That Old Cape Magic

the time.
    “It’s okay,” Marguerite said, taking his hand, and only then did he realize there were tears running down his cheeks. He was pretty sure he’d never told that story to anyone before, not even Joy. He might have expected all manner of comment from the trunk, but there wasn’t a peep.
    After he’d gathered himself, he said, “Okay, enough about me. Tell me about
your
parents,” but Marguerite shook her head. “Let’s just say that if you knew them you’d understand how I ended up with a man like Harold.”
    It was the first bitter thing he could remember hearing her say, and it begged an obvious question, one he didn’t want to ask but did anyway. “And a man like me?”
    “Nobody’s ever been nicer to me than you,” she said, squeezing his hand. He appreciated the vote of confidence, he really did, until she added, “I’m going to miss that.”
    He started to ask her what she meant when her cell rang. It was Beth, the woman she’d left in charge of the flower shop back in L.A., with a question about inventory. By the time Marguerite hungup, they were rumbling up onto the Sagamore Bridge. “What’s that you’re humming?” she wanted to know.
    He’d been
humming
?
    They scattered his father in a cove near Barnstable. It was serene there, with views of a marsh redolent of bluish-purple wildflowers and the sunrise. For his mother they chose a tidal inlet on the Atlantic side, mid-Cape. Across the water, a quarter mile away, sat a posh restaurant with a huge deck from which the breezes carried the sounds of moneyed voices and the occasional pop of a champagne cork and, when the wind shifted, the sound of surf. An older couple, strolling past when he was emptying his mother’s urn, saw what he was doing and came over to Marguerite, who was quietly weeping (as she’d done for his father), and offered her their condolences. “You take good care of her,” the woman told dry-eyed Griffin, as if she’d taken his measure at a glance and doubted he was up to the task.
    Back in the car, Marguerite said, “Okay, I’ll tell you this much. My father hanged himself when I was a little girl.”
    Now it was Griffin’s turn to take her hand. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay. I don’t really even remember that much about him. Only what my mother said to me.”
    Griffin didn’t want to ask, but there was no way not to.
    “She said, ‘There. Happy now?’”
    When he suggested they splurge on a fancy restaurant in Chatham, Marguerite again scrunched up her shoulders and said, “I have a better idea. Let’s go back to that restaurant where we met.”
    Griffin couldn’t imagine why she’d want to return to the Olde Cape Lounge—when he’d left her there with Harold last year, she’dbeen in tears—but if that’s what she wanted it was fine with him. Spending the evening around there made sense, making the morning’s drive to Logan and their flight back to L.A. that much easier.
    Because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find it again, they decided to look for the restaurant first, then book a room nearby. He meant to avoid the B and B where he and Joy had stayed, which he remembered (correctly) as being about half a mile down the road from the restaurant, but thought (incorrectly) there’d be someplace to turn back onto Route 28 before he got there. “Oooh, that looks nice,” Marguerite said when they passed the B and B, so Griffin, unwilling to explain why he’d have preferred anywhere else, turned around and went back. The same woman who’d checked him in last summer did so again, though if she recognized him as repeat business—no reason she should, given his massive dark glasses—she gave no sign. When she showed them to the same room he and Joy had occupied, he considered asking for a different one but decided not to. Late middle age, he was coming to understand, was a time of life when everything was predictable and yet somehow you failed to see any of it coming.
    Exhausted by the day’s emotion and the long drive down from Maine, they took a nap before dinner. Marguerite awoke from hers refreshed and buoyant, while Griffin was slow and groggy, his already low spirits having ebbed even further. And why, for God’s sake? His daughter was successfully married and halfway to Paris by now. The checks he’d written weren’t going to bounce and, thanks to Marguerite, his parents were finally at rest. By rights he should’ve been ready to celebrate. Was