She hadn’t been on a summer vacation in thirty years. Although, if she really thought about it, a trip didn’t count as a vacation if you weren’t coming back. Either way, there would be no more meetings, no more deadlines, no more fires to put out. Ruth was free.
She was also anxious. The ferry ride from Boston to Cape Cod was choppier than she’d anticipated. Ruth had planned to pass the hour-and-a-half journey on the upper deck, out in the fresh air. She’d lasted about five minutes; the sun was strong and the speed of the ferry created a lot of wind and, well, she wasn’t used to traveling by boat. For the past few months she’d been driving back and forth from Philadelphia while she searched for her summer rental. But now, with everything either packed up and sent to town or already in storage, she didn’t need her car. She wanted to experience the journey to Provincetown like a native—by water.
She’d told only a few friends about her decision to sell her business and her house and retire in Provincetown. Her announcement was met with “Isn’t there a closer beach?” and “But the winters!” To the latter, she replied, “But the summers.” Really, though, why should she have to explain herself at all?
Ruth sensed the ferry was approaching Cape Cod before the shore became visible. The line for the snack bar disappeared, laptops were closed, and suitcases were retrieved from the metal racks. She checked the time; within the hour, she would walk in the front door of the most perfect beach cottage, and her new life would begin.
Ruth closed the novel she had been reading and peered out the water-streaked window of the cabin. The Pilgrim Monument, a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot tower in the center of Provincetown, came into view. The sight of it made her feel almost giddy, like a teenager. This was what she could not fully convey to her friends. The feeling she got in Provincetown was not definable by geography or weather or logic; it was like falling in love.
Next to her, a couple strapped their baby into a stroller. The baby fussed and fussed. Rattles and pacifiers were produced, to no avail. Oh, Ruth was so happy that that high-maintenance phase of life was behind her.
Ahead, she could vaguely make out the small shops lining MacMillan Wharf and, in the far distance, the steeple of the town library. To her right, the long breakwater was covered end to end with double-crested cormorants, standing with their wings spread to dry. Yes, she knew the name of the black birds now. She learned something new every time she visited. Unlike so many small towns, closed and unknowable, Provincetown was a place that offered itself to you, unfurling like a beach blanket shaken out in the sun.
How many summers had she been too busy working to enjoy the beautiful weather? She’d spent long weekends in windowless rooms testing products or fixing packaging errors or filling out spreadsheets. For decades, her complexion had been as pale in August as it was in February. Not anymore.
Beside her, the baby began to wail. Okay, perhaps it was time for the deck.
Ruth picked up her suitcase and climbed the stairs to the upper level, gripping the wet, slippery handrail all the way. Outside, she was met with a light spray of water against her cheeks; it was startling at first, but the intake of breath gave her a burst of adrenaline. She leaned over the side railing and took in the vista of sailboats and the bustling seaport, the pier already filled with art merchants and vacationers lined up for whale-watching tours. To her left, twelve-foot black-and-white photos of the town’s Portuguese matriarchs greeted her from the sides of boathouses.
The motor quieted as the ferry pulled up to the dock. A crowd gathered on the wharf, and people waved at the boat, eager to greet friends and family.
She had arrived.
Ruth followed the line of people down the metal gangplank to the dock, rolling her suitcase behind her. As her fellow passengers were welcomed with hugs or excitedly shouted names, Ruth turned left and headed toward Commercial Street alone.
The wheels of her suitcase bumped against the uneven wooden boards of the pier walkway. She passed the small buildings that housed crafts shops and offices for whale-watching tours and sunset cruises, maintaining a steady pace. A traffic cop directed the flow of pedestrians and cars heading west. A Cape Cab idled near the curb, and Ruth slid into the back seat.
The taxi driver turned left down one-way Commercial, heading in the opposite direction of her house in the East End. He would have to turn around on Bradford, but she didn’t mind the circuitous route. She rolled down the window and looked to her right at Cabot’s Candy. On the opposite side of the street was the quirky Marine Specialties store, then the stately red-brick post office. Sights that were becoming more and more familiar with each visit.
Except she was no longer visiting. Today was her first official day as a Provincetown resident. She had hoped, when she originally set her plan in motion, that by the time she had her Philadelphia life packed up, she’d have a permanent new home in Provincetown. But finding a house for sale on the peninsula—just three miles long and two streets wide—had proved to be a challenge.
“Your best bet is to be patient and rent,” said Clifford Henry, the real estate agent.
Patience was a skill that Ruth, at age fifty-eight, had yet to master. She was a firm believer in the full-speed-ahead approach. That’s how she’d met all of life’s challenges, and for the most part, it had paid off. But for now, Provincetown was forcing her to slow down. She would rent for the summer while looking for her forever home.
Although it was difficult to imagine finding anything as perfect as Shell Haven.
The three-story white-shingled Georgian cottage had major curb appeal. It had a wraparound open porch, a pediment roof with a widow’s walk, and a front lawn blooming with blue and white hydrangea bushes. Inside, the kitchen had a beautiful built-in hutch, and the master bedroom had a view of the bay. For Ruth, it was love at first sight.
“I’ll take it,” she’d told Clifford Henry the day he gave her a tour of the rental property. “And for the record, this is exactly the type of house I’m looking to buy.”
“You and everyone else, sweetheart,” he’d replied.
The cabbie made a right off Bradford onto narrow Bangs Street, then got back onto Commercial. Ruth buzzed with anticipation. One block, and there on the right, the house came into view.
Ruth paid the driver and took a minute on the sidewalk to adjust her handbag and get a good grip on her suitcase before following the red-brick path framed by blue hydrangeas to the porch steps. You’re almost home, she told herself.
One of the owners of the house, Fern Douglas, had told her she’d leave the house keys in the mailbox. This seemed to Ruth an odd and not entirely safe system, but she realized she needed to learn to go with things a little more. What was the point of moving to a place like Provincetown if she couldn’t relax there?
The narrow black metal mailbox was affixed to the side of the house. Ruth rested her bag on a bench and reached inside. Her hand met only empty space.
She bent down and peered inside. No key.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Suddenly exhausted, she walked up to the front door to see if Fern had simply left it unlocked. No.
Ruth rang the bell. Had she somehow mixed things up? But no, of course not. She was right on time on the date they’d agreed she would move in. She rummaged through her bag, dug out her phone, and dialed Fern Douglas. The call went straight to voice mail.
So unprofessional!
She hesitated only a few seconds before knocking on the doorframe. The door behind the screen cracked open.
“Ms. Cooperman?” a woman asked. She looked to be in her late thirties and had green eyes and strawberry-blond hair that skimmed her shoulders. She was not Fern Douglas.
“Yes,” Ruth said, striking a note somewhere between cheery and extremely put out. “Is Fern Douglas here? The keys were supposed to be in the mailbox—”
“Yes, apologies. The move-in date has been delayed a night. You have a reservation at the Beach Rose Inn,” the woman said.
What? “I need to speak to Fern. Is she here?”
“No,” the woman said.
“Can you reach her for me? Or tell me where to find her?”
“No,” the woman repeated. “But I can give you directions to the inn.”