here comes summer; At her Nantucket beach house, Ashley Brittingham sets the stage for the quintessential American vacation, complete with surfboards, wet suits, bunkroom, flashlight tag, and buttermilk pancakes.

At 24 I fell in love with the grassy dunes and cobblestoned streets of Nantucket on a vacation from California with the man who became my husband. Relocated east a few years later, Jeff and I were drawn back to its understated charm and began to spend our summers there. An island crisscrossed with bike paths made me want to take up running. Not a natural runner, I desperately needed the distraction of looking at real estate to make the endless miles pass. House after house, gasp after gasp, I struggled until I stopped dead in my tracks: I had found my house. (I didn't even know I was looking.) Thankful for any excuse to catch my breath, I couldn't move from the driveway. The house called out to me, and I never wanted to leave.

I continued to visit the house-my house-every summer. Often. After a perfect beach day I would pass by. Too much rain? Better check on my garden. I felt motherly pride as my New Dawn roses climbed their trellised ladders to the sky.

Six years and four children later, we'd outgrown our tiny rental cottage and wanted to buy property on the island. Those summers of longing eventually paid off-miraculously, the house I so admired came on the market, and we bought it.

Life inside the house was just as I imagined. Lounging over breakfast outside watching the sailboats in the harbor can take up a whole morning. Playing hide-and-seek among the blue hydrangeas and taking beach walks down the dirt road make perfect afternoons for children who aren't allowed to walk around the block unescorted in Manhattan. I begin most mornings surfing with my two sons, chatting on our boards while waiting for waves as seals bob around us. Cold, tired and sandy, afterward we pile into Black Eyed Susan's for hot buttermilk pancakes at the counter. Swimming, kayaking, Rollerblading, tennis, and biking to Siasconset-my family is happiest outside. On Nantucket, I feel healthy, free, and alive, and thankful there is nowhere else I have to be.

Jeff and I have ten siblings between us, and we knew we were eventually going to need to expand. The concept of altering a house I adored was daunting. Since it was only one room deep, many prospective architects began their pitch by suggesting we tear it down. They were quickly shown the door. "Do what you need to do so this works for my family, but please make it feel like the same house I fell in love with," I explained.

We hired Lisa Botticelli, a local architect of outstanding island houses, to add bedrooms and a family hangout room with space for books and games. Finding the right designer was more difficult. I loved the authenticity of Nantucket but wanted an updated version of a beach house. A friend suggested we meet Jeffrey Bilhuber, who has a special affection for the island. We toured his cottage, which he had transformed into a series of moments that invite you to relax, grab a book, and never move. One side of an old weathered birdhouse sat proudly on a shelf, reminding visitors that the past is to be respected, not thrown away. The three of us squeezed into his shower, with a teak latticed floor like the fantail on a boat. I nudged Jeff. "This guy is a genius," I whispered.

Jeffrey dropped by the next day for lemonade and ...