Journey by Karina Sharp, Carrie Ann Foster, Good Girl Graphics Page A

Kleinport, which is more like a suburb of Kleinert and whose students attend Kleinert schools.  I find myself cruising along the shore line on Ocean Avenue.  This is the area of Maine where families like the Vanderbilts, Kennedys, and Bushes spent their summers.  I am quite accustomed to spending time on Martha’s Vineyard and in the Hamptons, so I’m not seeking large estates with large garden parties.  Instead, I am in search of a little privacy- a slice of coastal heaven where I can bathe in the sun and not be bothered.
                  I find a small alcove of shore that has just enough sand for me to lie upon, but with enough trees to shield my presence from the road and surrounding properties.  Walking leisurely toward the water, I note the large estates dotting the cliffs and beaches along the shore.  I open my large, plush, pink towel, laying it on the sand perpendicular to the water’s edge, unfold my lounge chair, pour myself a glass of light, white wine, and open my beachy romance novel.
                  Reading about a petite, quirky girl, much like myself, romanced by a forbidden man has my mind wandering to places it hasn’t been for some time.  I put the book down to refill my wine glass and spot something out of the corner of my eye.  Just beyond several trees and overgrown bushes, I think I see the outline of a large house, but I’m not certain.  It appears to be a Cape Cod style house with cedar shingles, although it seems to be in gross disrepair.  Curious, I move closer to it to check it out.  It’s not often that large estates are not in pristine condition.  Generally, those who own neighboring properties do not look favorably upon prime real estate to not remain just that.
                  Standing with only greenery separating me from the iron fence of the abode, I see its true beauty.  My father instilled a knowledge and appreciation of architecture into my brother and I, and this house is a masterful work of art.  It has large dormer windows, slate tile on the roof, cedar shingles on the sides, and large windows, providing sweeping views of the ocean.  It would have a one-of-a-kind view if the windows weren’t all covered in heavy fabrics and the exterior with wild shrubbery.  The house needs to be painted and landscaped, but the bones are still there.  The in-ground pool would benefit from some serious chemicals.  I think it currently houses the largest colony of tadpoles on this planet.
                  Even through its unkempt exterior, I can see that this house is sturdy and well built.  I’m sure in its heyday, it easily graced the cover of Coastal Living Magazine or an architectural digest.  Something about the home seems sad, almost as though the entire aura of the place is mourning its former glory.
                  Assuming the house must be vacant, since it’s in such a state of disrepair, I forge through the green wall of vines and bushes to get a closer look.  Cement sculptures and large stone steps, remnants of their former selves, lead from the algae filled pool to a large back patio where I can envision lavish, formal parties being held at sunset or big weddings with live bands.  At one point, this home had to have had life; it must be at least one hundred years old.  
                  I cautiously creep over to the large French doors and adjacent windows to see if I can sneak a peek into the structure.  I picture tall ceilings with hardwood floors and walls of books.  It is dark inside, but it appears to be in direct contrast to outside.  Furniture seems to be in place, pictures on walls, and, yes, even many books aligned on bookshelves.  Moving down the row of dusty windows, I see a conservatory with a large piano, keyboard uncovered; chaise lounge; and some other pieces of furniture, of which I cannot discern exactly what they are.
                  Seeing the interior of