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.”
“How do you know all this?”
He paused. “When my marriage collapsed, I lived here for a year. People like to talk. People here still tell me things. I also ran a friend’s B&B while he was on vacation.”
“I read about that: inn-sitting.”
“Yes. It’s hard for owners to get away. I liked to help my friends when possible. So I learned a lot living here.”
“Well, I’m sorry about your marriage but I’m grateful for your knowledge.”
A smartly dressed woman walked up to the house and through the gate. Joanna smiled at her and said, “Ruth?”
The woman thrust her hand at Joanna and said, “I’m Ruth Halemayer. Nice to meet you, Ms. Matthews.”
Something about Ruth’s white teeth, starched clothes, and too perfect blonde highlighted hair, coupled with her instantly aggressive personality, made Joanna dislike her. “I’m doing it again. Instantly being judgmental,” Joanna scolded herself, and then overcompensated, smiling too widely: “Call me Joanna. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
Ruth said to Michael, “This must be your husband Brian.”
“I’m a friend. Michael.”
Ruth adjusted, made some small talk about the trip down from New York and the weather, then got down to business. “I have four or five houses to show you today, depending on your time constraints. The first house we’ll see is the Widow’s Shawl. Full of history. It’s a reasonably priced fixer-upper, at the low end of your price range.”
Joanna glanced at Michael and he winked at her. She said, “Ruth, Michael used to live in Cape May. As my old, old friend, he’s here to advise me.”
Michael smiled. “Yes, Jo and I go back, wow, how many years now?”
“Oh, twenty at least.” Joanna said. “No, twenty-five. I met you on my birthday.”
“Yes, that party at Proof of the Pudding wasn’t it?”
“We closed the place down.”
“Drank two bottles of the 1897 Château Lafite-Rothschild, remember?” said Michael.
Ruth said, “How nice. Well, shall we walk to the house?”
Joanna said, “Michael told me about the Widow’s Shawl. I don’t think I can afford all those repairs.”
For a moment Ruth was silenced, but being professional she recovered. Her starchy all-business personality dissolved. “My boss is trying to unload the place. I wasn’t trying to scam you. It could be a good house if someone has the money and patience to renovate it. The price is reasonable.”
“I understand,” said Joanna. “I work in medical education, and I’ve occasionally pushed the second best medication, or even the third, because its manufacturer was paying my salary. I’m okay with renovations, but nothing terribly extensive. ”
Ruth nodded. “I do have nice houses, in various sizes and conditions, to show you.” She turned to Michael. “Do you know the Baroness E, the Teal Dream, or the Tea & Scones?”
He said, “I knew the first two were for sale, but not the Tea & Scones.”
“It’s been closed for a while and a bit neglected. Not like the Widow’s Shawl, I promise. The owners couldn’t decide what they wanted to do but are now retiring and the house will be on the market officially in a few weeks. But you’re here now, so I’d like to show it to you. The owners are still living there, but won’t mind stepping out for an hour to give you some privacy to look over the house.”
Michael turned to Joanna. “They are all worth seeing. You’ll get an idea of what’s out there.” He turned to Ruth, casually, and said, “I haven’t seen the T&S since I stayed there years ago.”
“Since then,” Ruth continued, looking down and checking her notes, “they’ve renovated the kitchen…”
Michael motioned to Joanna discretely, first miming drinking tea then giving her the thumbs up and okay signs.
“…replaced the boilers, and did the roof. Minor repairs need to be made—broken windows, steps, nothing too expensive.”
“How many guest rooms?” said Joanna.
“Five bedrooms, four bathrooms. Two rooms can be used as a suite with a connecting bathroom. Small apartment upstairs for the owners to live in or it can be rented, too. Six blocks from the beach.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Joanna. “I’d like to see all three houses.”
“Great,” said Ruth, as she tapped into her iPhone calendar. “I’ll call the Tea & Scones now. No Widow’s Shawl, and I’ll try to move up one of the later appointments.” She left the porch and walked to the sidewalk, for some cell phone privacy.
Joanna turned to Michael. “Am I glad I sat next to you on that bus!”
“I can be useful sometimes.”
They were smiling at each other, unable to look away. A small bomb of heat exploded in Joanna’s core, as if she had downed a strong brandy. She could feel the heat rising in her face, so she turned and walked away towards Ruth.
Ruth said, “We can go see the Baroness E now. It’s only a few blocks from here. If you don’t mind, I just got a message I have to respond to. I’ll be off by the time we’re there.”
“Please go ahead,” said Joanna, as she and Michael began strolling behind her.
Joanna’s level of excitement was high: she was about to see the inside of her first potential Cape May home. She didn’t feel like chatting and somehow Michael sensed it. They arrived at the house. Ruth got off the phone and unlocked the door as Joanna and Michael walked around the property then on the porch. Everything was in good condition but too ornate for Joanna. She carefully and systematically walked through the empty house, its halls and bedrooms and bathrooms, kitchen, attic, basement, garage, all of which confirmed that the Baroness E was not for her. She tried to be open minded, but she couldn’t picture herself living in the house.
Next on the list and geographically was the Teal Dream. Although architecturally pleasing and immaculate, it felt too creepy. Ruth dutifully pointed out all the positives and seemed to genuinely like it. Joanna used all her powers to imagine less oppressive furnishings, the walls with different paint or wallpaper, but nothing could cover her feeling that there’d been a brutal murder in the house. She felt like the kid in The Shining seeing blood and brains splattered on the wall, while no one else noticed the mayhem.
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