Their hosts are Nancy Shevell, the scion of a New Jersey trucking family, and her husband, Paul McCartney, a bass player and singer-songwriter from Liverpool.
Through the gate, they mount a flight of stairs to the front door and walk across a vaulted living room to a fragrant back yard, where a crowd is circulating under a tent in the familiar high-life way, regarding the territory, pausing now and then to accept refreshments from a tray. They all wear expectant, delighted-to-be-invited expressions. And out they come, face after famous face, burnished, expensively moisturized: Jerry Seinfeld, Jimmy Buffett, Anjelica Huston, Julianne Moore, Stevie Van Zandt, Alec Baldwin, Jon Bon Jovi. At the last driveway on a road ending at the beach, a cortège of cars-S.U.V.s, jeeps, candy-colored roadsters-pull up to the gate, sand crunching pleasantly under the tires. The surf is rough and pounds its regular measure on the shore. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.Įarly evening in late summer, the golden hour in the village of East Hampton.
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