Cape May by Holly Caster Page B

Prepare for tomorrow. Let’s get the check,” she said, looking around the restaurant for Sophie.
    Standing and stretching, he said, “It’s all taken care of.”
    Confused for a second, she then said, shaking her head, “You can’t treat me.”
    “I did treat you. It’s your first meal at Henry’s. Your first meal in Cape May.”
    “Then I accept graciously. Can I leave the tip?”
    “I tipped more than the meal cost. For Sophie’s textbooks,” he smiled.
    They exited and Michael lightly put his hand under Joanna’s elbow to escort her out of the restaurant. It struck her as a gentlemanly, old-fashioned thing to do, fitting right in with the Victorian structures they were about to see.
    It was dark when they exited Henry’s and the street lamps and shop windows were ablaze. She gasped. “It’s so, I don’t know, World’s Fair, or Disneyworld, but real.”
    “You see what I meant about time traveling? It doesn’t look all that different than it did a hundred years ago.” A man wearing only tiny tight yellow shorts roller bladed past them. “Well, that ruined my point.”
    The street was full of pedestrians, bikers, skateboarders, and cars, surreys, and scooters. The air hummed with activity.
    Joanna said, “Oh, I smell warm, fried dough covered with powdered sugar.”
    “You smell powdered sugar?”
    “Why do unhealthy things smell so good?”
    They started walking, and Joanna headed back to Ocean Street. Michael said, “Let’s take Gurney Street so you can see some different houses.”
    Joanna yawned. “I can’t believe how tired I am. I guess it’s a combo of the bus trip and too much food.”
    “And the fresh sea air.” He sniffed.
    She sniffed. “I can’t smell it, can you?”
    “No, as a matter of fact.” He sniffed again and shook his head. “Maybe it’s seeping in through our pores.” They walked quietly for a few moments. Then he said, “I’m falling down on my tour guide duties. More about Cape May: Do you want to hear about the seventeenth century, and the Kechemeche Indians of the Lenni-Lenape tribe?”
    “Keep it simple. I’m really tired,” she said.
    “Well, for me, things started hopping in the early nineteenth century. In the 1830s, the elite of the major cities—New York, Washington, Philadelphia—came and stayed in the boarding houses. There were only a few then, but within the next ten years, the New Atlantic was built. It was huge. Would accommodate three-hundred guests.”
    As they walked, Joanna gaped at the row of sister Painted Ladies on Gurney Street. “Oh my, I’m dazzled just looking at the outsides of these houses. What am I going to do tomorrow when I’m inside some of them? My heart may not be able to stand it. I’m meeting with a realtor also, to get an idea of prices and what’s available. I’m supposed to be a sensible businesswoman, not a rabid fan.”
    “Look, I’ve stayed in over twenty B&Bs. I have friends who own Victorians. I could probably be of help.”
    “That’s nice of you to offer, Michael.”
    “It’s no big deal. I love it here. Been visiting since I was a kid, lived here, would move here again in a heart beat. I know a lot. There I go bragging again.”
    “No, that’s not bragging.” She thought a moment. “My husband is coming tomorrow. Let me see how he feels about a third person joining us. Although I think you two would get along really well. That is, if he’s not in one of his ‘I already know enough people’ moods.”
    “I do that, too. I’ll give you my phone number. If you guys want me to come with you, if Brian’s feeling social, I’d be happy to join you. My time here is flexible.”
    “Thanks.” She pointed to the houses on the left. “Are all those bed and breakfasts?”
    “Only the ones with the inn signs. The others are private homes. Some people fly south in the winter. Florida, the Carolinas. The wealthier go to Bermuda or the South of France. But many people live here all year