Cape May (2 page)

“Oh, Brian, we didn’t, did we?”

“How much do you remember?”

“It’s coming back to me hazily, slowly.”

“What about my incredibly huge…”

“No, please, laughing makes my head hurt more.”

That was the start of their occasional “sextogethers,” a
word they made up because they hated “fuckbuddies.” After a breakup, or when things got desperate, they’d meet, split a bottle of wine or two, and have sex. Sometimes it was okay for her, but more often she was just there for him, trying to be a good friend. She figured use it or lose it. It was better having meaningless sex with Brian than not having sex at all.

***

“You sure you want to take the bus to Cape May?” Brian said, cleaning sesame seeds from his bagel off the table. “Can’t you wait until tomorrow and drive down with me?” He pulled hard on a stuck cabinet door and reached for the jar of vitamins. He downed a few with a cup of water.

“No,” she said. “This is the best time workwise to get away. And I know you: you’ll speed the whole way and make me feel like there’s something wrong with me if I have to go to the bathroom. Also, this way I’ll have some time alone to walk around, to form my own opinions. Yours are very loud, even when you don’t say them out loud.”

“Whatever.”

“I also want the full tourist experience of going to Cape May. Like for research. I want to know exactly what it’s like on the bus, and how guests will feel when they arrive at our door, how we can help them relax after a long trip.”

“You sound pretty gung-ho.”

“I am. Well, let’s say gung-ho with reservations. How’s gung-so-so?” She sat on the couch.

He plopped beside her. “I’m sure most people drive there anyway.”

“No! I read…about four thousand people live in Cape May, right? During the summer, forty thousand people visit! They can’t all be driving. There’d be no room for all those cars.”

“Sounds like nine or ten months of the year Cape May is boring and empty, and the other times it’s jammed with annoying tourists.”

She gave him a look.

“Or, I could think of it as peaceful and quiet and then exciting and bubbly.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “You know, I am trying to warm up to the idea of moving. Spending our declining years in a picturesque seaside town.” His hand cupped her breast. “And maybe we can, you know, resume…”

She took his hand off her breast and rubbed it against her face. “Uh-huh.”

“You would be one of those annoying, weird women who get better looking as they get older.”

“Thanks?”

“It was meant to be a seductive compliment. I want you to know I’m interested,” he said, then closed in on her for a kiss, and she responded. She touched his smooth face. No matter how early he got up, five minutes later his face was shaved smooth as a baby’s bottom. A decade ago, when he started freelancing from home, he felt it was important to maintain a level of professionalism. He had stopped wearing a tie in the house after a few months, but shaving made him feel work-ready, he told her. The only times she saw him scruffy were when he was sick and couldn’t lift a razor, and she had to admit he did look pretty awful. He continued, “Well, it’s time for me to hit the spreadsheets.” He got up to leave, then turned around to say, “I hope things go well for you in Cape May. Really.”

“Thanks for being the agreeable spouse.”

“I’m doing my best ’cause you have your heart set on moving.”

“I do. Manhattan is wearing me down. I’m exhausted. All the time. And here’s a news flash: I hate my job.”

“You always hate your jobs. A few days away from it all will do you good.”

She made the bed, then finished packing her weekender bag. She entered their tiny second bedroom, which was Brian’s office. A line of file cabinets in that awful putty color lined one wall, with his fat CCH Master Tax Guides among the books on top of them. He sat behind his desk, with a laptop and a desktop computer, folders, papers, and open books splayed before him. Other than his thinning and graying hair, he looked much the same as when she met him. Tall and skinny. He had reminded her, when she first saw him, of comic-book Archie’s best friend, Jughead.

She said, “I’d think you’d want to move just to get more work space.”

“I’m used to it after all these years. I can reach everything without getting up. You leaving?”

“Yes. I have to get to work. See if I can retrieve a PowerPoint presentation I somehow misplaced.”

“Jo, you stink on the computer.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“You’re smart in many other ways.”

“Oh shut up.”

“What time is your bus?”

“At 2:30. I’ll stay a few hours then walk to the Port Authority.”

“I’m glad you’re leaving. I need quiet. I have a new client I have to impress.” As he walked her to the front door he said, “Phone?” She nodded. “Phone charger?” She
nodded. “Cash?” She nodded. “Credit cards?” She nodded.
“Good girl.” He opened the door for her, and Archie, their orange tabby of uncertain age, ran into the hall.

Joanna said, “Come back, little Archie.” She scooped him up and scratched under his chin. “Where do you think you’re escaping to?” Handing the purring bundle to Brian, she said, “Maybe he wants fresh air and grass.”

“Yes, Archie, obviously, has always wanted to live the life of a B&B cat.” He let the cat jump out of his arms. “Oh,
I forgot to tell you: my sister called. She’s found three assisted
living places for my Mom to check out next week.”

“Awww.”

“No, Mom’s okay about it. All her friends have moved or died. At least this way she’ll have people to play cards with.”

“She has a better attitude than I will, I bet.”

“You have many good years left in you, old girl.” He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her. As always, even though she didn’t mean to, she pulled away before he did. “Well, I’d better get to work,” he said. “Meeting you in Cape May tomorrow, and looking at places with my Mom next Wednesday, I’m losing too many work days. There will be some late nights for me coming up, that’s for sure.”

“Good, I’ll be able to watch a romantic movie or two without you complaining through the whole thing.” She took a MetroCard out of her wallet. “Are you still going out to dinner with Frank?”

“I have to. I canceled on him last time.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll let Frank pick. It’ll be four star, I’m sure. He’s such a foodie.”

“Good. We’ll need his advice for breakfasts at our inn.”

***

After Joanna pecked Brian goodbye, she reluctantly headed to work. Through a friend, she had gotten a job as an associate managing editor at a medical education company. The work wasn’t easy, and lately she’d made a lot more mistakes. It paid well, but the hours were long, the work detailed and multifaceted, and her heart wasn’t in it. Her boss wasn’t thrilled having her for an employee but didn’t have enough reason to fire her, yet. Her office was small and unimpressive but at least had a window. The second she walked through the door, she got a text message from her sister: “Find a great house.” Cynthia’s voice in her head read it as a command, not a good luck wish. Joanna turned on her computer and began hunting for the missing PowerPoint presentation.

Susan, Joanna’s recently hired editorial assistant, bounced in. Although certain Susan could’ve found the presentation in minutes, Joanna was too embarrassed to ask. Twenty-three and newly graduated from college with a 4.0 in her double English/Communications major, Susan earned a not-so-whopping $34,500 a year. Joanna wished she had the clout to get the girl a raise. Susan was full of hopeful, helpful energy and enthusiasm and peppermint breath, wore a bright yellow V-neck shirt that was cut too low, a floral-print skirt that was too short, and unintentionally made Joanna feel old and sexless.

“Are you excited about your romantic weekend?” Susan glanced from the Cape May brochure on Joanna’s desk to a picture of Brian thumbtacked to a bulletin board in back of Joanna’s head. “Your husband is hot.”

Hot? “I guess he is cute,” Joanna said, throwing the brochure into a drawer, tired of looking at the couple on the
cover: young, impossibly good-looking and fit, walking hand in hand on the beach. How many couples, of any age, felt
inadequate when looking at these Photoshopped models? The sand and the ocean behind the irritating pair invited,
but she and Brian wouldn’t be strolling wearing tiny bathing
suits. In reality, she and Brian had never frolicked on a beach in their entire marriage.

Her phone rang. It was her sister. “I’m faxing you something. It’s a list of questions I found in
Real Estate Magazine
: ‘What to ask a realtor.’ Get all these questions answered. Make sure you understand what you’re getting into.”

“I’ll do my best, Cynthia.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to come with you? I can get my assistant to run the shop.”

“No. I want to do it alone this time.” Actually, she would’ve loved assistance, but not from her overbearing sister, who tended to commandeer events, small or large, or her husband, who wasn’t enthusiastic about the project. Joanna had found it impossible on previous house-hunting trips to hear her own thoughts about a town or a house when either of those two joined her.

Joanna found the presentation in the bowels of her computer and spent the rest of the morning painstakingly going over facts and figures, trying to ignore the truth that
she didn’t care about any of it. She entered the latest statistics
into a simple chart, using her limited PowerPoint skills. What took her an hour took the other editors, or her assistant, ten minutes. She wasn’t keeping up with the younger people in the office, and they were all younger, much younger, and seemed to learn things instantly, through their pores. A friend had suggested she take a course. She looked into it, and then realized she didn’t want to learn because she had to. Not any more. She wanted to learn because she wanted to. And she wanted a bed and breakfast.

***

Due to a last-minute meeting with her boss that she couldn’t miss, Joanna ended up leaving work later than she had planned. Adrenaline, the kind that felt damaging, the kind filled with spikes, was speeding through her as she raced out of her office and headed west.

Recently researched statistics floated in her head.
Population density of Cape May, New Jersey: approximately
thirteen-hundred people per square mile. The corresponding
number in New York City, almost twenty-eight thousand. On this fine June day, on the corner of Forty-Second Street and Sixth Avenue, Joanna felt like she was right in the middle of all twenty-eight thousand of them. She stood on the curb, her overnight bag starting to cut into her left shoulder. Her eyes darted from the red light hanging above the street to the red “Don’t Walk” hand on the other side of
the lanes of traffic. Her goal, the Port Authority bus terminal
—what she jokingly called her Gateway to a Dream—was just a few blocks away. There, the bus to Cape May would be leaving in about half an hour. In New Jersey, the first words of a new chapter of her life might be written.

But first she’d have to cross this street.

Yes, New York was one of the greatest cities in the world, undeniably, but right now, Joanna didn’t care about its restaurants, theaters, and museums. She just wanted the light to change.

At last, the red light turned green, and the red hand switched to a white figure walking. The northern flow of cars, buses, cabs, pedicabs, bikers, and roller bladers halted, and Joanna cautiously stepped off the curb and continued westward with the other pedestrians.

As she zigged and zagged to avoid the people heading east, her brain spat at her—Why didn’t I take slightly less crowded Forty-First Street? Why didn’t I pack my lighter- weight bag? Why didn’t I wait until tomorrow and drive down the Jersey shore with Brian?

Joanna lowered the volume of her internal critic, which was always awakened by that spiky adrenaline. She walked quickly, her peripheral vision slow to take in a homeless woman with a crutch. She U-turned and bumped into a teenager with a patchy beard and huge headphones. She said, “Sorry!” even though it was his fault for tailgating. She neared the woman, who was sitting on a plastic crate, holding out a paper cup. The scribbling on the cardboard sign propped up in front of the woman, detailing a hard life and a request for food or money, was full of errors, and
Joanna suppressed the urge to whip out her red pen to correct
it. Instead, she dug in her pocket for a dollar, accidentally pulling out a $5 bill. About to shove it back into her pocket,
she remembered her new credo, her own version of carpe
diem: “Change. Improve. Every day,” and pushed the money
into the partially crushed cup.

“Bless you,” said the old woman, a threadbare shawl barely covering her matted hair.

Joanna tried not to breathe in the rank odor. “You, too. Have a nice day!”

Was that a stupid thing to say to a hungry homeless
person? Joanna continued her walk/run to the Port Authority,
saying a silent prayer of gratitude. She was healthy and had
high hopes for the rest of her life, starting in less than twenty-
eight minutes, when she’d board a bus and travel south on the Garden State Parkway. Approximately one-hundred and eighty miles later she’d be in quaint, quiet (she hoped), Victorian Cape May. Tomorrow Brian would drive down, wanting to avoid any bus at any time, and accompany her when she met with the realtor.