Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Twenty

Lee’s home is as large and luxurious as a private resort. Still, he seems a little uncomfortable in it, like someone wearing a tuxedo to a hockey match.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

We landed around four o’clock at the Cape Cod Gateway airport. Lee had left his car there, and he carried my bag out to the nearby parking lot. I had expected he’d be driving a Bentley or Land Rover, but instead we approached a fully restored, vintage Ford Mustang convertible. It was baby blue with a white vinyl top and two-tone blue vinyl interior.

“This is what you drive?”

“It’s a ’66 Ford Mustang. It was a vintage year for the car.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Technically, since it was made. My father left it to us when he died. It sat in the garage for thirty years. One of the first things I did when I sold that first book was to have it fully restored. I found a body shop at a Ford dealership in Detroit where they restored it to showroom specifications. The color is the original Acadian blue, and this was the first year the iconic Mustang was in the corral.” He unlocked the trunk, then said, “I’m sorry, I’m boring you. I just geek out over old cars.”

“The protagonist in your book My Brother’s Keeper drove a blue convertible Mustang.”

“Same car.”

“I feel like I’m walking through a novel.”

Unfortunately, it was too cold to drive with the top down.

Lee didn’t live very far from the airport; a little over three miles. His home looked to me like a resort. It was on nine acres with more than a thousand feet of private sandy beach. The main house was large, more than ten thousand square feet, with a steeply pitched roof with a shingled turret and a watchtower. The garage was on the east side of the estate and separate from the house. It looked like a home itself with six separate bays.

It was stunningly beautiful.

“This is where you live?”

“Not enough, lately,” he said. “Over there is Hyannis Harbor, some of the Kennedys’ property. We’re north of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket Island.”

The driveway circled to the front of the house, beneath an arched portico worthy of a hotel entrance. The outside of the home was white clapboard siding, except near the double front door entry that was done in stone.

Lee parked the Mustang in front of the house, and we got out.

“So this is how the other half lives.”

“Not exactly half,” he said.

He got my bag out of the trunk, and we walked inside. There was a sense of openness since the entryway ceiling rose nearly twenty feet to a round turret circled by windows and sporting a brass chandelier. There was an old-world, nautical feel to the place.

The floors and banisters were light oak, and the interior of the house, that which wasn’t window, was white paneled wood with hints of aquamarine inside the panels.

“This is stunning.”

“It’s opulent,” he said. “It’s way too much.”

“It cost too much?”

“Everything is too much. I could be happy in a log cabin. Laurie talked me into buying it. She said it was a ‘steal’ and a good investment. And Marc likes the seclusion. He said it feels like we’re on an island.” He set my bag down. “You can’t beat the sunsets, though.”

He picked a note up from the counter. “Looks like Marc made us dinner.”

“I thought you said he doesn’t cook.”

“He doesn’t. At least not often. I’ll read what he wrote. ‘Lasagna in the oven, peach balsamic salad in the fridge. Dinner for two. If you are alone, come get me.’?” Lee nodded. “That was nice of him.”

“Then he knows you went to get me.”

“He knows all about you.”

“You don’t even know all about me.”

“I know enough. The rest is window dressing.”

“What?”

He laughed. “I’ll show you to your room.”