“How far is it from Atlantic City?”
“Now? A little over half an hour. The Garden State Parkway, which opened a few years ago, makes it a breeze. Cape May is just under half an hour in the other direction too.” She glanced over at me again. “Don’t you worry. We’ll have plenty of fun.”
I wasn’t sure her idea of fun was the same as mine, but at least with men off the island for five days of the week, I should get a break in the evenings to . . . Well, I didn’t know what I would do without men around. Her assurance still sounded awfully dreary as we drove past mile after mile of farms and swamps. I leaned my arm on the windowsill and rested my head on it, letting the air whip around my face, blissfully unaware of what the future might hold.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Once we exited the Garden State Parkway, a left turn onto Avalon Boulevard took us through marshland with thick channels cutting through the seagrass, a lone house sitting out in the marshes accessible only by a raised dirt road that would be treacherous to traverse at night. Unlike the valley of ashes that one went through to get to Gatsby’s version of the Hamptons, this barren wasteland made me wonder if we would be the first people to ever access this island. And if not, perhaps King Arthur would, in fact, be sitting there waiting for us.
But as we crested a new-looking bridge, the town came into focus. Houses dotted the horizon, a few larger buildings straight ahead, growing smaller as they radiated out from the center of the town, a pier jutting out into the ocean.
No, this wasn’t where the mythical king was healing himself. And it looked like I was going to need those books to provide entertainment after all.
Ada inhaled deeply, urging me to do the same. “This is the best part of my year,” she said. “I’m so sorry Lillian is missing it.”
“Are you two close?”
“Would I keep her around if we weren’t?” She stared ahead contemplatively as we reached the town, turning left onto a road labeled Dune. “I’ll go to the funeral, when it happens, of course. It doesn’t sound like her mother can hold on much longer.”
I thought of Mama, some hundred and fifty miles away, and shuddered slightly. Mothers should live forever.
Which reminded me—I studied Ada’s profile, looking for a resemblance between her and my grandmother, who had passed some ten years ago.
“It’s rude to stare,” Ada said, not turning around. “What’s the matter with you?”
I pursed my lips in annoyance. “I was just thinking how you look much younger than Bubbie did when she died.”
Ada fluffed the ends of her scarf-covered hair and ticked a finger at me. “That’s because she had children. And grandchildren. Nothing ages you like children.”
“So it’s my fault she looked old?”
“And your mother’s. Why do you think I wouldn’t keep either of you around for more than a summer? I value my youthful appearance.”
She pulled into a driveway on 18th Street. “Here we are.”
The house was grander than most around it, on a large lot with stones instead of grass, edged in seashells. It stood two stories high, with a wraparound porch in the Victorian style and wooden shake siding. It was almost more window than wall.
“No more duplexes?” I asked.
“I own enough of those.”
“More than just yours?”
She got out of the car. “It’s rude to ask about others’ finances. But yes. Be a dear and bring the bags inside.” And, without a backward glance, she climbed the steps to the summer home, leaving me to struggle with our suitcases, hatboxes, and other assorted bags that Ada didn’t trust to send ahead.
The first thing I noticed when I climbed the steps was how bright the house was. The multitude of windows, which Ada was currently going through the house opening, provided natural light everywhere—even in the bathrooms. It would hardly be necessary to turn on a lamp until dark, which was late this time of year. The walls and furnishings were all pastels, creating a feeling of clean air throughout the entire house. I pictured myself lounging on the overstuffed sofa, a novel in hand, eating fresh fruit from a farm stand. A far cry from New York, but delicious nonetheless.
“Don’t just stand there,” Ada said. “We have work to do.”
“What work? I’m here to relax.”
“Relaxing takes work. Come on. Those bags go upstairs.”
“Can’t we get lunch first? I’m famished.”
Ada put a hand on her hip. “I lived through the Great Depression. You’ll live another half hour.”
“You were alive in the 1800s too. That doesn’t make me less hungry.”
“Watch it,” she said. “I was younger than you when they sank the Maine.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Ada held a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “You know about King Arthur but not the USS Maine? What are they teaching you in that fancy college?” She smiled. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Unless you mend your wicked ways, you’re not going back there anyway. Now get those bags upstairs. I’m hungry too.”
Lunch was a couple of blocks away at a hotel called the Whitebrier, with a dining room overlooking the water. The owner greeted Ada with a kiss on the cheek and asked if I was her new companion.
“Only for the summer. Lillian’s mother is quite ill. This is my niece, Marilyn.”
“She could be your sister,” the man said with a wink. “Your usual spot outside?”
“Please.”
“I don’t like him,” I whispered to Ada as he led us toward the deck.
“Really? I adore him.”
Diners stopped eating to greet Ada as she entered, a reigning queen, waving gently to her subjects as we were settled along a rail, closest to the water, seagulls sitting on the dune nearby waiting for an opportunity to strike.
The owner held Ada’s chair for her, then placed menus in front of us. “No need,” Ada said. “We’ll both have the usual.”
“Very good, of course,” he said, pulling the menu from my place and retreating.
“What if I don’t like ‘the usual’？”
“Then you have no taste, darling. Try it first. I doubt even you will be able to complain.”
I scowled at her, but there was nothing I could say to that that wouldn’t be branded a complaint.
“And don’t make that face. It’ll cause wrinkles,” she said.
“More so than children?”
She winked.
Not more than a moment later, champagne flutes of orange juice arrived. “To Avalon,” Ada said, raising her glass to me. “The jewel of the Jersey shore.”
“I’m not sure that’s saying much.”
“Hush,” Ada said, taking a sip. I followed suit, realizing as soon as the vibrant liquid hit my tongue that it was a mimosa. Ada was watching my reaction, so I kept my face blank. “I lived through Prohibition too,” she said. “Cheers.”
The usual proved to be a summer salad topped with crab meat, a combination I would never have tried on my own. My family didn’t keep kosher, though we avoided shellfish and pork. But Ada was right. Perhaps it was the sea air or the view or just the food itself, but it was delicious.