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 Yo
rk. 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.”
“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 i
n 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!
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