Cape May by Holly Caster

don’t need one, Michael,” Sophie said, and went to get the lemonades.
    Michael said to Joanna, “My son was friends with her. I think we both had crushes on her.”
    “Eww.”
    “It’s not like I pursued it. I saw, and learned from, American Beauty .”
    “Good. There’s nothing worse than a man dating a girl his granddaughter’s age. Unless it’s a woman dating a man three years younger than she is. Or perhaps I read too many tabloid headlines at the supermarket.”
    “Actually it was her mother I was…” he was interrupted by Sophie bringing the lemonades. Michael said to her, “I forgot to ask, how’s your mother?”
    “She’s fine. Happy she moved to Atlanta. Still wishes you had moved down there, too, when she did.”
    “Oh, that was a long time ago. But I’m flattered,” Michael said. “Tell her I said hello.”
    Joanna listened to their conversation as she took the inch of paper cover off the top of her straw and sipped. “Oh, yummy.”
    “Good! I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”
    Michael turned to look out at the beach, lost in thought. Joanna was comfortable just being quiet, and watching him. She wondered if he used to eat here with his wife and son. He’d mentioned that he’d been coming to Cape May for years. He was somewhere else right now, miles away. She realized his eyes were an intriguing shade of blue, which made her also realize he was staring back. She snapped out of her own little trance and said, “Sorry. Daydreaming,” and turned to people watch.
    There were a lot of people on the beach, many strolling fully clothed except for bare feet. The young, skinny girls paraded in their tiny bikinis. “Oh, I see why you like it here.”
    “Can you imagine: in the 1870s, women wore bathing dresses made of flannel, about ten yards worth,” Michael said.
    Sophie returned and said, “Are you ready to order?” as she put down a basket of rolls and butter. Michael shook his head, and the waitress left them alone again. Joanna broke off a bite-sized piece of roll and popped it into her mouth.
    He sipped his lemonade. “Did you like your B&B?”
    “The little I saw, yes. Just inside the door. It seemed perfect. I’ll be honored to sleep there tonight. I hope I’m worthy.”
    “It does seem bizarre to be in an elegant, formal house in jeans and a wrinkled shirt, or even worse, shorts and a T-shirt.”
    “Sacrilege! Some houses should have real Victorian clothes for houseguests to wear.”
    “You could do that at your B&B,” he smiled. “But don’t make it mandatory or people might not come back.”
    “It would certainly change our romantic views of that time period, if we had to wear corsets and suits in August.” She picked up the menu.
    He said, “I could make a suggestion, as I’ve eaten here about a thousand times. Left column, about midway down. Henry’s Specialty.”
    She scanned the menu following his directions: “ Big Ass Clam Platter ! Can they say that?”
    “Yes. And it’s delicious. With cole slaw and french fries.”
    “Why not? It sounds like fat and cholesterol heaven, and I am officially on vacation.”
    “One greasy meal can’t hurt, huh? Oh, there’s Sophie. Sophie! We’re starving.”
    Sophie came over. “Gee, Michael, let me guess what you’re having. Did you talk her into it?”
    “Yes,” said Joanna. “That’s me, falling prey to peer pressure again just like in high school.”
    Sophie left to place the order.
    Michael said, “She’s about to fulfill her dream of becoming a kindergarten teacher, and it seems like yesterday I was helping her with algebra.”
    “Time really does fly, doesn’t it?”
    He paused. “Most of the time I don’t mind so much, you know? Then something will happen and I’ll think, shit, what’s happened to my life.”
    “I don’t even like to admit I’m middle-aged, and then I think, how many 120 year old women do I know?”
    “You’re not sixty, are you?” Michael asked, shaking his