Several times a day at our home in Fire Island Pines, the same scene plays out. Visitors, in knots of twos or threes, stand unannounced in our entryway, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the suspended staircase dangling like sculpture above the 18-foot-high living room. “Excuse me, but we’ve known this house since we were little, and we’ve been watching it change the past few years, and well . . . .” At this point, my partner, Doug Harris, and I usually invite them in.