Cape May

by Caster, Holly

  “Yes, nice.” They walked halfway down the block. He had to say something. “Look, last night…”

  “Please, let’s forget it.”

  “I don’t want to, Joanna.” The hurt look in his eyes both surprised and flattered her. “And I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

  Her breath caught. “I’m married…” she said, hating how stupid it sounded, pointing behind her in Brian’s general direction.

  “And I’d bet a lot of money that you don’t usually go around kissing men on beaches.”

  She shook her head.

  He continued: “I thought we…”

  She continued shaking her head. “No we.” She knew he was hurting, because she was hurting too. “Maybe our lemonade was spiked? Or we were high on salt?” She tried to smile, but couldn’t.

  The metal-against-metal sound of the gate warned them someone was coming. Brian arrived before they were ready and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  The three of them walked. Joanna gazed at and studied every house they passed. She wondered if Brian suspected anything, but she couldn’t risk making eye contact with him. From inside it, her face felt like an open, guilt-radiating book. She had to admire Michael. She couldn’t form a sentence, but Michael must have seemed, to Brian’s outside eye, fine. Brian asked questions, and Michael answered. Joanna knew he was struggling as much as she was, but he chatted with Brian about Cape May and history, and weather and Manhattan. In fact, Brian was much more chatty than usual. Interesting.

  They reached the estate, and walked to the designated “good weather” waiting area under a tree. Two couples were already there, and an attractive, elegant older woman soon joined them. She smiled at everyone, especially Michael, and said, “Hi, I’m Madeleine, your tour guide.” Joanna stared at the woman as she spoke, glad to focus on anything other than her own racing thoughts. Madeleine was average height, slim, neatly dressed in a smart beige suit, with an apricot scarf the perfect accent. Her face was expertly made-up, and Joanna instantly felt unfeminine in her casual vacation attire and bare face. Madeleine turned her head, and her silver gray China doll hair swung like a commercial model’s. “Actually you have two tour guides today. Michael here knows almost as much about this house as I do.”

  He bowed a little to her and said, “Not true, but thanks.” To the other guests, “This woman is brilliant about this estate and others in Cape May. Ask her anything.”

  “They’re outright flirting,” thought Joanna. Madeleine’s green eyes sparkled as she talked to Michael. But none of the other guests seemed to mind the flirting, or even appear to notice.

  Madeleine said, “We’re expecting three other people, so let’s wait a few minutes before we start.” As visitors checked their phones for messages or chatted, Madeleine and her haircut, perfectly framing her delicate face, turned toward Michael. She said quietly, “Are you ever going to shave?” her hand reached up and playfully pinched his cheek.

  “Madeleine, this is Joanna, the woman I told you about, and her husband, Brian. From Manhattan.”

  Joanna’s brain fogged over, due to a combination of embarrassment—what had Michael told Madeleine?—and a vision that flashed on the screen in her head, of Madeleine horizontal under Michael in a four-poster bed. Or was Madeleine more the riding-on-top type? Joanna blinked hard and forced the evil visions out of her head. It shouldn’t matter to her at all. So why did it hurt so much.

  She hid her irrational dislike of Madeleine and shook her outstretched hand. “Hi.” Brian did the same.

  “Nice to meet you, Joanna, Brian.”

  Joanna knew Madeleine was storing their names in her tour guide brain and would use them later. She heard Madeleine quietly say to Michael, “You staying over tonight?” Michael nodded, then two women and a teenager joined the group under the tree. Madeleine addressed the group: “Now that we’re all here: I’m Madeleine Friedhoffer, Executive Director of the Woodline estate. I think you’ll find this a fascinating tour. This house was built in 1870 by famed architect Frederick Schmidt for Mr. Alfred Louis Woodline and his wife Adele and their five sons. In today’s dollars it cost seventeen million to build. The estate originally was twelve acres, but now is half that size. Let’s enter through the front door, right into the main hallway of the house, as a visitor would’ve been shown in over a century ago.”

  A tourist in ugly Bermuda shorts asked, “What happened to the other six acres?”

  Madeleine said, “In 1980 the property was divided and half sold off. The estate needed the money for renovations and back taxes.” As Madeleine ushered the group to the front door, she continued, “There is no smoking, eating, or gum chewing on this tour. There is a gift shop on your way out, so please browse, buy, or make a donation to the care and preservation of Woodline House.”

  She turned her head again, and again her hair swooshed perfectly.

  Joanna’s resentment grew.

  The tour began, as promised, in the hallway of the house, with its heavy woodwork, ornate patterned wallpaper, and high ceilings. A few original chairs lined the hall, the rope across the seats barring anyone from sitting on the antiques. Joanna attempted to concentrate on Madeleine’s narration, but as her resolve dwindled, she’d glance in Michael’s direction. When she did, his sad eyes were on her. When she could, she stayed next to Brian, keeping a human wall between her and Michael.

  The tour went on without incident, until the group began an exploration of the bedrooms on the second floor. When Joanna was examining a shelf of first editions behind the glass of a Harvey Ellis bookcase, Brian walked into the next room. With some distance between the two of them and the rest of the group, Michael approached and said, “Any Stephen King?”

  Joanna saw the real question in his eyes but couldn’t reply. She shook her head, and walked away, joining Brian. A little later, Madeleine herded the group into another room. As Michael passed her, she touched his back and then her hand slipped lower. Brian saw the movement and whispered to Joanna, “Hmm, maybe Michael doesn’t need to meet Cynthia after all, huh?”

  The rest of the group moved ahead, and Michael and Joanna were momentarily alone again. She started to walk away and he gently took hold of her upper arm. From his innocent touch, Joanna’s body became alive and tense. Everything in her yearned to touch him back. He whispered in her ear, “Joanna, we have to talk.”

  She said, “No!” much louder than she meant to.

  The few people near the door turned to look at them, Brian and Madeleine included. Madeleine said, “Do you have a question, Joanna?”

  After a beat, Michael said, “We can’t imagine having to clean a house this size.”

  Everyone giggled, and Madeleine said, “This house, in its heyday, would have employed at the very least a butler, housekeeper, cook, lady’s maid, valet, footman, and chamber maid.”

  Brian went over to Joanna. “I have to leave for my meeting.”

  “I forgot. Where are you going?”

  “I told you: to see an accountant. He’s old and wants to hand off some of his local clients to me. He’s going away for the weekend but fit me in. My reputation working wonders again.”

  She nodded.

  “You okay?” he touched her face and she brushed his hand away.

  “It’s stuffy. Why don’t I go with you?”

  “This is business, not a social call. Where should I meet you for lunch?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll call,” he said, waving goodbye and leaving her alone in the room.

  Madeleine directed Brian to the acceptable exit route, clearly not pleased that he was leaving the tour early. Madeleine escorted the remaining people. Joanna brought up the rear and, when going up the stairs to the third floor servants’ quarters, she almost tripped. The burgundy carpeting under her feet felt rough through her shoes, but of course that wasn’t possible. At the turn in the landing, Joanna stopped to catch her breath. The air was still and hot and she felt light-headed.

  A
s Madeleine described various servants’ duties to the rapt group, Michael said to Joanna, “You okay?” She nodded and walked away.

  In the third floor hallway, Madeleine pointed to a deep frame on the wall. “Here’s something I think you’ll find interesting: the Victorians framed women’s hair.” The ornately arranged light brown hair and flowers were creepy enough to make Joanna want to throw up. She redirected her gaze to a calmer country landscape hanging by wire from the picture moldings. Madeleine stated: “Actually, the owners of the house would not have decorated a floor only servants would use. But the estate had some extra pieces worth displaying and we ran out of space on the main floors.”

  As the group headed to the next area of the tour, Joanna stayed a moment then suddenly realized she couldn’t stand being inside any longer.

  She snuck back down the main staircase to the front hall, rules be damned. As oppressive as it had been crowded with the tour group, somehow it was worse empty. She ran to the front door and was startled by a glimpse of a stranger running beside her. It was her reflection in the large mirror. The front door opened easily, much to her surprise, as she felt trapped, and she didn’t stop running until she was at the front gate of the estate.

  She rested against the gate, trying to catch her breath. Her face was damp, her heart was pounding. There were footsteps behind her. “Joanna!” In a moment Michael was by her side. She walked away from him. He followed. “Are we in a race?”

  “No,” she said coldly.

  He reached for her shoulder. “Joanna, talk to me.”

  “No. And please don’t touch me.”

  He dropped his hands. His attempted levity—“I’ve never seen this kind of reaction to a tour before”—failed. She turned toward him. Her eyes were blazing, her face flushed. He said, “Can we sit someplace and talk?”

  “No.” The dizziness hadn’t passed, and she supported herself on a tree. Michael rushed over to assist her. She said “No” again but minus the venom. They walked slowly to a bench half a block away in a little sequestered area of the estate.

  Joanna said, “She was very touchy-feely, wasn’t she?”

  “Who?”

  “Madeleine.”

  “Oh, I’ve known her for years.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, even more now than when I met her, I think. She’s a resourceful Executive Director. Managed to keep the house intact when many others were being torn down.”

  She glared at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I didn’t notice her touching the other tourists, or inviting them to sleep at her house.”

  “Oh. I understand. About a year after her husband died, Madeleine and I dated for about four months. It was good for both of us and I enjoyed it very much. She’s been happily married to Dan, husband number two, a cardiologist who adores her, for years. I was best man at their wedding here in Cape May. I play Scrabble with her and poker with him. I love them both. They had nieces visiting and no room for me. But the girls have left and tonight I’m staying at their tiny house. They have a blow-up mattress with my name on it. They feed me. Madeleine’s like a sister to me.”

  “Sister, huh?”

  He paused. “You know, you almost sound jealous.”

  “I am jealous, and I shouldn’t be jealous…”

  Two people walked past and stared, or was it just her imagination? Michael made a move towards her, about to say something, and she jumped in with “Michael, this has to end here.” She immediately could see the affect of her words. She had to look away.

  “Oh, please don’t say that, Joanna,” he said.

  They didn’t talk. The little park was serene, with perfectly manicured lawns and shrubs. Michael started to say something, but stopped. They were both still, and the only movement around them was some birds flying in and out of a feeder hanging on a tree limb nearby. Michael tried again to talk, and stopped again. Then, weighing his words carefully, “All I can say is, I haven’t felt this way…the way I feel about you…in a very long time. Actually, honestly? Never.” His pointer finger lightly stroked her hand resting on her thigh. “You and I have a connection. Something special. You feel it, too, or you wouldn’t be so upset.” He paused. “I can’t walk away from this without a fight.”

  She shook her head, and slowly stood up.

  He took her hand. “Was I wrong? Is it just me who feels it?”

  “Michael,” her voice caught, and tears slid down her hot cheeks. She squeezed his hand, and whispered, “I feel it, but I can’t.”

  And she walked out of the park and turned toward her B&B. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him still sitting slumped on the bench. She wanted desperately to run back to him but didn’t. She made a left at the corner, and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER 11

  A safe distance away from Woodline, and the garden, and Michael’s dejected face, Joanna stopped to call Brian. Trying her best to sound casual, she told him Michael canceled lunch so he could spend time with Madeleine. When Brian made a comment about “lucky Michael getting laid tonight,” she almost lost it.

  She sat on a bench. Even with the sun baking on her back she felt cold and lifeless. Lifeless. But what had happened? It was just a kiss. After twenty years of marriage, one kiss with a stranger was hardly adulterous. She’d never see Michael again, and she’d be buried with this semi-sinful memory. No need to confess all to her trusting husband just to make herself feel better.

  As she sat there, the pain began to sink in. Would she really never see him again? Couldn’t they put aside their overblown, exaggerated romantic feelings—which couldn’t possibly be real after knowing each other such a short time—and just be friends? She really liked him. His positivity, his humor, and warmth.

  Still she sat, unable to move. Eventually she looked at her watch. Over an hour had passed, and she was due to meet Brian. She stood up slowly and shakily, and began walking to the bed and breakfast. The sun hurt her eyes. She fished in her purse for sunglasses.

  Where was she? She’d lost her bearings. A young couple, laughing and walking arm-in-arm, strolled past. “Excuse me,” Joanna said.

  “Yes?” the man turned around.

  “Which way is Ocean Avenue?”

  He pointed. “It’s three blocks that way.”

  “And then which way to Columbia?”

  The woman said, “Follow Ocean for a few blocks. Um, are you all right?”

  Joanna was about to say, “I’m fine,” when tears trickled down her face. She said, “Thanks,” and walked in the direction they’d pointed.

  Before turning the corner towards the Manor Rose, she stopped and cleaned herself up for Brian. She blew her nose and wiped the tears away, put on lip balm, and brushed her hair.

  The last half block, Joanna breathed deeply and kept telling herself everything worked out for the best. She was going back to her husband, and things would get better and better between them.

  The Manor Rose looked picture perfect with its windows open, the curtains flapping in the breeze. Marie was serving tea on the porch. Brian sat reading at one of the tiny wrought iron round tables. As soon as he saw her walking up the steps, he said, “You’re late.”

  Joanna put on her happy face and said, “I got a little lost.” She was grateful to be sitting outside, so she had an excuse to keep the sunglasses on.

  “Have some tea.”

  What she wanted was a great big scotch, or some other drink she usually wouldn’t have touched. No. What she really wanted was to curl up into a ball and go to sleep, with the covers over her head.

  After a pause during which he looked at her with some scrutiny, Brian said, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How was the tour?” The question sounded more like an accusation.

  “Interesting.”

  “And Michael?”

  Just hearing Brian say his name made Joanna ache even more. She did her best to answer naturally, but
the voice hitting her ears sounded forced. “Fine. I thanked him for both of us.”

  “It’s miraculous you ‘discovered’ him, isn’t it?” Brian said, his voice forced, too.

  “Miraculous? Hardly.” She couldn’t read his mood, and she usually could. “Too bad you left before the ghost.”

  “What?”

  “The guy who kept asking questions, the guy in the Bermuda shorts, swore he saw a ghost in one of the bedrooms.” A tear slid under the frame of her sunglasses. She wiped it, her hand knocking against the china plate in front of her.

  Brian put his hand on hers, and she jumped. “Your hands are cold.”

  “How was your meeting?”

  “I liked the old guy. He’s me in ten years. Still happily working.”

  “But he’s retiring?”

  “Partly. I’ll tell you about it later. You don’t look good.”

  “I feel a little sick.”

  “You want to go inside?”

  “No. The air feels good. I should eat something.”

  What was Michael doing, right now? Was he eating? Would he go back to Madeleine’s house? Were they really just good friends? She hoped they were, so he wouldn’t be alone. Or would the attractive Madeleine comfort him? He’d said they were like siblings. Was that true? Or would she invite him back into her bed? They play Scrabble together, my ass.

  “Jo?”

  “What?” Joanna replied, a little too brightly.

  “I thought maybe we could walk on the boardwalk.”

  Marie brought out a three-tiered tray of tea sandwiches and desserts. “Here’s something I think you’ll enjoy!” She put the tray down and pointed to each as she spoke: “This is cucumber and cream cheese on white. This is salmon and dill with butter.” Her bright and sunny attitude made Joanna want to scream. “Here’s my personal favorite: egg salad on walnut bread with watercress. And last but certainly not least,” and here she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “and you don’t have to save them for dessert—my homemade scones, with either cranberries or chocolate chips. Savory or sweet!”