Cape May (7 page)

“If anyone saw what I’m about to eat, the health insurance I currently have would be revoked.”

Sophie put huge plates down in front of them. Joanna said, “Wow, that’s a lot of food.”

“Here’s some extra napkins.” Sophie asked, “You need anything else? Water?” They both nodded and she was off.

Michael said, “Looks greasy and good” as he handed Joanna the ketchup bottle. She took it just as she bit into a big ass clam. It was hot and some juices dribbled down her chin. He grabbed a napkin to give her but her hands were full, so he wiped her face and she started laughing.

She managed to say, “Oh, I’m glad this isn’t a first date. What would you be thinking?” as she continued laughing and dripping.

He laughed, too, and said, “I’d be hoping for a second one.” Their laughter slowed.

Sophie arrived with two glasses of water. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

They gazed out at the beach and the pink sky while they ate.

***

They finished eating, quietly and comfortably, watching people on the beach. Joanna consumed her last fry then wiped her hands and face on a wet-nap. After vehemently turning down dessert, she settled back and sighed.

“It’s hard to believe we’re on the same planet as Manhattan, let alone the same coast, just miles apart.”

“You’re renewing my love for Cape May. Thank you.”

“No, thank you for inviting me here. I probably would’ve just gone to bed too early.”

“Doesn’t sound bad.”

“I’ll be dead asleep by eleven anyway.” She looked at her watch. “I should get back to my B&B. Prepare for tomorrow. Let’s get the check,” she said, looking around the restaurant for Sophie.

Standing and stretching, he said, “It’s all taken care of.”

Confused for a second, she then said, shaking her head, “You can’t treat me.”

“I
did
treat you. It’s your first meal at Henry’s. Your first meal in Cape May.”

“Then I accept graciously. Can I leave the tip?”

“I tipped more than the meal cost. For Sophie’s textbooks,” he smiled.

They exited and Michael lightly put his hand under Joanna’s elbow to escort her out of the restaurant. It struck her as a gentlemanly, old-fashioned thing to do, fitting right in with the Victorian structures they were about to see.

It was dark when they exited Henry’s and the street lamps and shop windows were ablaze. She gasped. “It’s so, I don’t know, World’s Fair, or Disneyworld, but real.”

“You see what I meant about time traveling? It doesn’t look all that different than it did a hundred years ago.” A man wearing only tiny tight yellow shorts roller bladed past them. “Well, that ruined my point.”

The street was full of pedestrians, bikers, skateboarders,
and cars, surreys, and scooters. The air hummed with activity.

Joanna said, “Oh, I smell warm, fried dough covered with powdered sugar.”

“You smell powdered sugar?”

“Why do unhealthy things smell so good?”

They started walking, and Joanna headed back to
Ocean Street. Michael said, “Let’s take Gurney Street so you
can see some different houses.”

Joanna yawned. “I can’t believe how tired I am. I guess it’s a combo of the bus trip and too much food.”

“And the fresh sea air.” He sniffed.

She sniffed. “I can’t smell it, can you?”

“No, as a matter of fact.” He sniffed again and shook his head. “Maybe it’s seeping in through our pores.” They walked quietly for a few moments. Then he said, “I’m falling down on my tour guide duties. More about Cape May: Do you want to hear about the seventeenth century, and the Kechemeche Indians of the Lenni-Lenape tribe?”

“Keep it simple. I’m really tired,” she said.

“Well, for me, things started hopping in the early nineteenth century. In the 1830s, the elite of the major cities—New York, Washington, Philadelphia—came and stayed in the boarding houses. There were only a few then, but within the next ten years, the New Atlantic was built. It was huge. Would accommodate three-hundred guests.”

As they walked, Joanna gaped at the row of sister Painted Ladies on Gurney Street. “Oh my, I’m dazzled just looking at the outsides of these houses. What am I going to do tomorrow when I’m inside some of them? My heart may not be able to stand it. I’m meeting with a realtor also, to get an idea of prices and what’s available. I’m supposed to be a sensible businesswoman, not a rabid fan.”

“Look, I’ve stayed in over twenty B&Bs. I have friends who own Victorians. I could probably be of help.”

“That’s nice of you to offer, Michael.”

“It’s no big deal. I love it here. Been visiting since I was a kid, lived here, would move here again in a heart beat. I know a lot. There I go bragging again.”

“No, that’s not bragging.” She thought a moment. “My husband is coming tomorrow. Let me see how he feels about a third person joining us. Although I think you two would
get along really well. That is, if he’s not in one of his ‘I
already know enough people’ moods.”

“I do that, too. I’ll give you my phone number. If you guys want me to come with you, if Brian’s feeling social, I’d be happy to join you. My time here is flexible.”

“Thanks.” She pointed to the houses on the left. “Are all those bed and breakfasts?”

“Only the ones with the inn signs. The others are private homes. Some people fly south in the winter. Florida, the Carolinas. The wealthier go to Bermuda or the South of France. But many people live here all year long.”

“It must be cold and lonely in the winter.”

“Cold, yes. Lonely? Of course you can be lonely anywhere, any time. But Cape May is busy at Christmastime:
tree lightings, caroling, theater, there’s a parade, too. You see how pretty it is at night? In the winter it gets dark earlier.”

“Yes I’ve noticed that in Manhattan, too,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I meant, more time to enjoy all the lights. The town is all lit up and festiv…”

“WAIT.” Joanna stopped and stared across the street. “Wow. Is that the Abbey?”

“Yes.”

“I read about it. But the website doesn’t do it justice.”

“Gothic revival villa. It’s one of the most popular bed and breakfasts in Cape May.”

“I can see why.”

“All of the bedrooms are named after cities, like the rooms in your inn are named after roses.”

They walked, turning left onto Columbia. In back of the Abbey was a creepy, glum black and red house. Joanna said, “That
has
to be on the Haunted Cape May tour.”

Michael said, “If you’re interested, the book store on the Washington Mall sells a series of books about Cape May’s ghosts. I’ve read a few. They’re fun.”

“Shouldn’t they be terrifying?” She glanced around. “Oh, I see where we are: my inn is right over there. Everything is so close.”

“It’s a small town.”

She lowered her voice: “I love being able to see into the houses, with all their lights on.”

“Cape May brings out the voyeur in all of us.”

“Maybe those alleged hauntings weren’t ghosts, just
Peeping Toms,” and she yawned. “Excuse me. I’m so sleepy.”

They were now right in front of the Manor Rose. “Good timing. You can be asleep in minutes.”

They stood for a few seconds, Joanna scanning the architecture of the block, soaking in the ambience, and
reluctant to say goodbye. “Where’s your bed and breakfast?”

“About five blocks from here,” he pointed, “that way.” He smiled slightly. “I hate to say goodbye.”

“Me, too. It’s been really…”

“It’s been nice showing you around, someone who
appreciates it, you know? The year we lived here, my wife and son spent all their time wishing they could move back to a big city.”

“I understand.”

“Remember, if you need any help, let me know. I don’t have business cards with me, but you could record my phone number the old-fashioned way and write it down.”

“You can have some of mine, just cross out my name,” she said while fishing paper out of her bag.

“Or I could change my name to Joe Matthews.”

“Everybody calls me ‘Jo.’”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I?”

“No, I like being called ‘Joanna.’” She found a pen. He rattled off his cell number. They stood for a moment. “Well, maybe see you tomorrow then,” he said.

“Yes. Thanks.” Their eyes locked for a moment before he turned and walked away. This time Joanna didn’t watch him go, she just went through the gate and up the front steps of her bed and breakfast.

CHAPTER 6

Joanna entered the Manor Rose and closed the screen and the side door carefully, so they wouldn’t slam. She turned left into the parlor and saw a bell on the mantelpiece over the fireplace next to a sign: “If you need
anything
, just
ring
.” Joanna decided then and there that if she had a B&B
nothing cutesy would be allowed. She had to
admit that the
sign was beautifully calligraphied and the bell appropriately
period. The wooden handle and brass bell were heavy and expertly crafted. She moved her hand and the clapper hit the bell’s curve, making a startlingly loud noise. Joanna silenced it, not wanting to disturb the rest of the house, even though it wasn’t late. In an instant, Marie came through a door that presumably led to the kitchen.

“Ms. Matthews! Did you enjoy Henry’s?”

For a moment Joanna was puzzled that Marie knew she
went to Henry’s but then remembered. “Yes, it was delicious,
unhealthful food. I loved it.”

“Great! I’ve put your bag in your room on the second floor. Are you ready to go up?”

“Please. I’m exhausted.”

“Oh, before we go,” Marie said, “I should tell you that breakfast is served from seven to ten in the dining room right through there. There’s a pantry on each floor with complimentary coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. There’s also a small refrigerator in your room, stocked with water and juice. If you need anything else, call one of the phone numbers on these sheets.” She handed Joanna a few typed pages. “One or two of us is always nearby, either here or in the house next door. Only a call or intercom away.”

Marie led the way up the stairs, narrating as she went about the history of the house. Joanna took one quick look around the ground floor, anticipating exploring it tomorrow, when she was less tired. Her foot landed on the stair’s plush carpeting, sinking in luxuriously. The banister’s wood was shiny and cool and Joanna loved the smooth feel of it under her hand. Marie kept talking but Joanna’s tired brain wasn’t taking any of it in.

“This is your room,” Marie said. “The key also opens the front door, but don’t worry. It doesn’t mean every guest has access to your room. I don’t understand how it knows, but our locksmith says it all has to do with math.”

“Never my strong subject.”

“No, me neither.”

The door swung open and Joanna gasped. She stepped into the room, a living museum full of antiques, or excellent reproductions. Opposite a gas fireplace stood a bed, occupying a huge amount of space. One look at the dark wood four-poster, with elegant sheets and too many pillows, filled her head with romantic visions, and caused a tightening between her legs. She walked over to the mantel, which held framed pictures of Victorian families. One little girl in a photo was so adorable, in her hat and braids with ribbons, that tears came to Joanna’s eyes. When she was overly tired she also became overly sensitive. A vase with red roses sat on the marble-topped dresser next to the already turned down bed, complete with an inviting gold packet of chocolate on the pillow. Joanna could get used to being pampered like this.

“There are terry cloth robes hanging in the bathroom, and extra soaps and shampoos.” Marie put brochures,
What to Do in Cape May
suggestions, and the list of phone numbers and emergency procedures on the table. Joanna liked Marie, and appreciated both her knowledge and
dedication, but was relieved when the woman said goodnight
and left. The sudden peace and tranquility of the room was jarring for a moment, but Joanna happily adjusted.

She peeled off her clothes, so happy to slip into her cool, cotton rose print pajamas. Brian, Archie, and work seemed many days ago. She entered the bathroom, and whispered, “Wow!” The bathroom was pristine, and so different from her New York City apartment built in the 1960s. A claw-foot tub sat invitingly under a small sea blue and green stained-glass window. She ran her finger along the faucets, which were gleaming white porcelain and shiny brass. The wallpaper was off-white, with lavender sprigs and little red rosebuds on it. Everything was delicate and—odd for a bathroom?—sensual.

After a lackluster teeth brushing, she crawled in between
the crisp, sage-colored sheets, stretching her legs and toes all the way down the bed. These sheets, eighteen-thousand plus thread-count, were much more expensive and softer than any she and Brian ever bought. She curled up, closed her eyes, and the first thing she saw was Michael’s face. An intake of breath accompanied the instant opening of her eyes. She closed them again. This time she let her mind go blank, and fell sound asleep.

***

That night, staying in a room at his friend’s small, moderately-priced bed and breakfast, Michael wrote down ideas for his book. He wrote rapidly, wanting to get them on paper before his internal editor criticized him.

He wasn’t sure how to work it into his book, but a piece of Cape May history that fascinated him was its unfortunate involvement with fire. In 1856, the partially constructed Mount Vernon hotel—advertised as the biggest in the world with a twenty-one hundred guest capacity—burned to the ground in an hour and a half. Cause unknown. Six deaths.
The following year, the Mansion Hotel burned to the
ground. In 1862, a mysterious fire in the United States Hotel
was extinguished before too much damage was caused.

In 1869, the “breath of the dread Fire-King,” as it was referred to by reporters, began in an Oriental goods shop, and was thought to be deliberately set. The United States Hotel didn’t make it this time; neither did the New Atlantic, the American Hotel, numerous cottages and boarding houses, and two blocks of the oldest section in Cape May.

In 1878, the work of arsonists destroyed seven hotels, more than thirty cottages and boarding houses, and two- thousand bathhouses. Thirty-five acres wiped out. The fire smoldered for days. Amazingly, no lives were lost.

In 1889, the New Columbia, thought to be fireproof due to its brick construction, burned to the ground. In 1918, a Naval base, for coastal defense training, was destroyed in a suspicious fire. In 1979, the Windsor Hotel burned to the ground.

Michael planned to weave historical details into his novel; the closer to the truth, the better. The devastation caused to Cape May could be played up and made to seem suspiciously excessive. Maybe there was more behind the headlines: corrupt officials, building code violations, arsonists covering up other crimes. His fictional detective,
nosing around looking for information about the assassination
plot, would surely stir up trouble in the small town, involving
delicious (for a writer) unsavory characters and doings.

***

Joanna woke up early, still on work time, thirsty and not quite sure where she was. The morning sun cast moody shadows on the busy wallpaper. The window treatments were appropriately Victorian and heavy and would block out much of the natural light if not tied back. Being warm and snug and half asleep, she was overtaken by a usually repressed memory. So many years ago, in her second year of college, in her small writing class…

Being the perpetual early bird even then, she was the first person in the classroom on that first day. As the other students entered the room, she peeked at them from under her bangs. Some walked in with head held high, some slinked in. Then he walked in. She looked at him, he looked at her, and she felt like someone punched her in the chest. For a moment, she actually lost her breath. It wasn’t that he was so handsome, but his essence, his presence attracted her. All she knew was her heart was beating faster, and when the teacher came into the room and introduced herself and the course outline and goals, Joanna missed most of what she said.

From her earliest days, Joanna heard her parents, mostly
her mother, commenting on “slutty” girls and the evils of premarital sex and cohabitation. Although her teenage years coincided with the swinging sixties, the “swinging” part
had been reviled by her Catholic mother. Her sister Cynthia’s
rather busy love life put more pressure on Joanna. Their mother was determined not to let her younger daughter tread the same path. Joanna was brought up to be, God help her, a good girl, to overcompensate for Cynthia’s failings. As a young college sophomore, more interested in reading and writing and other solitary pursuits, Joanna was a loner. It was okay with her that she was boyfriendless, although she did feel pangs when she saw couples kissing on the school lawn.

By the second class, Greg (she heard him tell another student his name, that much she paid attention to) had moved closer to her, and she even managed to smile. A week later, he asked her to go out for coffee with him. They talked for hours, and he walked her back to the dorm she shared with three other students. Even all these years later, she’d never forgotten their first kiss.

Greg cared about her and wanted her, and attempted to bed her from their first date. Her grades were falling. She couldn’t concentrate. It was hard to hear the teacher over her pulse pounding in her ears. After being in a perpetual state of arousal for months, one night she couldn’t resist him any longer.

Two things kept her memories of Greg on a tight leash. One: it all ended so painfully. Two: her cognizance of the fact that she’d never felt that way about Brian.

The birds chirped and she stayed in bed to listen. The air coming in through the open window smelled sweet and clean. In August, she imagined, the scent of flowers would be intoxicating. This would be a delightful town to move to. Of course, if this were her bed and breakfast, she’d be in the kitchen already, overseeing breakfast. Her day would start very early, and be long, spent greeting guests, suggesting restaurants, giving directions, answering questions, ordering supplies, and general upkeeping of the house. Not an unpleasant day at all, she thought. If she could stop herself from missing New York bagels.

New York. Just yesterday she was there, in her tiny apartment, then tiny office in a tall building on a busy, crowded street. It seemed so many days ago. Now she was just a block and a half away from the beach and boardwalk and Henry’s. That was a really fun dinner. Michael was a nice, interesting man. He was lonely, too, she sensed, and sad underneath his smile. What had happened between him and his son? There was a lot more to that story, of that she was sure. But it was none of her business.

She sat up, slowly slid off the high bed, and her feet landed on the Asian rug. “Ooh,” she said out loud as the stiff fibers massaged her feet. She tiptoed, why she wasn’t
sure, to the window and pulled back the heavy outer curtains
and the lace inner curtains, to peer down to the street. What she saw wasn’t the horse-drawn carriages and women with parasols she wished she could see, but the view nevertheless made her smile: early morning Cape May. The street was almost empty, with just a few joggers and a woman walking her dog. Did some B&Bs allow pets or was this woman a Cape May resident? Would the Brian and Joanna B&B allow animals? Dog fur on antique sofas? Cat claws digging into one-hundred year old material? But Joanna felt animals made a home. That was going to be a hard decision to make as an owner.

Thirsty, Joanna went to the mini-fridge for a bottle of water, and drank it down in a few gulps. The french fries at Henry’s were salty. There was Michael’s face again, as clear as when he was sitting across from her at the restaurant—his blue eyes and crinkly wrinkles that somehow made him look charming where they just made her look older, his light brown hair, gray at the temples and curling on his neck, his chest hair peeking out from the top of his shirt.

Time to call Brian. She got her cell from the bedside table and punched his number. It was early but he’d be up. Even though self-employed, he kept himself on a strict schedule. Sleeping late meant staying in bed until eight. Besides, he’d be getting ready to leave, to drive down to meet her.

Brian answered after a few rings and his clipped, too loud, “Joanna,” signaled stress.

“Uh, oh. Work not going well?”

“No, it’s going well but there’s too much of it. I was going
to call you later. I thought you might want to sleep late.”

“I went to bed pretty early and slept like a log, or a baby, or whatever sleeps really well. You leaving soon?”

“I have to finish this work first and I’ll drive down later.”

Joanna paused. “But our appointment with the realtor is at eleven. You know she’s showing us houses.”

“I know, but my client cut my deadline by a week.”

“Can they do that?”

“Yes, and I negotiated a few thousand extra for it.”

“That part’s good. I’m sorry about the deadline, though. When did you find out?”

“Last night. That’s why I canceled on Frank. I was up until three. The figures were swimming in the columns.”

She sat on the surprisingly comfortable rosewood chair by the window. “I don’t like you driving tired. Be careful.” One hand held her phone, and the other traced carved rosebuds on the arms with the tips of her fingers.

“I’ll be okay. What about you?”

“I’m feeling stressed, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Maybe there’s a business development office and you could hire someone to go with you.”

“I can handle it. I don’t really want a stranger with me. I’ll go alone.”