“In both the old and new senses of the word,” Charles agrees. “It’s a very happy, inclusive place. Everyone is welcome.”
I smile as I look around me. It’s like experiencing what the world would be like if heterosexuals were in the minority. With the significant difference that no one is cursing or judging us.
As we continue past a “caffeine bar” and a series of rather swish galleries, I reach into my suitcase—I have a pair of glitter-encrusted ballet pumps that I never quite have the occasion to wear, but seem apt for today. I might even slick on my neon-pink lip gloss.
“Left here, Charles!” I direct him down Franklin Street, taking us closer to the waterfront.
Unsure that we’ll make it up the hill to the hotel car park, I suggest we pull in at the side of the street and snug into the hedgerow, as the road is rather narrow.
“Great spot,” Pamela notes as she takes in the beach across the way.
I nod. “And better yet, we won’t need the bus again until we leave; everything is walking distance from here.”
“Fantastic.”
“Where to now?” Charles is ready to play bellboy with the luggage.
I backtrack a few paces.
“This is us!” I point upward—up the winding redbrick pathway bordered with potted flowers of bright yellow, cerise and purple, up to the terrace with the white wicker loungers and the big gray building that rather resembles a dovecote (albeit a deluxe one, with hexagonal turrets and wraparound balconies). This is the Land’s End Inn.
I smile at the heavy wooden sign. It feels like a storybook concoction to me, but then I know what awaits us inside.
“Come on!”
Eager to witness everyone’s reaction, I lead the way, but Charles and Pamela hang back as we reach the summit, saying they are happy to sit in the garden and enjoy the sunshine while Ravenna de-bogs herself.
I won’t argue with that; they clearly need some time alone.
• • •
On checking in, we learn that the Schoolman Suite is accessed through a pair of closet doors beside reception. As the owner guides Ravenna on her way, she gives me a quick look back as if to say, “If I never see you again . . .”
And then I have the place to myself.
I feel giddy—there is so much beauty and artistry and originality at every turn that I can barely stand it. It’s like stepping through the looking glass into the private home of some world-traveling artifact-collector from the 1930s.
The focal point of the lounge is a vast picture window looking out over the shimmering sea and framing a sculpture of a woman, back arched and hair flowing all the way to her feet. A circular ottoman bears a carved tray that I picture set with petite Cristallerie La Rochère glasses of absinthe.
At the other end of the room is a fireplace so magnificently rugged it makes me want to come back in my next life as a tiger rug, splayed before its fragrant embers.
I sink into the velvety sofa in the middle of the room and attempt to take it all in. I don’t think there is one plain surface in the place. The ceilings are beamed and lofted, the walls wain-scoted, wood-paneled or wallpapered. The accent tables are laden with decorative vases, ornamental boxes and treasures from the Orient. Even the lamps come beaded, tasseled or Tiffany-ed with multicolored stained glass.
Art nouveau mingles with art deco, brocade with brass, Phileas Fogg with Fu Manchu. Yet for all the antiques and ancient tomes, there’s nothing musty-fusty about it. It just feels deeply luxurious and exotic.
“What do you think of this place?” I ask when Ravenna returns, damp of hair and clean of jean.
I know there’s curiosity: I can see it in her eyes. Any would-be interior designer would have a catalog of comments and questions. All she gives me is, “Not really my taste.” And then breaks into a spasmodic pat-down.
“Forgot your phone?”
She nods.
“I’ll meet you outside.”
I sigh as I pass a Metropolis-inspired bronze bust. If I can’t get her with this place, there’s no hope.
I’m about to round the corner to Pamela and Charles when I hear him tell her, “You look better than ever.”
“How can you say that?” she scolds. “I’ve put on so much weight!”
“I like the new curves. You wear them well.”
I can see she looks dubious.
“I mean it, Pamela,” he says, reaching for her hand. “My eyes adore you.”
My heart flips on her behalf. He sounds so sexy. Could he be moving in for a kiss? I can hardly bring myself to look!
“Ready!”
Darn Ravenna! She would choose that moment to appear.
The two of them startle apart. But as Pamela turns away I see that she’s trying to hide a secret smile. She’s flattered. At the very least. Interesting. I think there’s a good chance that her eyes adore him too.
Chapter 26
The stroll back into town continues the picturesque theme. We pass houses painted lilac and sea foam and sky blue, a cluster of artists capturing the ocean view on canvas, and all manner of boutiques and eateries, ranging from tacky to cravat-worthy.
We’re having so much fun window-shopping and people-watching we almost forget our assignment.
“What is it today?” Ravenna asks, looking slightly wary as we coincidentally stall beside a sex shop.
“Well, obviously you can’t write a book about American cakes without featuring cupcakes.”
Even Charles concedes they have become something of a phenomenon.
“And obviously they come in every imaginable flavor and decoration. However. There is one chap here in Provincetown who has gone the other way,” I say, slightly regretting my phrasing. “Scott Cunningham only makes one flavor of cupcake in one color, every day of the year.”
“Really? That’s bold.”
“I thought so. In fact, that simplicity and confidence actually inspired a musical to be written about him.”
“It didn’t!”
“Well, that and some legal hoo-ha about street-vending licenses and the fact that he’s extremely good-looking.”
“What was the musical called?” Ravenna wants to know.
“Cupcake.”
Pamela bursts out laughing, “Oh Laurie! This is too fabulous!”
“I know!”
“Are we actually going to get to meet this chap?”
“We are!” I cheer. “Follow me!”
ScottCakes is positioned downstairs in a corner unit on the edge of a cute bricked courtyard. In a world of precision branding, his signs stand out for their homespun cardboard-and-marker-pen nature, rather like something you might expect to find on a child’s lemonade stand. Before we can even get inside, everyone has guessed the singular color of his cupcakes from the paintwork, and the fact that you can see right down into his dinky establishment from the street.
“Pink!” Pamela exclaims.
“Could it really be anything else in this town?” Charles smiles as we make our way down the steps.
Scott is there to greet us, looking even lovelier than his pictures (and his reputation, for that matter). He reminds me of a fair John Barrowman and has such a gleaming complexion that you’d think he’d come fresh from a facial. Apparently he always wears pink T-shirts—be it tie-dye or logo, a favorite being LEGALIZE GAY CUPCAKES. Today he’s sporting a baby-pink polo shirt.
He welcomes us into the kitchen area, directly behind the counter displaying his wares, and offers each of us a stool to perch on as he completes our handcrafted cupcakes.
“I call this the Scottswirl,” he says as he smooshes the pink frosting around the top of the sponge. “Boop!” he exclaims as he lifts the center to a peak. “Here we go!”
The “real buttercream” frosting has a slightly melted, oozy look to it, rather like straw
berry mousse. All of us save Ravenna take a bite.
“Mmmm, heavenly!”
Scott only shares the precise recipe with Pamela. For the rest of us it is reduced to: “Some sugar, real butter and a whole lot of love.”
“So tell me Scott,” Pamela points to the framed newspaper clippings dotted around the pink walls, “how did all this begin?”
He gives a peppy smile, as if this is his favorite subject in the world. “About five years ago I was an actor living in New York, set to come here to perform in a play for a few weeks. When I got here I knew I didn’t want to leave. But what am I going to do? I’m certainly not going to be doing bad commercials to make a living here, so I said to the universe, ‘Give me my big success!’ Just like that, out loud! And what came to my mind—boom!—was an image of the cupcakes I used to make with the kids when I was a nanny in Tribeca—they were always pink—and the name came too: ScottCakes!”
In the beginning he would only come out at night—a street vendor catering to crowds looking for a sweet pick-me-up after the bars closed.
“There I was, a forty-year-old man, dressed in pink like a fourteen-year-old girl, selling handmade cupcakes at one A.M.!”
And it worked like a charm. Then came the issue with the license and a whole legal battle (which he won) that inspired the musical. (Cue some Benny Hill-esque chases with the local police!)
They changed the name of Provincetown to Summertown and Scott became Tom, but he was there on opening night in Boston, along with 200 mini cupcakes, and even had a little cameo on stage.
“Excuse me a moment!” Scott hops up to attend to some customers.
“Quick!” Pamela huddles up. “I need to think of something new to make—I don’t want to offend anyone with the fairy cakes!”
I can’t help but chuckle.
“Something with the same ingredients . . .”
Ravenna adopts a huffy look. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“What?” her mum blinks at her.
“Butterfly cakes.”
Pamela gasps. “That’s perfect! You’re brilliant!”
I can tell she wants to hug her, but she knows better than to risk physical contact. It is a good call, though. Fairy cakes are, after all, just small cupcakes with flat icing instead of a twister of frosting, whereas butterfly cakes require a little more finessing—cutting a central circle from the top of each cake and slicing them in half to make the wings, which you then press into the buttercream filling.
“I like to sift over a little icing sugar to finish.”
As Pamela moves through the process, I make sure I get a snap of her using Scott’s giant pink mixer, as well as the man himself showcasing his shop’s gluten-free option—i.e., a shot of frosting.
There’s a lot of laughter along the way—particularly as we recall the silver ball-bearings that used to be so popular as cake decorations. (We learn that they are actually banned in California due to assorted lawsuits.) Even when we’ve returned the stainless-steel work surface to a pristine state, we’re reluctant to leave.
“There is a magical quality here, for sure,” Scott agrees.
“I think you should be upgraded from The Cupcake Man to The Cupcake Angel,” I decide as we bid farewell.
“You know this little area is known as Angel’s Landing?” He points out of the window.
“I didn’t know that!” I say, getting a little chill. (I can so see him with silver wings and a tinsel halo!)
Pamela seems equally enchanted. “This place makes me want to be gay in my next life.”
Charles raises a brow.
“Well, they just seem to keep the exuberance of youth going a lot longer.”
• • •
Nobody is ready to return to the hotel yet, so we continue our perusal of Commercial Street and its eye-popping sights, like this life-size black bear sporting a feather boa, propped on the porch of the Purple Feather Café & Treatery.
As we step up for a closer look, Ravenna makes a casual exit: “Just popping back to one of the shops. I’ll catch you up in a minute.”
Pamela looks fretful as she sees her daughter disappear into the pedestrian flow.
“Do you want me to hang back and keep an eye?” I offer.
“Would you?”
“No problem.
I start weaving back down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of her, wondering which shop she has stepped into. Not this “clamshell” jewelers or Monty’s Emporium, though he does have a rather fabulous line of Mermen ornaments—Splash from the waist down, Village People from the waist up.
“Gotcha!” I mutter, as I spy her level with ScottCakes. “Oops!” I duck into an art-gallery doorway as she turns back, as if checking to see if she’s being followed. When I dip my head out again, she’s gone. “Darnit.”
I take a few paces forward, glancing down into Scott’s as I do so. And there she is. Purchasing and then inhaling one of his cupcakes. My jaw drops. She eats!
Apparently this place really brings out the depraved hedonist in a person, because she’s now ordering a second. And then posing for a photo with Scott, giggling with him. Must be the sugar rush. I have to say she looks amazingly pretty when she’s smiling.
Oh jeez, here she comes now!
I turn to hide myself and collide with a seven-foot drag queen in voluminous Cleopatra robes.
“You on the run, hun?”
“I just need to—”
“Hide?” she says, opening up the wingspan of her dress and inviting me in. I have no choice but to burrow into her fake boobs as her arms close around me.
I don’t know how she can wear so much man-made fiber in this heat and still look so ridiculously glamorous. Just as I’m thinking her spiky neck collar is going to make a permanent indentation in my forehead, she releases me.
“All clear! It was the Kristen Stewart kid you were avoiding, right?”
I nod.
“She’s gone back down the street.”
For a minute I stand transfixed by her face. The artistry of her teal eye makeup, the expert shading enhancing her cheekbones, the glitter pressed carefully onto her lips.
She in turn is studying the matching sparkles on my shoes. “Very Dorothy,” she notes. “You know what color shoes the Pope wears?”
“I want to say red?”
She nods. “And when he clicks his heels together he says, ‘There’s no place like Rome!’”
I burst out laughing. “That’s a good one.”
“Here!” she hands me a flyer. “Tea Dance today at the Boatslip.”
“Really?” My face brightens. “That is actually perfect!”
“I know. I’m your fairy godmother.”
And in a swirl of gold lamé, she’s gone.
Chapter 27
My first thought regarding the Tea Dance is what a terrible shame it is that Gracie can’t be with us to enjoy the tinkling piano, potted palms and silver sugar tongs. In reality there are none of these. No wafts of Darjeeling, no ladies in modest frocks, no gentlemen offering to take you for a spin around the dance floor. Well, actually, that’s not true. There are a few of those. A few hundred. Shirtless. Sweating. Arms aloft, pounding and throbbing along to the music. Several of them are only wearing tight swimming trunks, giving a whole new meaning to “One lump or two?”
“Ah,” I stall. “This may not be quite what we had in mind.”
“You’ve brought us to a big open-air gay rave,” Ravenna smirks.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Yes I have.”
“Hey!” One chap with an elaborately tattooed right arm comes up to Pamela. “Are you with this guy?” He motions to Charles.
“Um. Well. Not exactly,” she falters.
“Great, you wanna dance?” he turns to Charles.
Ravenna looks even more tickled by this
.
All I can do is look on helplessly.
“Sure,” he surprises all of us. “Why not?”
“What?” Ravenna hoots.
We stand amazed as he merges with the seething bodies before us. He’s actually quite a mover, instantly in time with the beat.
“This is weird, he looks kind of cool,” Ravenna is in awe.
“He always was a good dancer,” murmurs Pamela.
“How would you know?” Ravenna frowns. “I thought you met him at an antiques fair?”
“I think this young man is trying to get your attention,” Pamela redirects her daughter’s attention.
“Oh no, no,” Ravenna backs away from the extended hand. “Not me. I don’t really dance.”
“Oh please,” the young man wheedles. “I only ever get to dance with dudes. Just once I’d like to dance with a pretty girl!”
This gets her. It doesn’t hurt that he’s really good-looking—full six-pack on display, T-shirt tucked into his Diesel jeans pocket, blond hair whisked up into a Tintin peak.
“Just one dance?”
Ravenna tries to resist but he’s gone to full puppy-dog pleading.
“One song, that’s it,” she relents.
“Whatever you say, baby girl,” he says, kissing her hand and leading her off.
I look at Pamela. “I don’t know what to say.”
Fortunately she starts to laugh. “This could be exactly what we need.”
“D-do you want to dance?” I feel a little awkward asking her.
“I think I might need a drink first.”
“Me too. Let’s find the bar . . .”
An hour later, Charles is now up on some tabletop, shaking what his mama gave him, yet still managing to look emphatically heterosexual, which of course makes him the beau of the ball.
“This is so hilarious!” Ravenna whoops and whistles along with the rest of his admirers. I’m guessing she’s taken a few sips of her young escort’s drinks, but I’m hardly in a position to judge. Pamela suggested we needed to cut to the chase with some shots and now I’m feeling wonderfully blurry and absorbed into the scene.
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