-room fishermenâs cottages in Siasconset changed hands for upward of $2 million. During the summer, Michelin-starred restaurants like 21 Federal and the Summerhouse charged more for their lobster thermidor than Georges V in Paris. Upscale boutiques on Union and Orange streets in town showcased thousand-dollar cardigans in their windows. Galleries representing local artists regularly sold pieces for six figures, sometimes even seven, to the islandâs wealthier residents. And yet, somehow, Nantucket remained determinedly low-key. In all the years sheâd been coming to the island, Grace had never seen a sports car. Billionaires and their wives strolled around town in khaki shorts and white cotton shirts from the Gap. Even the yachts in the harbor were conservative, far less flashy than the ones at East Hampton or Saint-Tropez or Palm Beach. Lenny never moored anything but a modest, forty-seven-foot bareboat in Nantucket. He would have died of shame before he showed up in the three-hundred-foot Quorum Queen, even though in Sardinia, Grace could hardly get him off the thing.
Nantucket was a place where rich people pretended to be poor. Or at least poor er. It made Grace nostalgic for her childhood, for a simpler time in her life, a time of innocent pleasures. It thrilled her that Lenny loved the island just as much as she did. Other than Le Cocon, their bastide -style retreat in Madagascar, there was nowhere else on earth where Grace felt so totally relaxed. The Brooksteins were happy everywhere, but they were happiest of all here, in this house.
Grace and Lenny
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