Ann’s great-grandfather had initially come from Ireland to the Cape to work for the Pacific Guano Company in Woods Hole, a business that imported bat shit for fertilizer. When the company went bankrupt, he moved farther up the Cape to Wellfleet and tried to start a farm here. Her father, an only child, eventually inherited the house and wouldn’t think of selling, even though he lived halfway across the country. They could have sunk the money into a much cheaper cottage in Door County or Waupaca—it seemed everyone had a lake place in Wisconsin—but her parents loved it here. They let the Cape house dictate their lives. Her parents never earned high salaries; they were teachers because they adored kids, but mostly because their jobs allowed them to spend their summers in Wellfleet.

Carol said, “In my experience, the deeper the roots, the harder the sale.”

“We’re fine.” This was a lie. Ann didn’t feel at all fine. She was racked with guilt, because she knew, even with a missing will, that her parents would have wanted her to make whatever sacrifice was necessary to pass their beloved family home down to Noah. And then there was Poppy, who had already turned her entire life into one long summer vacation. And Michael—no, no. She didn’t want to think about Michael. She couldn’t.

Carol sat down at the Formica kitchen table and gestured for Ann to join her. “This might be hard to hear, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t level with you. A house like this, as charming as it is, can be hard to move. Old homes require special owners.” Carol talked about the house like she was a doctor talking with parents about a child with a tragic congenital defect whose future would not be bright.

“Your home is wonderful. It’s in relatively good shape, for its age, and the lot is nice. But you’re right on Route 6, so there’s road noise.”

“But you can hardly hear it.”

“True. The problem is the address. Some of my clients, they won’t even look at a house on the state highway. And I should tell you that the first thing a buyer will see is what I saw when I first got here: the shingles aren’t in great shape and the roof needs to be replaced. The problem is that your home looks old instead of historic. You’ve only got one small bathroom, and any buyer will want another one upstairs. The fixtures are dated. The oil boiler—you know that will scare people. And the kitchen…” She looked around. Ann had to agree: the kitchen was a nightmare, complete with sticky-looking cupboards, and the funky pink and brown mushroom wallpaper her mother had put up in the seventies. “Kitchens sell houses.”

“What are you saying?”