Cape May (6 page)

“Dream?”

“I’m looking for a house down here, to buy and run as a bed and breakfast. That’s why I came. I’m meeting with a realtor tomorrow. Even though I know I’ll end up working more hours than I do now, at least it’ll be for me. Us. I’ll be the boss. Meet new people and live someplace calmer.”

“Sounds like you know what you want, too.”

They continued walking quietly until Joanna said, “Oh, that house is adorable!”

“Captain Mey’s Inn, built around 1890.”

“Do you know every house in Cape May?”

“No, not all. A lot though.”

Joanna said, “And what’s that one, over there? The small one.”

“Is this a test? That is M’lady’s Glove and Bonnet. Silly name, I think, but the house is very sweet. It is small. Two guest bedrooms. What size B&B are you interested in?”

“Depends. On the house, the price, the location, how we feel about it.” They were both quiet a few moments. She changed the topic: “So, what are the things I have to see and do here?”

“Judging from your pale…” his eyes swept her face “wow, flawless skin…”

“Someone needs glasses.”

“…you’re not a sun worshipper.” Joanna shook her head. “How about your husband? Is he a sun lover?”

“Brian hasn’t set foot on a beach in years, since one of his west coast clients insisted on having a lunchtime meeting on Pacific Beach. He almost had sun poisoning.”

“Ouch. He has clients that far away? Must be pretty smart.”

“He’s had some clients for decades. Wherever they move, they still want him doing their accounts, via fax, email, Skype, smoke signals, whatever.”

“Blisters aside, while you’re here, if you have the time, you should go to the beach, sit under an umbrella. There are kiosks where you can rent them, and chairs. Talk about relaxing. You might even see dolphins.”

“I’d love that. What else?” She crossed the street to look in a shop window. He followed.

“The boardwalk. Sunsets. The stars. The Washington Street Mall back there is worth exploring, if you like to shop.” They peered in the store window and among the sweaters, pants, jewelry, and scarves were greeting cards of nude six-packed men with actual long thin balloons hanging out of the card where each penis would be. They glanced disbelievingly at each other. He said, “Classy.” They switched to another window. A small candle of a ghost sat on a display. “Oh, there’s a haunted Cape May walking tour that’s very popular.”

“Have you been on it?”

“Wouldn’t be caught dead on it.”

She chuckled. “Okay, no church, no ghosts…”

“I’m an open-minded doubter,” he said. “Just because I’ve never seen a ghost, and don’t really believe in ghosts, doesn’t necessarily mean there aren’t ghosts.”

“Who would you want to see, if you did believe in ghosts?”

“Is this a trap? If I say Einstein, you’ll think I’m pretentious. If I say Marilyn Monroe, you’ll think I’m shallow.”

“Would either of them be true?”

“No. I think I’d want to meet Michelangelo, but I don’t speak Italian, so, maybe Lincoln. Although in death maybe we all speak one language. What about you?”

She thought a moment. “Abigail Adams. I’ve read all the biographies. I feel like I already know her. She was an admirable woman. Smart, loyal, funny, ahead of her time, a great mother and businesswoman, and wife. I’d ask how she managed all that.”

“She didn’t spend time on Facebook.”

“Ah, how very very true.”

“So you
do
believe in ghosts.”

“I’m not sure.” She paused. “It’s hard to believe that we are all there is, that this is all there is.”

“People say that about life on other planets, too.”

“I wish I were more sure of what I believe.”

“I find it refreshing that you’re not. So many people are positive what they believe is right and they’re willing to kill those who don’t.”

She was shaking her head, “Every day in the news. Very upsetting. Stop. I’m on vacation. Go back to the ghosts.”

“Well then, I’ll admit that I’ve heard ghost stories—from people I consider sane and reliable—about some of these houses that made me doubt my doubting.”

“Really? Tell me. No, don’t tell me or I’ll be scared alone in my room tonight. Tell me tomorrow when Brian
can protect me if a ghost shows up.” She stopped in her tracks. “Oh, wait, oh my gosh,
that
is the most amazing house I’ve ever seen.” Joanna was looking across Ocean Street…

And there was the Queen Victoria.

As described in many a tourist brochure, the 1880’s house sat with fitting regal splendor on the corner of Ocean and Columbia Avenues. A favorite tourist destination, the
glorious example of Victorian architecture also showed
influences both Italian, in the twin turret windows, and French, in the mansard roof.

“That is the Queen Victoria, and a Queen she is. I know
the owners. If you want I could introduce you. That’s the main house, and they also own the Queen’s Cottage,” he said, pointing to the house behind them, “and this one, called the House of Royals,” pointing to the building on the corner, “and the Prince Albert Hall around the corner. It’s a bit of a monopoly.”

“They must have a lot of non-Monopoly money.”

“Apparently.”

“Well, I’ve been here less than an hour and I’m dazzled.”

“It’s magical here, and romantic, and you get the feeling
that, well, you almost feel if you’re not careful, you’ll
accidentally time travel right back to 1880. I was slightly drunk one night and, oh, never mind. That’s a story for another time.”

“No wonder you’re reading
Time and Again
!”

“Ha, yes.”

“I can’t believe these houses. Look at that one on the corner. Oh, look at the one next to it! This is too much.”

Michael smiled. “Maybe you should just mention the ones you
don’t
like!”

“It’s more…everything…than I expected. Even after visiting all the websites and reading so many books.”

“But you’ll wear yourself out. You know, Cape May has the
second…”

Joanna chimed in: “…largest collection of Victorian houses in the world.” They both laughed.

He said, “I guess you read that brochure, too, huh?”

“I should have been a historian. I find research fascinating. If we decide to move here, I’ll read every book ever written about Cape May.”

“I hope mine is on the list, if I ever finish it. It takes place in Cape May.”

“I’ll be the first in line to buy a copy. What’s it about?”

“It takes place in Cape May.”

“Ohhhkaaayyyy.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it, since I don’t want to talk about it. It’s still young.”

“I understand.”

“Your inn is just around that corner. It took us half an hour to walk a few blocks!”

“It’s my fault,” Joanna said.

“No, I’ve enjoyed every minute. Your enthusiasm is catching. I’m so familiar with all of this I’ve become a little complacent.” They turned the corner and there stood the Manor Rose. “There it is. Your bed and breakfast, your home for the next few nights. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

The Manor Rose was almost as impressive as the Queen Victoria. While the Queen Victoria was majestic and awe-inspiring, the Manor Rose was welcoming and warm, suggesting a house full of love and family dinners and hugs. Everything her own childhood home wasn’t. The Queen Victoria was deep dark shades of green; the Manor Rose was painted a burnt umber, with pink, salmon, and apricot accents. It was bright and cheerful, but not overly
storybook. In the front of the house, the bottom of the
windows were level with the wraparound porch, allowing easy access. Looking in from the street, Joanna imagined the mother of the house, a hundred years ago, baking cookies with her daughters on cook’s day off. Too many feelings rushed over her. She needed a minute.

After delighting in all her
oohs
and
aahs
, the sudden thick quiet surprised Michael. He thought maybe Joanna didn’t like the house. He turned to her, and saw her eyes were filled with wonder, and some tears. She turned away from him. He dug a tissue packet out of his pocket and handed it over her shoulder.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I don’t know why…I mean I’m…it’s just so moving. Such an example of time passing. That house is still there but all the people who fit with it,
in
it, cleaned and ate and loved in it, even the people who walked past it every day, they’re all gone. Oh, God, I must sound…” she shook her head.

“No, I understand. Being moved by this.”

More composed, she turned to him to reply and was surprised and silenced by the warmth and understanding in his eyes.

He continued, “When my son was born I was apparently
implanted with a ‘sappy’ chip and I’ve gotten sappier as I’ve gotten older. It hurts but I actually like it. I’m willing to feel more now. Aging does bring with it some unexpected pluses, I guess. I’m certainly a better writer now.”

“You have a son?”

“Yes. Robbie.
Rob
, he likes to be called now. He’s in his late twenties and lives in California.”

“Do you get to see him much?”

“No. Our relationship is complicated.”

There was a pause. “Well,” she said, “I should check in.”

He opened the gate for her and they walked up the front path. “I bet you’re tired.”

“Yes, tired and very hungry.”

He hesitated. “I was just on my way to dinner. On the boardwalk. A place called Henry’s. You’re welcome to…”

“I should…” she gestured to the door.

“Yes, of course,” said Michael. He backed down the path. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks for everything, Michael.”

“You’re welcome. I’d better get going. I am hungry.” He walked further down to the gate and shut it behind him. He looked back at her, now standing on the steps of the house. “I enjoyed getting to know you, Joanna.”

“You too.”

He walked to Ocean Street and made a right, heading towards the boardwalk.

Joanna stood a moment, contemplating joining him. She took one step back down the stairs when the front door opened and she heard a tinkling bell. A short plump woman called to her through the screen door.

“Oh, hello! Are you checking in?”

Joanna turned around. “Yes. Hi. I’m Joanna Matthews,”
and went inside.

“I’m Marie. Welcome to the Manor Rose,” she said, while looking on her iPad. “Oh, yes, you’re visiting from Manhattan, I see.”

Joanna nodded, eyes taking in the surroundings. She and Marie stood in the entranceway of the house, a grand immaculate example of Victorian architecture and décor. Straight ahead was the staircase with a runner carpet of royal blue background with a multishaded blue floral design, held in place with shiny brass rods. The banister’s
dark wood gleamed, the railings intricately carved. The
doorway to the left of the entrance hall led to a sitting room. Joanna peeked in, feeling the intruder, and saw a burnt orange satin love seat, a small table with a chess board and pieces set up ready for play, a sideboard with sherry and
eight Old Galway glasses on a polished silver tray. On
the round, main table in the room, local newspapers lay side-by-side with
Architect Digest
,
Travel in Luxury
, and
ARTNews
magazines. Adding to these anachronistic touches
was a shelf of DVDs to borrow.

It suddenly occurred to Joanna that, if she wanted to, she had no way of contacting Michael. She didn’t know where he was staying, she didn’t have a phone number. He obviously knew where she was staying, but would she ever hear from him?

Marie was saying, “…and a full breakfast served from…”

“Marie, I’m sorry, I just remembered something. Can I leave my bag here and come back later?”

“Of course. I’ll put it in your room. Here’s the key. If
you’re back after eleven, please use the side door. It’s quieter.”

Joanna bolted out of the house, and missed hearing the tail end of, “…but you can always…”

She rushed back into the house. “Where is Henry’s?”

CHAPTER 5

After dropping Joanna off at the Manor Rose, Michael walked leisurely towards Henry’s. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her to have dinner with him, but he enjoyed talking to her. How come he hadn’t met women like her when he’d attempted dating. Dating. A ridiculous word and thing to attempt over the age of, oh, thirty. After his divorce and mourning period, he tried dating, but didn’t have much hope or patience. Everyone had baggage and was set in their ways. He knew he was guilty himself on both counts. Although he’d gotten involved with a few women, nothing ever became serious. He’d hurt feelings, and had his hurt, too. Some of the friends who’d set him up lost patience, but what could he do? He tried, but wasn’t interested enough. Now he seemed destined to stay single and was okay about it. If he examined himself too closely, he’d have to admit he was occasionally lonely. Lonely, but too lazy to do anything about it. No, it wasn’t really laziness. It was fear of being hurt again. Fear of being rejected. Trepidation about letting someone get too close.

Back in his married days, when counseling lonely single friends, he’d recommend museum tours, or singles’ cruises, or a theatre-going group. Now that he was single, he did none of those get-to-meet-people things. Writing was a solitary endeavor. He certainly wasn’t going to meet coworkers, not working alone in his 750 square foot apartment. In a different universe, he might try being a docent, or feeding adorable baby animals at the zoo, where perhaps he’d just happen to meet a woman he wouldn’t lose interest in after two dates.
He’d let his Match.com account lapse. There were far more women looking for men than men looking for women, which should’ve worked in his favor, but somehow didn’t.

On Beach Avenue he made a left. How could he miss her company already? Well, usually he took the bus alone. He’d never struck up a conversation with a fellow traveler before. But he liked her. (Maybe he’d like her sister?) It must be her enthusiasm, which was nice to be around. His few friends in Manhattan were very insular and apt to stay put, not understanding his love for Cape May. For them, heading south meant visiting the South Street Seaport. He played poker once a month with a bunch of people, all of whom claimed to be looking for prospects for him. Over the years, some set him up—with sisters, neighbors, friends, coworkers—occasionally inviting him to dinner where another guest, a woman, would unexpectedly be there. After dating a few of candidates, he began to wonder if his friends really knew him at all. Some women were physically attractive, but empty. He was (he’d admit if forced to) still good looking, with all his hair, graying at the temples in a distinguished, rather than just old, manner (he hoped). Thanks to walking around the city he was in good shape and health. He read a lot of books, saw a lot of plays and movies, and basically enjoyed his life. Loneliness never killed anyone. He’d rather be alone than with someone like Donna. His ex-wife had a way of making him feel wrong and awkward. The fact that he chose and married Donna, and stayed with her far too long, made him doubt his self-matchmaking abilities.

He walked into Henry’s Restaurant. A young waitress in a white blouse and short black skirt came over to him. “Michael! How are you?”

Michael hugged her. “Sophie! I wondered if you still worked here. How are you?”

“I’m good. Rob still in California?”

“Yes. You heading back to school?”

“Finishing my masters starting September. I’m here for the sun and beach and some spending money before devoting my life to five year olds. I want to enjoy myself now. Outside.”

“You’re smart. You’ll have enough time inside a classroom, as a student or a teacher. You’ll be a great teacher.”

She sat him at a table outside under the canvas roof, which was everybody’s favorite spot. He took out
Time and Again
, and started reading. Funny Joanna liked the book so much, too. He’d heard that the time travel romance had a loyal following, but the only people he knew who’d read it were the people for whom he’d bought copies. His ex-wife thought it was “sentimental,” and she wasn’t sentimental about anything, was she?

***

The houses on the way to the boardwalk all deserved more of her attention, but Joanna rushed past them, wanting to get to Henry’s. She liked Michael and wanted to talk with him more. When was the last time she met someone with whom she clicked. She was sure that Brian would like Michael, too. The three of them could get together back in Manhattan, if they meshed here.

She walked to Beach Avenue and made a left, as directed
by Marie. Beach was parallel to the boardwalk and more
heavily trafficked. Joanna crossed Beach and climbed the few cement steps to the boardwalk. The weather was pleasantly warm, and she was perspiring from walking so fast. The building up ahead on the right seemed to be the right one, as described by Marie. She put her hand above her eyes to shield them from the still bright sky. Large letters spelled out “Henry’s” above an awning. An American flag waved on a high pole, its rope clanging against the metal. The place looked lived in and, especially now, welcoming. She opened the screen door, and entered. Inside, it was a basic and warm diner. Her eyes scanned the tables, but he wasn’t there. A waitress walking past with trays of enticing food impossibly balanced up her arm said, “You can sit anywhere. There’s tables in the back, too, if you want to eat outside.”

Joanna said, “Thanks,” and walked into the back area of the restaurant, and saw Michael sitting at a table, reading. He looked up from his book, saw her, and smiled. She was
still breathless from her sprint, and squeaked out a “Hi!”

He walked over to her. “I’m glad you came.”

“I suddenly realized how hungry I was.”

He guided her over to the table, with his warm hand light on her upper arm. She sat across from him and looked around, taking it all in, and giving herself time to catch her breath. The space had a canvas roof with awnings, which made flapping noises in the breeze. In cooler weather, the clear plastic walls, currently rolled up and out of the way, would be down. In the winter, the room would be closed off. Now, it was just warm enough to be pleasant in the shade, and the table afforded a panoramic view of the beach and the ocean. The scent of sunscreen lightly wafted in and mixed with the fried-food smell of the restaurant. The combination tugged Joanna right back to her childhood summers. She breathed in deeply. “Oh, this is just what the doctor ordered.”

Michael called Sophie over. He gestured across the table.
“Sophie, this is Joanna, and it’s her first time in Henry’s.”

Sophie said, “Welcome. You want to start with our lemonade? It’s the best in town.”

Joanna nodded. “Sounds great.”

“I’ll bring two right away. Here’s some menus, although you don’t need one, Michael,” Sophie said, and went to get the lemonades.

Michael said to Joanna, “My son was friends with her. I think we both had crushes on her.”

“Eww.”

“It’s not like I pursued it. I saw, and learned from,
American Beauty
.”

“Good. There’s nothing worse than a man dating a girl his granddaughter’s age. Unless it’s a woman dating a man three years younger than she is. Or perhaps I read too many tabloid headlines at the supermarket.”

“Actually it was her mother I was…” he was interrupted
by Sophie bringing the lemonades. Michael said to her,
“I forgot to ask, how’s your mother?”

“She’s fine. Happy she moved to Atlanta. Still wishes you had moved down there, too, when she did.”

“Oh, that was a long time ago. But I’m flattered,”
Michael said. “Tell her I said hello.”

Joanna listened to their conversation as she took the inch of paper cover off the top of her straw and sipped. “Oh, yummy.”

“Good! I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”

Michael turned to look out at the beach, lost in thought. Joanna was comfortable just being quiet, and watching him. She wondered if he used to eat here with his wife and son. He’d mentioned that he’d been coming to Cape May for years. He was somewhere else right now, miles away. She realized his eyes were an intriguing shade of blue, which made her also realize he was staring back. She snapped out of her own little trance and said, “Sorry. Daydreaming,” and turned to people watch.

There were a lot of people on the beach, many strolling fully clothed except for bare feet. The young, skinny girls
paraded in their tiny bikinis. “Oh, I see why you like it here.”

“Can you imagine: in the 1870s, women wore bathing
dresses made of flannel, about ten yards worth,” Michael said.

Sophie returned and said, “Are you ready to order?” as she put down a basket of rolls and butter. Michael shook his head, and the waitress left them alone again. Joanna broke off a bite-sized piece of roll and popped it into her mouth.

He sipped his lemonade. “Did you like your B&B?”

“The little I saw, yes. Just inside the door. It seemed perfect. I’ll be honored to sleep there tonight. I hope I’m worthy.”

“It does seem bizarre to be in an elegant, formal house in jeans and a wrinkled shirt, or even worse, shorts and a T-shirt.”

“Sacrilege! Some houses should have real Victorian clothes for houseguests to wear.”

“You could do that at your B&B,” he smiled. “But don’t make it mandatory or people might not come back.”

“It would certainly change our romantic views of that time period, if we had to wear corsets and suits in August.” She picked up the menu.

He said, “I could make a suggestion, as I’ve eaten here about a thousand times. Left column, about midway down. Henry’s Specialty.”

She scanned the menu following his directions: “
Big Ass Clam Platter
! Can they say that?”

“Yes. And it’s delicious. With cole slaw and french fries.”

“Why not? It sounds like fat and cholesterol heaven, and I am officially on vacation.”

“One greasy meal can’t hurt, huh? Oh, there’s Sophie. Sophie! We’re starving.”

Sophie came over. “Gee, Michael, let me guess what you’re having. Did you talk her into it?”

“Yes,” said Joanna. “That’s me, falling prey to peer pressure again just like in high school.”

Sophie left to place the order.

Michael said, “She’s about to fulfill her dream of becoming a kindergarten teacher, and it seems like yesterday I was helping her with algebra.”

“Time really does fly, doesn’t it?”

He paused. “Most of the time I don’t mind so much, you know? Then something will happen and I’ll think, shit, what’s happened to my life.”

“I don’t even like to admit I’m middle-aged, and then I think, how many 120 year old women do I know?”

“You’re not sixty, are you?” Michael asked, shaking
his head.

Joanna’s palms flew up to her face. “Not quite yet, please! I’m still in my fifties, for a few more months. I always forget I’m not supposed to tell people my age.”

“You shouldn’t because they’d never guess it.”

“Thank you. Well they do say that sixty is the new twelve, or something.”

“I’m over sixty on the outside, with an internal maturity
of about seventeen.”

“Uh oh, are your hormones raging?” she said, embarrassed the moment the words came out. Her own hormones were making her blush again. At almost sixty. Would that ever stop?

“Yes, they still get me into trouble, but at a slower pace. No raging any more. Now it’s more like a swift current.”

Wanting to change the subject, she asked, “Are you working on any projects other than the Cape May book you won’t even give me a hint about?”

“Next week, back in the city, I have a speech to write, then nothing lined up. I have to start hunting for work. Hell, can anyone retire any more?”

“It’s too bad you don’t have a science background. My
medical education company always needs freelance writers.”

He squared his shoulders. “And who says I don’t have a science background?”

“Do you?”

“My parents didn’t believe I could make money as a writer, so they forced me into medical school. I made it through two long, awful, painful years.”

“Loved it, did you?”

“It was my parents’ dream. Certainly not mine. But
I did learn a lot. I learned how to work like hell and attempt to be satisfied with so-so grades. It really was humiliating. However, having seen an autopsy in person gave me some good copy for my mysteries.”

She reached into her purse. “We do seminars, slide presentations, that sort of thing. If you’re interested in some freelance work…wait, let me impress you,” and dug out a business card. “Here. My company gave me 100 of these, and I think this is the fifth I’ve actually given anyone.”

“
Joanna Matthews, Associate Managing Editor
. Well,
I am impressed.”

“Yeah, big deal, huh? Email me your CV when you get back to New York. I’ll give it to the editorial director. You never know. It’s hard work, but it pays well. You’re sure to do it better than me. And my cheap company would love the fact that you’d be freelance and they wouldn’t have to cover your health insurance.”