Cape May (8 page)

“What about that guy from the bus? Didn’t you say he offered to help?”

Joanna swallowed to get rid of the sudden lump in her throat. “He did but...”

“He wouldn’t’ve offered if he didn’t mean it. Didn’t you like him?”

“Yeah, he’s nice.”

“Great. Call him.”

She could hear him walking around the apartment. He spent so much time in front of the computer that when he was on the phone he paced for exercise. She knew he was probably standing in front of the living room window right now, probably pulling dead leaves off the African violet. She said, “I don’t want…I mean…” Archie meowed in the background. She hoped Brian remembered to feed him, but this wasn’t a good time to ask.

“Oh, call him. You didn’t want Cynthia’s help either. You don’t know everything. Ask for help, Joanna. Get over yourself.”

“Why are you snapping at me,” she stated. “You’re worried about this job, aren’t you.”

He sighed. “Yes,” he said. “This new client. Plus the moving thing. You know I don’t do change well.”

“I know. And I’m scared, too. But it’ll be fine. Get here as soon as you can, okay?”

“I promise. Meanwhile, ask that guy, what’s his name?”

“Michael,” she said.

“Ask Michael to go with you. I know it’s the twenty-first century but it’s still a good idea to go with someone, someone who knows the in’s and out’s of a place.”

“Someone with a Y chromosome, you mean?”

“You little geneticist, you. I’ll feel better knowing you’ve got someone—male or female—with you. For advice, for company.”

She sighed. “I’ll see. I’ll do what I can.”

“Good,” his voice was softer. “Good, Joey.”

“You know I’d hit you if you were here. Don’t call
me that.”

“I know. I’m just teasing you. I have to work now, okay?”

“Good luck with work, Bri-Bri. See,” she smiled, “two can play that game.”

“Yuck. Only my cousin Libby called me that. Luckily she moved to Denver when I was ten.” He paused. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You can ask now.”

She heard Archie meow again. “How’s my furry baby?”

“Fine, and very cute, and being fed, so don’t worry.”

“Brian, thanks. I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll get there as early as I can.”

“Keep in touch, okay? Stop at rest stops. Drink coffee. Arrive alive,” she said.

“Yes, dear. I love you,” he said.

“You too. Bye.”

***

In the mystery Michael was writing, a Newark detective
is dispatched to Cape May by the New Jersey Commissioner
of Police. Newark in 1880 had a population of almost one-hundred and forty-thousand people. A police presence was obviously necessary. During that same time period, only nine-thousand people lived in all of Cape May County;
less than seventeen-hundred people lived in Cape May itself.
The Cape May police force was accustomed to escorting
drunks home or locating lost dogs, not handling major crime.
How did the big city detective see the quaint little town?

Spending time with a visitor to Cape May was giving
Michael insight for the detective, also an outsider. “Outsider”
Joanna may have been a newcomer to Cape May, but she seemed to love it and fit right in. He wondered if her husband would love the town as much. What was her husband like? Maybe he’d get to see for himself, if they called him. He hoped they’d call. He loved Cape May, and sharing his knowledge of it. His ex-wife thought Cape May was a waste of time, except for perfecting her tan. He once took her to the arcade, and she couldn’t stand the noise or being
surrounded by kids. Whenever their son wanted to go,
Michael took him. It was just the two of them, the men of the family out alone, and they had a great time. Donna, preferring sleek modernity, found no beauty in the carefully preserved homes either. Michael, on the other hand, loved to walk every block, revisiting houses he’d first stared at many decades earlier. He got older, friends died, the world
changed at an alarming rate, but some of these houses
remained the same. He took every house tour, and became acquainted with not only the architecture, but also the owners. He and Donna lived in Cape May only a year, and it was a great year for him. He would’ve stayed longer but Donna couldn’t stand so small a town. At least she gave it a try, for him. Perhaps he should have been more grateful at the time.

After divorcing Michael, Donna and her new, rich husband moved into a large two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan in a building that was about five minutes old. Doubtless he was being too sensitive, but that move felt like her final “fuck you and your old houses.” Michael moved into a friend’s Cape May bed and breakfast in what used to be the maid’s room in the hot attic. He didn’t mind the size of the room or the heat. In contrast to his years of discontent and then a broken marriage, the room was a haven.

It continued to be a haven, even after many visits. Every trip he tried to see something new. In all his visits, he somehow had never been to the famous lighthouse. Sometime this weekend he was going to see it. A few scenes in his novel took place there, and he needed more information than his preliminary research had provided: built in 1859, first lighted on October 31. Full height, one-hundred fifty- seven feet, six inches. Even with the renovations that took place from 1987 through 2002 and cost about $2,000,000, he’d still have to get to the top the old-fashioned way. He hoped his knees would let him walk up the one-hundred ninety-nine steps to see the reportedly spectacular view.

If it worked out, he wanted the fight between the detective and the
assassin at the top of the lighthouse. An homage to Hitchcock’s
Saboteur
.

CHAPTER 7

At her B&B, Joanna drank another bottle of water before heading into the bathroom for a shower. She undressed, trying to avoid her reflection. Lately, every glimpse seemed to unveil another wrinkle or sag. However, the lighting in the bathroom was low key and forgiving and she glanced at herself, not displeased. When the water temperature was right, she stepped gingerly into the tub, her recently developed fear of falling and breaking bones making her wary. The linen shower curtain hung on polished brass hooks, which matched the faucets, and smoothly slid closed. So unlike the jerky plastic K-Mart curtain and hooks in the bathroom back home. It was time for an upgrade.

As the hot shower woke her up, she perused the complimentary, custom-made shampoos, conditioners, and soaps,
all with the Manor Rose label, and also available for
purchase in the tiny gift shop near the kitchen. Unlike her usually quick water- and time-conscious showers in the morning before work, she stayed in for twenty luxurious minutes. Oh, this really was a vacation!

The plush white towels were warm off the rack. After she patted herself dry, she moisturized and slipped into the robe, which had the B&B logo on the pocket. Delicious smells floated in from downstairs: coffee, bacon, cinnamon. All this pampering and elegance! No wonder people were willing to pay so much to stay here. She dressed quickly, got her notebook, and left the room, feeling like a new person.

The house was still quiet. She hadn’t paid much attention to Marie’s little tour the night before and was seeing everything as if for the first time. She was appreciating each well-made item of furniture, decorating touch, and lovingly displayed antique.

At the turn in the landing stood a headless mannequin in a period dress, with a hat resting between the shoulders. Joanna gasped. In the space of nanoseconds she first thought it was a person, then a ghost, then she was in awe of the clothing. The dress was velvet, a deep garnet color. Since no one was looking, she touched the fabric. It felt like…velvet. Joanna smiled. What had she expected? Joanna wished she had a dress like it, although this one was many sizes too small for her. The waist was tiny. Of course, the woman who wore it would have been corseted. No thanks.

Next to the figure was a settee with a large, worn leather
photo album on it. Joanna made a mental note to browse
through it when she had more time. At the top of the staircase
she looked down into the entrance way, and automatically stood more erect, as if whalebone were suddenly supporting
her. Imagine being the wife and mother here, walking
down the stairs to greet callers or welcome your husband home from work. There probably were many kids running
around. Their friends. Servants. Tradesmen coming and
going. Her own life was so quiet, the thought of all that activity made her envious. Was the first lady of this house, almost one-hundred and fifty years ago, happy? Maybe she would’ve envied Joanna’s self-focused existence.

The powerful smell of the coffee lured her down the stairs. She could ruminate later.

No one was visible, although Joanna could hear people
in the kitchen. It was a strange feeling walking around
someone else’s house, looking at their pictures on the wall,
browsing the books on their shelves. It was possible, if
everything fell into place, that paying guests would be walking around her house. The thought filled her with joy and hope for the future.

What she saw when she walked into the dining room made her smile like a little kid at Christmas. The long table was set for twelve with elegant rose-patterned china dishes and real silver cutlery. It was surrounded on three sides by food. One sideboard had homemade breads alongside blueberry muffins and cinnamon scones. Another handsomely displayed a cut-crystal bowl filled with fruit salad alongside small individual boxes of cereal. Glass pitchers filled with milk, and orange, cranberry, and grapefruit juices nested in a tray of ice, the colors vibrant. The third had hot plates, patiently awaiting the main course. She dished out some fruit salad, determined not to gain weight in these few days away from her disciplined eating routine. It was hard passing the scones. Perhaps she’d just have half of one.

As she sat down, a woman came out of the kitchen. “Good morning!”

“Hello. Something smells delicious.”

“Yes, it does, and it is. I taste-tested it. One of the perks of working here. The cook’s made her signature dishes. Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

Cream, milk, sugar, homemade jam, and butter, all in fine china containers, sat atop a beige, hand-loomed, hemp linen runner embroidered with pink roses.

When the woman came back with a pot of coffee she said, “I’m Rebecca,” and poured a steaming stream into Joanna’s china cup. “You checked in last night?”

“Yes, and I’m in love with the town already.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s small but has everything, and I never tire of it.”

“I can imagine.” Joanna looked at the grandfather clock
in the other room. It was 8:15, and she had an appointment to meet the real estate agent at eleven. Plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast and some porch chair rocking.

Rebecca went into the kitchen through the swinging door and was out again a second later. “The hot food will be out in a minute.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” said Joanna, holding the delicate
cup in both hands and not missing her chunky mug back home. “I’m enjoying sitting here, looking at everything. I love bed and breakfasts. I’ve always wanted to run one.”

“There are some nice ones for sale here in Cape May, and a couple of lousy ones, too. Owners who didn’t take enough care. These houses are old old. They require a lot of love and a lot of work.”

Joanna gulped down the bracing coffee.

“Some people are too eager to sell sell sell, no matter what,” Rebecca said, topping off Joanna’s cup.

Joanna wanted to ask a thousand questions but a couple entered the dining room, saying “Good morning,” and Rebecca played hostess to the new arrivals.

Over the next few minutes, more guests came down for breakfast. Joanna chatted with some of them, but mostly took notes. She wanted her potential B&B to be as nice as possible. Even in her wildest dreams, however, she couldn’t imagine running an inn of this caliber. This house must’ve cost a fortune. How many $350-a-night bookings per year did the owners need to cover costs? Joanna felt her heart begin to race. “Stop it, Joanna,” she silenced herself. It wasn’t just about making a living down here, it was about a change in lifestyle. No more jobs about which she was indifferent. No more immersing herself in the mechanisms of
disease. Other than doctors, who really wanted to learn about these awful things? These various ways to get sick and die?

A middle-aged white couple entered the dining room and said a general good morning and sat down. The woman said to Joanna, “Where are you visiting from?”

“Manhattan,” said Joanna, grateful to cut off her negative thoughts. “And you?”

“Atlanta,” said the woman. “We visited New York once. Too crowded for me.”

“Some areas are awful, but it’s an incredible city. Did you get to any museums?” Joanna asked.

“No, my husband thinks museums are boring.”

“That’s not true!” chimed in the husband. “I just don’t want to look at paintings all day.”

Joanna said, “What about the Museum of Natural History?”

The husband said, “Nah. That’s for kids.”

“Did you see any theater?”

“I don’t like theater much,” said the husband.

“Well, in my opinion those are some of the things New York does best. If you don’t like those, I understand why you didn’t like New York,” said Joanna out loud, all the while thinking, “
Oh, you idiot! If you’re an example of the clients I might get at my B&B, I’m in trouble. And I’ll make a rotten host.
” Stop judging. Be nice, Joanna.

She returned to her note-taking as Rebecca brought out hot food.

Rebecca said, “This is our stuffed French toast. There’s warmed maple syrup on the table. The omelet is onions, mushrooms, and cheddar. There are sausages as well. Can I bring anyone more coffee or tea?”

After eating far too much food—the French toast was the best she’d ever tasted—Joanna excused herself from the table and waddled upstairs. She still hadn’t made up her mind about contacting Michael. He seemed sincere about wanting to help, and it would be helpful to have someone in her corner. And they had fun together. It was nice finding
someone with whom conversation came so easily, unlike
the people at the breakfast table.

By the time she reached her room, her stomach hurt, and it wasn’t the luscious food or two much coffee. She was nervous…about possibly making a huge mistake moving. She was also nervous about calling Michael. Wouldn’t she be imposing? No. He made the offer and she was sure he meant it. He seemed to be an honest, straight-forward guy.

She’d call right now, before she lost her nerve. He answered after one ring. “Hello?”

“Michael? This is Joanna Matthews, from yesterday?”

“I remember you from all the way back to yesterday. How are you?”

Joanna said, “Honestly? I’m a little anxious about meeting with the realtor. Was your offer sincere?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’d look at houses with me?”

“Yes. I’d enjoy it. Should I meet you and Brian at the Manor Rose?”

“No. Just me. He had to work. He’s coming tonight.”

“You should have someone with you. Realtors throw a lot of info at prospective buyers and it’s easier having two sets of ears to catch as much as possible.”

“She’s picking me up here at eleven. Could you be here by then?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Thank you. You’re making this so much easier for me. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. I love looking around these houses. I’ll be there at 10:50.”

***

Joanna paced on the wraparound porch. The rocking chairs were comfortable but she couldn’t sit still due to her
surplus of adrenaline. She managed to enjoy watching the endless stream of people, mostly heading toward the
beach. The morning air was warm and soft. She was still for
a moment and closed her eyes and breathed it all in.
Somewhere in back of all the chatter and footsteps, and getting louder, Debussy’s “Girl with the Flaxen Hair” was being whistled. It was one of her favorite pieces of music. She knew it was him. Peeking from behind her sunglasses,
she saw him walking up the street. She couldn’t help
smiling. He walked briskly, with a youthful lope, and was
wearing khakis, a wrinkled white shirt, sneakers, and his
blue baseball cap.

He waved. “Good morning!” and leaped up the
porch steps.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s really nice of you to do this,
Michael. Brian asked me to thank you. He had to finish some work and couldn’t get away.”

“It helps me, too: seeing inside another Victorian might give me fodder for my book. I’ll be taking notes.”

“I keep interrupting your reading and your writing.”

“Not at all.” He sat in a rocker and she did the same. “How do you want to work this? Do you want me to listen, or be annoying and ask questions?”

“Let’s see how it goes.” She looked at her papers. “If there’s something major I’m not saying or asking, please say or ask it. Her name, the realtor I mean, is Ruth Halemayer.”

“I don’t know her.”

“She’s taking me, uh, us, to see a house on Burns Street. It’s called the Widow’s Shawl.”

Michael said nothing, and Joanna saw he was trying really hard to have a poker face.

Joanna said, “What.”

He lightly shook his head.

“What?”

“I don’t want to be negative first thing.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“No! That’s not what I intended.”

“Michael, I’ll be honest with you,” Joanna put down her papers and turned to him. “Brian and I are not rich. But even living in superexpensive Manhattan we’ve managed to save. You know, two jobs, no kids, my only sister has no kids, Brian has one niece he doesn’t like. We live frugally, which you’d know instantly if you saw our apartment. I’ve traveled a lot, alone or with friends. Brian doesn’t like to travel much. And then the impetus for this move: my uncle died and left me some money. But it’s all we have, and I have to be careful with it. You know, we could live another forty years, heaven help up. If you know anything, tell me.”

“The Widow’s Shawl. I’ve heard things. It has a bad reputation.”

“Bad?” she said. He nodded. “How bad?”

“Unless they’re selling it for $50,000, and you have half a million to put into it, and don’t mind a year’s worth of renovations, run the other way.”

“Oh.
Bad
bad.”

He leaned closer and said, confessing, “Wet basement. Mildew. Like a hopeless drunk: still a mess after drying out. Tons of wood damage. It was a rental for a while. The people who lived in it didn’t take care of it. Owners just gave up. It’s been on the market for years.”