‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, hi. This is Jan—I saw you briefly yesterday at Alice’s Art.’
‘Okay,’ he had said, not having the first clue with whom he was speaking.
‘Alice—she’s my wife. I’m really sorry for her bluntness. She’s very mistrusting,’ Jan had said with a laugh. ‘Listen, do you guys want to come over to our house tomorrow night?’
‘Yes, we’d love to,’ Morton had answered. ‘Is Alice okay with that?’
The line had gone silent for several seconds. ‘Let’s just say I’m working on it, but I’m getting there. We live at sixty-two Commercial Street. Come by around eight o’clock and we’ll have a wine or beer together.’
‘Ready?’ Juliette asked. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we won’t have time to eat before going to see your aunt.’
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ he replied, leading away from the church and back to the hire car. ‘But what if Jan hasn’t managed to convince Alice that seeing us is a good idea?’ He faced Juliette as he started the car.
‘I’m guessing Jan would have called you back and cancelled.’
‘Call me sceptical, but I just can’t see her welcoming me with open arms.’
‘Well, we’ll find out in a couple of hours.’
‘Great.’
They had eaten out in the front of Bubala’s by the Bay—a sprawling restaurant that, just like Commercial Street that ran beside it, was bustling with young revellers enjoying the last of the warm Provincetown evening sunshine. Their table had been cleared and the bill had been paid.
Morton looked at his watch. ‘Quarter to eight—I guess we’d better be leaving.’ He sank the final swig of his red wine, the effects of which had temporarily doused the sparks of niggling worries and the questioning of the wisdom of their decision. But really, what choice did he have? Other than to pursue online the higher echelons of his family tree in San Francisco, he had no further leads to track down his father.
His mood was cautiously light as they left the restaurant and made their way further along Commercial Street.
As the shops, galleries and restaurants grew fewer, so the crowds also diminished.
‘There it is,’ Juliette announced after some time, a note of finality to her voice.
Morton stopped outside the gate of number sixty-two Commercial Street. Cladded in orange cedar wood tiles, the house stood ostentatiously against its white weather-boarded neighbours. A short brick path led to the front door, which was set in the centre of the house, dividing two identical gabled fronts.
Juliette pushed open the gate and led the way. She pressed the bell, then took a step back.
It was Jan who answered, and Morton then remembered her from the hut on MacMillan Pier. She smiled warmly. ‘Hi, guys, come on in.’
Morton stepped into the house and offered his hand. ‘We weren’t properly introduced—I’m Morton; this is my wife, Juliette.’
‘Welcome,’ Jan said, shaking their hands vigorously. ‘Come on through.’
Morton glanced around the hallway—obviously the home of an artist—the white walls were filled with an abundance of nautical-themed art work and sculptures. They walked under a giant tin and copper seahorse to enter the sitting room at the rear of the house.
‘Wow,’ Juliette gasped.
‘Impressive,’ Morton concurred. The bi-folding doors were open to a large deck. A glass balcony provided a seamless join between house and ocean.
‘Come on out,’ Jan said. ‘Alice will be down in a moment.’
They followed her out to the edge of the deck and looked out over at the sandy beach below them. Small waves hesitantly licked the braid of black seaweed that meandered its way along the shoreline.
Morton stared at what he considered to be one of the most fantastic sunsets that he had ever seen. A pudgy tangerine sun, with its lower edge dipped in the ocean, gave off an inert medley of every shade of red and yellow imaginable. For the briefest of moments, he forgot all about their reason for being here. Then he remembered. ‘Is Alice okay with all this?’ he whispered to Jan.
‘Yeah. She’s a typical artist—likes to be a bit reclusive and mysterious—you know the sort,’ Jan said with a laugh.
‘I can see why—I don’t think I’d ever want to leave this house with that view,’ Juliette commented.
‘That’s why the place is a haven for artists—it has the most perfect light here all year round. Even in winter, when all the tourists have returned home and most of the shops and restaurants have closed, it’s an amazing place.’
‘It seems pretty special,’ Morton agreed, suddenly feeling his heart lurch and a nervous tingle rising inside him, as he sensed someone approaching from behind. He turned around to see her—his bohemian Aunt Alice. She was wearing a lavender-coloured kaftan and her wild hair was swept back behind a headband.
‘Hello again,’ Alice greeted.
‘Hello,’ Morton said, still unsure of exactly what to say. Jan being the one who had invited them meant that it clearly wasn’t Alice’s idea. Had she been browbeaten into accepting them into her home? What did that mean for their topics of conversation? Could he ask about his father, given how she had treated him?
Alice seemed to study him for an age. ‘You look a lot like him,’ she said finally. ‘I’m sorry for how I was the other day—you caught me off-guard. I’m Alice.’ She extended her hand, which Morton accepted with a smile.
‘Morton—and this is my wife, Juliette.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Alice greeted, shaking Juliette’s hand.
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Juliette said.
‘Well, you’re family,’ Jan responded. ‘And what do you folks like to drink? Wine? Beer? English
