DemocraSay

He is an older man, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. It's hard to say exactly because he has the ageless look of burnished leather and a quick and boyish smile. Looking at him you know immediately that he has a taste for the finer things in life. His clothing, while not ostentatious, oozes quality craftsmanship and excellent tailoring. He grew up in New England somewhere judging by the hint of an accent, maybe Vermont or Connecticut. Prep school educated, Ivy League. And yet, there isn't a trace of arrogance in his demeanor, only an easy and charming confidence. He drinks scotch, not cognac. He is Gatsby, all grown up.

He is a bachelor but as he looks over the carriage house with an approving eye, he says that his daughter would love it, it's just her style. Divorced, then, or maybe a widower... no, definitely a widower. You can see the sadness in his eyes as he takes in the view, wishing he had someone to share it with, thinking back to the happiest times in his life. Perhaps he and his wife had walked together by a similar sea on a sunny, breezy day like today.

The tour is complete and he turns to you with that disarming smile, shrugs a little half-shrug---obviously an unconscious habit---and says, "Well, I can't imagine finding a place that suits me better at this time in my life. Where do I sign?"