Page 73 of Meant to Be

“He does it all. Handyman. Gardener. Gatekeeper,” Joe said as we reached the end of the road and the entrance to the Kingsley driveway.

Joe turned on to it, but I couldn’t see anything, the property screened by tall privacy hedges.

“Here we go,” Joe said, pulling through an open gate. “Home, sweet home.”

Conjuring images from my mother’s old magazines, I knew it would be impressive. But as the sprawling waterfront property came into view, I caught my breath. It was so much more spectacular in person, the way photographed landmarks often are. The “Kingsley compound” comprised three buildings, all gleaming white clapboard. The main house was a mansion by any measure. It had a wide front porch and green-and-white striped awning and managed to be both grand and charming at once. It was flanked by two smaller buildings, which Joe said were the pool house and guest cottage.

“Wow. It’s beautiful,” I said, overwhelmed by the explosion of color—the impeccable green lawn, the pink roses climbing white trellises, the purple hydrangeas blooming all over the yard, and the backdrop of vivid blue sky and sea meeting on the horizon.

“Yeah. It’s pretty special,” Joe said as he parked,acknowledging that even he realized this wasn’t your typicalHamptonsbeautiful.

His voice and smile were both soft, nearly reverent, and I couldn’t help thinking of his father and the weight of his family’s history, especially as I looked up and saw an American flag flying from a pole in the center of the lawn.

“When was it built?” I asked, wanting to know, but also stalling, not quite ready to get out of the car.

“Nineteen ten,” he said. “My grandfather built it.”

“He did?” I said, impressed.

“Well, no.” Joe chuckled. “Hehadit built.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said. “And now your whole family shares it?”

“Yeah,” Joe said.

“How does that work with all the cousins?” I asked, still stalling. “Are there sign-ups for certain weekends?”

“Not really,” Joe said. He opened his door, stepping onto the crushed seashell drive, then letting Thursday out of the car. “We just sort of make it work. It’s more fun when we’re all here together anyway.”

I smiled to myself, amused by the notion of making a massive waterfront estate in the Hamptons “work,” then reluctantly opened my door while Joe retrieved our bags from the backseat. I tried to take my own, but he wouldn’t let me, so I followed him and Thursday down the path instead, then climbed the stairs leading up to the porch of the main house. When we got to the door, Joe motioned for me to go in first, both of his hands full.

I took a breath and opened the door, holding it for Joe. The foyer was dimly lit with a faded floral wallpaper that surprised me until I remembered Curtis’s theory. These people had nothing to prove.

“Hell-oooo?” Joe called out, dropping our bags at the foot ofa wide staircase that turned ninety degrees at midflight. When nobody replied, he mumbled that they must be out back, then led me down a long hallway, passing two large rooms filled with dark antiques, sun-faded upholstered furniture, and wall-to-wall bookcases. Other than in a library, I’d never seen so many books.

As we reached the back porch, I got unexpected goosebumps from both the sweeping view and the fresh realization that I was here, in this famed setting. Tucked into a vast green lawn the length and width of a football field was a turquoise pool surrounded by stone decking, a tennis court lined with more hedges, and gorgeous formal gardens. Beyond the manicured perfection was the curved, rugged shoreline and an endless stretch of sparkling water dotted with colorful boats, the sails of which Joe would later refer to as spinnakers, a word I loved the sound of.

“There they are!” Joe said, pointing to a row of white Adirondack chairs in the far corner of the yard, two of them occupied.

My stomach dropped a little in anticipation as Joe cupped his mouth with his hands, then belted out a hello. Dottie and Berry turned and waved, then stood in unison and began slowly walking toward us as Thursday raced around the yard. Berry trailed one step behind Dottie, and I thought of the Queen of England, wondering if this family followed similar protocol. As they approached the porch, I could see they were both wearing shift dresses—Dottie’s lemon yellow and Berry’s a mix of pastel blues and pinks—and I fleetingly questioned my outfit. I reminded myself I needed to be me—it was the only way.

“C’mon,” Joe said, taking my hand, leading me down the porch steps and across the lawn. His grip was firmer than usual, as if he could tell that I was nervous. Or maybehewas.

“Well, you made good time!” Dottie said as she neared us. I instantly recognized her voice, from where, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a documentary or an episode of60 Minutesthat my momhad forced me to watch. It was surreal, being here in front of a woman whom I was just meeting, yet felt like I knew so much about.

“Yes. I think it was a record!” Joe said, squeezing my hand.

“I hope you weren’t speeding,” his mother said, as we closed the gap.

“Only a little bit!” Joe said, grinning.

He let go of my hand, then gave his mother a formal hug and kiss on the cheek. I waited for him to do the same with Berry, but instead he reached out and mussed her hair. She pushed his hand away and laughed, and I could instantly feel their close rapport.

“Mother and Berry…this is Cate,” Joe said. “Cate, this is my mother and Berry.”

I pushed my sunglasses up onto my hair, headband style, but instantly regretted it, both because the sun was now in my eyes and because Dottie and Berry kept their glasses on. Not wanting to fidget or appear nervous, I lived with my decision, squinting into the sun as Dottie gracefully extended her slender arm to shake my hand.

“Cate,” she said, making my name its own sentence. Her fingers were delicate and birdlike, her skin oddly cool given all the sunlight. “How do you do?”

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