Chapter 25

And so we enter Cape Cod. This piece of land has been compared to the flexed arm of a bodybuilder. At the shoulder there is Sandwich (we’ll be stopping there on the way back). If you wanted to take the ferry to legendary Martha’s Vineyard you would leave from the armpit, also known as Falmouth. Dennis forms the bicep. Chatham the elbow. Eastham and Wellfleet make up the forearm, and we’re heading for the clenched fist at the very tip of the cape—Provincetown.

As we drive I’m aware that we have the Atlantic coast to the right and the bay to our left, but there is zero visual reinforcement. Still the green corridor. At one point it narrows to a single line of traffic in either direction.

“I bet this gets bumper-to-bumper during the weekends.”

“You have no idea,” Charles grimaces.

When I comment on how immaculate the whole area is, Charles tells me you can be fined up to $10,000 for littering. Now that’s an effective deterrent. Personally if I see someone dropping litter on the streets of New York, I always pick up the discarded cigarette packet or chewing gum wrapper and chase after the offender chirping, “Excuse me, I think you dropped this!” Krista says it’s a wonder I’m still here.

Around Eastham we pass the poshest motels I have ever seen, including one whose main building is a mock colonial mansion. Less Norman Bates, more Bill Gates.

“Look! There’s a shop for you—The Kitchen Lady,” I nudge Pamela.

It makes a change from all the greenery to have things to point at. I take in every shop and food shack along the way and then, some time after passing Moby Dick’s seafood restaurant, I notice the trees switch exclusively to pines of the low, bushy variety.

“We’re getting close now.” Charles sits up a little straighter in his seat. “Can you smell that sea air?”

On cue, the scenery opens out into a wilderness of sand dunes to our right, while hundreds of white beach houses line the left. The dunes themselves are quite mesmerizing—sprigged with green bushes and wispy grasses, a low band of clouds mirroring their gently sloping forms. I want to flip off my shoes, run up and then scoot down, creating a powder-soft cascade. Apparently I’m not the only one—as we slow I can see sets of deep footprints in the banks and the resulting sand-slide seeping onto the road. We are somewhere special, I can feel it.

“So Laurie, I’m guessing you have Plymouth Rock on the itinerary?”

“We do indeed, we’ll be there this time tomorrow.”

It seemed an essential stop—where the English first touched U.S. soil. I’ve even been looking into what cakes they brought with them.

“See that skinny tower over there?” Charles points over yonder. “That’s the Pilgrim Monument; it was actually here in Provincetown that the Mayflower first met land.”

“Nooo!”

“I know. Very little-known fact. Often overlooked because, though they poked around for a few weeks, they didn’t actually settle here.”

“Can’t think why,” Pamela frowns as she offers round some Cranberry Squares (basically cranberry-studded sponge). “It’s darling here.”

And it gets a whole lot more darling as we progress into town: pretty wooden houses surrounded by white picket fences and lovingly tended flower gardens, it’s definitely more cozy-cottagey than Newport—quaint in the nicest possible sense of the word.

And then we turn onto Commercial Street.

Here we both stick out like a sore thumb (because we’re in a big red bus on a dinky pedestrian street), but also fit right in—because in Provincetown, anything goes!

Multicolored flags flap and flutter as far as the eye can see; flamboyantly dressed men, several in mile-high wigs and studded stilettos, whistle and blow kisses at us; the air is filled with excited chatter and bubbles—pumping out from the West End Salon—adding an ethereal quality to the bustling party vibe.

“Is there some kind of festival on?” Pamela asks.

“It’s like this all summer,” Charles replies.

“It seems very gay,” Ravenna eyes the multitude of same-sex couples.

“In both the old and new senses of the word,” Charles agrees. “It’s a very happy, inclusive place. Everyone is welcome.”

I smile as I look around me. It’s like experiencing what the world would be like if heterosexuals were in the minority. With the significant difference that no one is cursing or judging us.

As we continue past a “caffeine bar” and a series of rather swish galleries, I reach into my suitcase—I have a pair of glitter-encrusted ballet pumps that I never quite have the occasion to wear, but seem apt for today. I might even slick on my neon-pink lip gloss.

“Left here, Charles!” I direct him down Franklin Street, taking us closer to the waterfront.

Unsure that we’ll make it up the hill to the hotel car park, I suggest we pull in at the side of the street and snug into the hedgerow, as the road is rather narrow.

“Great spot,” Pamela notes as she takes in the beach across the way.

I nod. “And better yet, we won’t need the bus again until we leave; everything is walking distance from here.”

“Fantastic.”

“Where to now?” Charles is ready to play bellboy with the luggage.

I backtrack a few paces.

“This is us!” I point upward—up the winding redbrick pathway bordered with potted flowers of bright yellow, cerise and purple, up to the terrace with the white wicker loungers and the big gray building that rather resembles a dovecote (albeit a deluxe one, with hexagonal turrets and wraparound balconies). This is the Land’s End Inn.

I smile at the heavy wooden sign. It feels like a storybook concoction to me, but then I know what awaits us inside.

“Come on!”

Eager to witness everyone’s reaction, I lead the way, but Charles and Pamela hang back as we reach the summit, saying they are happy to sit in the garden and enjoy the sunshine while Ravenna de-bogs herself.

I won’t argue with that; they clearly need some time alone.

•   •   •

On checking in, we learn that the Schoolman Suite is accessed through a pair of closet doors beside reception. As the owner guides Ravenna on her way, she gives me a quick look back as if to say, “If I never see you again . . .”

And then I have the place to myself.

I feel giddy—there is so much beauty and artistry and originality at every turn that I can barely stand it. It’s like stepping through the looking glass into the private home of some world-traveling artifact-collector from the 1930s.

The focal point of the lounge is a vast picture window looking out over the shimmering sea and framing a sculpture of a woman, back arched and hair flowing all the way to her feet. A circular ottoman bears a carved tray that I picture set with petite Cristallerie La Rochère glasses of absinthe.

At the other end of the room is a fireplace so magnificently rugged it makes me want to come back in my next life as a tiger rug, splayed before its fragrant embers.

I sink into the velvety sofa in the middle of the room and attempt to take it all in. I don’t think there is one plain surface in the place. The ceilings are beamed and lofted, the walls wain-scoted, wood-paneled or wallpapered. The accent tables are laden with decorative vases, ornamental boxes and treasures from the Orient. Even the lamps come beaded, tasseled or Tiffany-ed with multicolored stained glass.

Art nouveau mingles with art deco, brocade with brass, Phileas Fogg with Fu Manchu. Yet for all the antiques and ancient tomes, there’s nothing musty-fusty about it. It just feels deeply luxurious and exotic.

“What do you think of this place?” I ask when Ravenna returns, damp of hair and clean of jean.

I know there’s curiosity: I can see it in her eyes. Any would-be interior designer would have a catalog of comments and questions. All she gives me is, “Not really my taste.” And then breaks into a spasmodic pat-down.

“Forgot your phone?”

She nods.

“I’ll meet you outside.”

I sigh as I pass a Metropolis-inspired bronze bust. If I can’t get her with this place, there’s no hope.

I’m about to round the corner to Pamela and Charles when I hear him tell her, “You look better than ever.”

“How can you say that?” she scolds. “I’ve put on so much weight!”

“I like the new curves. You wear them well.”

I can see she looks dubious.

“I mean it, Pamela,” he says, reaching for her hand. “My eyes adore you.”

My heart flips on her behalf. He sounds so sexy. Could he be moving in for a kiss? I can hardly bring myself to look!

“Ready!”

Darn Ravenna! She would choose that moment to appear.

The two of them startle apart. But as Pamela turns away I see that she’s trying to hide a secret smile. She’s flattered. At the very least. Interesting. I think there’s a good chance that her eyes adore him too.