Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street
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From across the bay, he could see the wake before he could make out the boat. It was a Boston Whaler, coming out of Camden harbor with the throttle wide open. Plumes of spray leapt from the bow as it took the top of each wave, catching the low sun in an arc of gold. Warren knew that there would be two people on board, one his employee, the other his wife.
The porch of the main house had a sweeping view of the bay. Perched on a bluff above a cove with a double dock on pilings over the dark, cold water, the house had been the first great “cottage” to go up on Islesboro Island, made for a Scotch-Irish Boston importer who’d kept a seventy-five-foot steam cruiser tied up all summer, only venturing to cross the bay when absolutely necessary. He’d hated sailing and ships, though they’d earned him his fortune, and named the house somewhat sardonically Whales End. In the years after its construction, Dark Harbor, as this part of the island came to be known, became a favored location for large summer houses owned by the Northeastern elite. The wealthy New Yorkers, Philadelphians, and Bostonians would schedule countless sail races in the bay, and the hired crews would create diversions for their daughters and wives while the men donned captain’s hats and lusted after a series of ornate silver cups that sat in a case at the Tarratine Club.