Cape May (4 page)

“We aren’t?” He reached for his pen. “I’ll keep score.”

“It’s your game and your dictionary. And unfortunately your seven-letter word.”

He looked up at her and furrowed his brow. “I know this is personal, but I’ll have to write your name on the top of this little column. What is it?”

“Joanna. Matthews,” and she held out her hand.

He shook it. “Michael Leighton.” He picked up his pen. “
Joanna
,” he wrote on the sheet of paper. “Well, Joanna, that’s eight points, doubled for the first move is sixteen, plus fifty for the seven-letter word equals sixty-six.”

Joanna narrowed her eyes at him. “Now I recognize you! From Fox TV’s
America’s Most Wanted Scrabble Sharks
. Preying on innocent women riding in crowded, horribly loud buses to Cape May.”

Joanna put two tiles down on the board and realized she was having fun. Brian was right that she needed to get away. “
XI
, a Greek letter, and
XU
, Vietnamese money. It’s only thirty-six points, but I’ll catch up. Shark.”

Farther along in the game, while Joanna shuffled her tiles and sighed and said things to them like, “If you were a different letter I’d have a seven-letter word,” Michael’s
thoughts drifted to his novel. His in-the-works book centered
on an attempted assassination of a politician vacationing
in late 1800’s Cape May. He was weaving historical figures in
with the fictional ones, and in this one scene Harry Houdini visits the town to investigate a medium claiming to have
information vital to the case. There would be some romance,
too, between the inexperienced detective assigned to the case and the young medium, who may or may not be a fake. Well, that certainly was enough plot for at least one book. If it turned out well, perhaps he’d write another with these characters. He was becoming fond of them, and hoped readers would, too. He’d have to work it carefully, revealing small details, make the reader want more and more. It was an emotionally and sexually repressed time, the late 1800s, and Michael wanted to explore all aspects of love and sex, history and society in Cape May.

Michael knew the basics of Cape May’s history by heart, starting in 1620—the same year the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, Massachusetts—when Cornelius Jacobsen Mey, a Dutch sea captain, discovered a peninsula while exploring the Delaware River. He named it after himself.

Its foray into life as a resort town began in the early 1800s when rich Philadelphians, needing to get away from the summer heat, were more than willing to pay “townies” f
or the use of their homes by the shore for the ocean breezes.
The money the townies made during the summer months supported them for the rest of the year. The wealthy from other major cities in the northeast began traveling south, often staying in Cape May’s public houses or taverns.
The first hotel, which had started life as a tavern, was called the Atlantic Hall. Cape May became a summer
resort destination.

In 1847, the Great Compromiser Henry Clay visited Cape May. In 1855, President Franklin Pierce. In 1858, President James Buchanan. And approximately a  hundred years later, future author Michael Leighton visited with his tired parents. When they were napping, he snuck out to explore the streets of Cape May, fascinated by the large, ornate houses. Now in his early sixties, he still loved the town, and wanted to incorporate that love into his novel.

CHAPTER 3

Two decades ago, Joanna and Brian played Scrabble on the deluxe set he received from his Aunt Flo for his Bar Mitzvah. It miraculously still had all one-hundred tiles even though it was over twenty-five years old and had moved apartments with him at least four times. Joanna and Brian still had sextogethers, but more frequently hung out and drank wine. Midway through the game, with Joanna ahead by fifty-two points, Brian said, “You know we both turn forty this year?”

Joanna was glad to talk about anything that wouldn’t lead to sex. She was far more interested in Scrabble. “We should have a party, huh?”

“We should have a wedding.” He stopped shuffling his tiles and got really serious. “Remember our pact? If we weren’t involved with anyone when we hit forty we’d get married? To each other?”

“It wasn’t a
pact
.”

He put his tiles face down on the table. Even about to propose he still upheld the sanctity of the game. He kneeled next to her. “Joanna. Let’s get married.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, let’s just do it. You can move in here.”

“But my apartment is rent controlled.”

“And falling apart. And this one is twice as big.”

She paused, trying to think of other objections. “It seems…unromantic?”

He kneeled closer to her. “It’s just right for us. Come on, Jo. When’s the last time you went on a date.” She didn’t answer. She had no answer. “We spend most Friday and Saturday nights together. We have sex…infrequently, like a real couple. We go to movies together. Dinner, shopping. What’s the last thing you bought for over $10 without me going with you?”

“I bought that dress by myself. The brown and red one?”

“And then we returned it together.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I admit this isn’t conventional, but I think we’re our best option. We can make a life together. And when half of
our friends are divorcing—they say one out of two marriages
end in divorce anyway—we’ll still be best friends playing Scrabble.”

She thought a moment. “What about kids?”

“Jo, you’re almost forty.”

“Ursula Andress was in her mid-forties when she had her first kid.”

“And you’ve never been a Bond girl either.”

“But I want children.”

He said, “Child
ren
?”

“Well, could we do one?”

He sighed. “I guess I could stand it.”

She said, “Maybe we both need to think about this.”

“All right. I will. But I think I could live with a little Jo running around.”

“Or a little baby accountant.”

“Yes, and I’m positive this would be good for us,” and he kissed her. It was a nice kiss. She could do this. It would be nice to have someone to depend on and to brush your teeth for. She’d think about it.

***

The bus rolled along and Joanna and Michael continued
playing Scrabble. Her cell phone vibrated. “Excuse me,” she said to Michael. “Hi, Cynthia.”

“I was looking on the internet at houses for sale in Cape May. Some are fully or partially furnished. If they have any good pieces, we could work out a trade.”

“I don’t know if the houses I’m looking at are being sold furnished or not.”

“What are their names. I’ll look them up.”

“No. Cynthia, thank you, but I want to do this alone this time.”

“Take pictures.”

“I’m not going to buy a house based on its furniture anyway.”

“But why waste good antiques on guests?”

Cynthia was always on the lookout for worthy pieces. She began her career at the antiques store as a saleswoman. Then she married the owner, whose family had started the business in the 1940s. With her impeccable taste, Cynthia was a natural at running the shop. She came to know the clientele, some of whom were third-generation patrons, by name and preferences, and she was well liked. When she divorced her husband, Cynthia could’ve been handed millions in the settlement. But she knew the best way to hurt her ex was to wrestle the shop away from him. His family liked her more anyway. Plus, now she was set for life, as the shop had loyal, wealthy customers with money to spare, no matter what the economic climate.

Joanna said, “But Cyn, the antiques…you just don’t get B&Bs, do you.”

Michael looked up at her, barely suppressing a smile, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh I
get
it,” Cynthia continued. “I know you don’t know antique from IKEA. Just take pictures of everything. Damn. I knew I should’ve come with you.”

Furniture was the last thing on Joanna’s mind, but she wasn’t about to admit it to her sophisticated sister. Their once edgy relationship had evolved into a tentative friendship. With age, they were getting closer and Joanna didn’t want to impede the progress. They’d come a long way since childhood. They were separated by five years and radically different personalities. When their mother divorced their father because he was having an affair, Joanna was heartbroken while Cynthia was mostly relieved not to have to live with the hostility any more. Joanna knew her parents didn’t get along. The whole neighborhood did. But Joanna’s little girl heart, shaped by fairy tales and TV shows, still hoped love would win in the end. It didn’t.

Dad didn’t take care of himself after he “lost” his wife. That was how he talked about her. Strangers thought he was a widower. He never forgave himself or his wife. Or his daughters, because he blamed them for somehow coming between him and their mother.

From an early age, Cynthia was the practical, no-
nonsense one, and Joanna was the “happy idiot,” trying to accommodate others and worrying about everyone’s feelings. When their dad came to pick them up for dinner or the weekend, he’d wait in the car and honk, as if exposure to his ex-wife would be fatal. Cynthia would storm out of the house but Joanna would first spend minutes reassuring her mom that she was loved and still the favorite parent.

As they got older, Cynthia never hesitated to point out that her baby sister’s decisions were usually bad, or at least impractical. Cynthia had spent hours and hours trying to talk Joanna out of marrying Brian. Still, at the ceremony in front of a judge at City Hall, Cynthia provided flowers and support as Joanna’s matron of honor. Now, Joanna’s yearning to buy a bed and breakfast threw her sister into overprotective mode. Both had inherited money from an uncle. Cynthia’s grew steadily thanks to her own money smarts combined with advice from customers in the financial field. She disapproved of Joanna’s aspiration to blow it all on a potential money pit.

“I’m a grown up,” Joanna said. “Please stop worrying about me. Live your own life.”

“I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I’ve got a blind date tonight. My ex-sister-in-law set me up. I’m meeting him at the Russian
Tea Room. His choice. I hope he isn’t eighty years old.”

“You’ll sleep with him anyway,” said Joanna, and her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes flew to Michael’s.

Michael only smiled and raised an eyebrow. He was finding the whole conversation amusing.

Cynthia continued, “Maybe. Probably. Why not? Life is short.”

“Have fun, at
dinner
that is. Call me tomorrow?”

“You’re rushing me off.”

“I’m playing Scrabble with the man in the seat next to me. Being on the phone is probably breaking a Scrabble-playing-on-a-bus rule.”

Cynthia was about to reply when a customer, Mrs. Delaney, walked in, for the second time that day. Cynthia deduced from the woman’s body language, slight smile, and level of excitement she had decided on a purchase that would bring Cynthia thousands in commission. Not a bad day’s work. She rushed off with a “Customer. Gotta go.”

Joanna put her phone away and turned her attention back to Scrabble. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” It was Michael’s turn, and he was losing to Joanna by only fifteen points. “That conversation is sure to end up in my novel.”

They played for another half hour. Joanna was feeling relaxed and sleepy. As Michael concentrated on his tiles, she openly stared at him. He was probably her age, but looked younger. Damn men. He was flipping pages of the dictionary, tilting it and his head, to read the tiny print. The sun caught his long blonde eyelashes.

She said to him, “It’s not a word.”

“Hmm?”

“Whatever you’re looking up. Don’t bother; it’s not
a word.”

He smiled. He had a nice smile. “Is this your Scrabble psychological warfare strategy?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well, you’re right, unfortunately. It isn’t a word.” He put the dictionary down and returned to his tiles.

She said, “Do you mind if we talk a little. I’m getting sleepy.”

He looked up from his rack. “Do you want to stop playing?”

“No—I’m winning.”

He held the small plastic rack in one hand, and moved the half inch tiles with the other. “You talk to me, then, and use words with lots of vowels in them. I need hints.”

“That was my sister who called.”

“Older, right?”

“Oh, yes. Apparently she thinks she gave birth to me. She also thinks I can’t do anything by myself.”

“But it sounds like she loves you, and you her. You’re lucky. I’m an only.”

She nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you always travel with a Travel Scrabble set and a Scrabble dictionary?”

“To Cape May, yes. I have a lady friend there, Madeleine.”

“Ooh, a lady friend. How gentlemanly of you.”

“That’s what she is. Anyway, her house is tiny and she won’t buy a Scrabble set just for the few times a year I visit her. She’s a tour guide at a private estate. Actually she’s the Executive Director, and gives tours as a volunteer. If you’d like, I’ll try and get you in. It’s hard to find a slot unless you book in advance.”

“Thanks, I’d love it. But I do have an appointment with the realtor, so it’ll depend on the timing.”

They continued playing. She said, “What type of writing do you do?”

“My writing…well, you can get my first novel, the only one written under my real name, from Amazon for one cent plus shipping.”

“Do you get to keep the whole penny?”

“Yes. I’m a nickelaire now.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I write speeches for executives who make more in a week than I make in a year but don’t know how to write. I used to write mysteries, like
Goosebumps
, but better and therefore not as profitable, to get kids into reading.”

“Ooh, tell me.”

“My pseudonym is ‘Chester Worthington.’ I know.
I didn’t pick it. The books are better than the name. I haven’t
written those in years, but I still get checks. And, of course, I’m working on a novel.”

“Wow. I envy you. I used to write, in my twenties. But I also used to read a lot.” She yawned, covering her mouth. “What I wrote wasn’t nearly as good as what I read.”

“Maybe you were reading only the really good stuff?”

“That’s a nice way to think about it. Yeah, I like that theory. I don’t think it’s true, but it’s nice. Now I’m attempting to write just for fun. And to get the editor half of my brain to mind its own business…or something. You know what I mean.” She yawned again. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working late so I could take days off for this trip.”

“Are you a napper?”

“Oh God yes.”

“Take a nap.”

“How would it look? Our first Scrabble game, and I quit.”

“I promise I won’t inform the National Scrabble Association.”

“Well, okay then. I am exhausted.” They put the tiles in the bag, and closed the board. Joanna pushed the recline button on the arm of her seat, but nothing happened. “Well, I guess I’ll have to nap sitting up. I hope I don’t drool on your jacket.”

Michael leaned across her. “It’s probably just stuck.”

Joanna flattened herself back into her seat. Michael was intent on fixing the release button and didn’t realize he was practically on top of her. He was so close, she could smell the too-long hair curling on the back of his neck. It smelled good. She cleared her throat.

Michael banged on the arm a few times then looked up. “Oh, personal space invasion.” He moved and said, “It was jammed. I think I fixed it.”

Her seat reclined easily. “Thanks.” She settled in, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

***

“Ladies and gennelmen!”

Both Joanna and Michael jerked awake at the loud
announcement. “We will be arrivin’ in Alanic Cidee in ten minutes.”

“Oh, that’s too loud,” said Joanna, pulling Michael’s jacket over her head.

Michael shielded his ears. “And I was having such a peaceful dream.”

More noise from the speakers: “There’sa infamation desk, fuh drekshins, transfuhs, brochas.”

Joanna ran her tongue over her teeth. “I hope there’s someplace for me to buy mints.”