“Look, honey. They describe this inn as “a romantic hideaway,” she said, with a warm, inviting smile.
“I’m ready for that,” said Mark.
Driving out of Boston on a Thursday in July, Professor Mark Hardee found himself looking forward to the experience. By afternoon he was driving his black Cherokee out on Cape Elizabeth along the Bowery Beach Road eagerly anticipating his wife’s arrival. Lydia would be joining him in a few hours. He wished that she had not had to give a test at summer school this afternoon so that they could have driven up together.
“We work too hard. We must take the time to store up more good memories,” she had said.
She had read about the Cape and described its picturesque old buildings with her usual boundless enthusiasm. He saw several thriving family farms, spotted two state parks on the Cape, and noticed with amusement that the town had taken a former fort and turned it into a recreation area. Mark also liked Cape Elizabeth’s red-roofed houses, the lighthouse, and the nearness of the water. Looking around him, he saw much that was typical of New England.
His first glimpse of the Inn by the Sea came as something of a shock. Lydia had given him no idea of its size. It was an immense, gray-shingled complex, bordering Crescent Beach State Park. Strolling into the marble-tiled lobby, he was surprised to see the walls decorated with original oversize Audubon prints of coastal birds. A biology professor and occasional birder, Mark’s spirits soared. He knew already that he was going to love this place.
Lydia had reserved a very luxurious suite. It had contemporary furnishings, a living room with a window wall, a two-story cathedral ceiling, and an oversize bath with a deep soaking tub big enough for two. Picking up one of the brochures on the bedside table, Mark saw a picture of an outdoor pool, a tennis court, bicycles, and a boardwalk that he presumed led to the beach beyond the park. He lay down on the sofa to read it and before long was obeying Lydia’s admonition to relax: He was soon fast asleep.
When he woke up, someone was kissing him.
“I’m here, Sleeping Beauty,” said his wife.
They had a late dinner on the porch of the dining room, selecting a table with a view. Champagne and appetizers of grilled shrimp served with fig and date chutney preceded a tender duck entree.
“Not at all bad for two teachers,” said Mark. “I like this place. You are a woman of taste.”
“Aunt Margaret would have approved,” said Lydia, whose aunt had left her a small inheritance.
The next morning they went bicycling down Route 77 to the Portland Head Lighthouse, took the usual tourist pictures, and lunched at the Lobster Shack. Then they returned to the inn, pleasantly tired. On Saturday they cycled south to see Winslow Homer’s studio at Prouts Neck.
They saved Sunday, the third day of their long weekend, for a lazy afternoon and evening out on the beach. Carrying a hamper with a picnic supper, Mark and Lydia ambled along the boardwalk leading from the inn. When they emerged from the state park, they found not a rock-lined shore but a magnificent sand beach stretching for miles beside the Atlantic. Mark wandered along near the water watching for unusual shells and sea creatures. Lydia read a book on the area.
She was a history teacher, and it amused him to hear her say things like, “I wish I could have lived back then,” or “Wouldn’t it be exciting to go through an experience like that?”
“You mean like the French Revolution or the San Francisco fire?” he would sometimes counter teasingly.
“Well, what have you learned about Cape Elizabeth?” he asked now, sitting down on the sand.
“I’ve found out that the Jordans were a very prominent family here.”
“I’m sure they were, if they were your ancestors,” quipped Mark. Before their marriage, his wife had been Lydia Jordan.
“I have no idea whether these particular Jordans were my ancestors or not, only that they were here in the 1630s and lived through three wars—the war of King Philip of Spain, King William’s War, and Queen Anne’s.”
“They certainly suffered a long streak of misfortune,” said Mark. “But you sound as if it had just happened.”
“You aren’t very sympathetic. I feel sorry for them,” she said indignantly. “Just imagine. They had to leave during every war. Then, when they did come back in 1715, they were attacked by pirates.”
“I’m glad they survived it, especially if they were your ancestors; it wouldn’t surprise me if some of them were pirates. They settled all along the coast.” Lydia made a wry face at him.
“Do you think Blackbeard ever got up beyond Philadelphia and New York?” Mark asked.
“Of course he did. They say he caroused with his pirate friends at Newport and buried treasure on an island off the New England coast. If you didn’t work all the time, we could go searching for it.”
“A biologist would rather search for rare bugs, my dear, but tell me more.”
“Fishing was big here in the 1800s. During the winter men sailed to the Caribbean islands with cargoes of fish and lumber and brought back sugar and rum. But the part that interested me most . . .”
“Yes?”
“It was the number of shipwrecks off this Cape. I began to wonder why people settled here. There were bad storms, and over there near Richmond Island,” she pointed, “is a ridge of rocks, under the surface of the water near shore. It’s called Watts Ledge. I can just visualize fog and ships heading for Portland Harbor, getting off course and wrecking on it. Can’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“Sometimes I think you’re not very imaginative,” she said reproachfully.
“Maybe not, but isn’t one of us in the family enough?” He grinned at Lydia.
Unfortunately, the day that they had selected to
