“Isn’t that where we’re going?”
“No.” She glanced over at me. “You’d probably enjoy that better—more nightlife. But no.”
“Then where?”
“Avalon.” When I looked at her funny, she said, “You’ll love it. You complain too much.”
“I didn’t say a word,” I said coolly. “Will King Arthur be there?”
She took her eyes off the road for far too long for my liking. “I don’t follow.”
“You didn’t read The Once and Future King?” I realized I hadn’t seen a single book in her house. “Sorry. It’s a book that came out a couple of years ago. About King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table and Guinevere and—”
She held up a hand. “I’m familiar with the story. Arthur and his knights do predate me believe it or not. But I don’t tend to read children’s books.”
I shook my head at her dismissal. “Avalon is where Arthur goes at the end to be reborn as the future king.”
“I believe your parents hope the one in New Jersey is where their prodigal daughter will go to be reborn as a good little girl who listens to them and marries the rabbi’s son.”
“I’d as soon kiss a pig.”
“We can arrange that. There’s a lot of farmland to pass through.”
I laughed, the feeling of the wind and the open road proving a balm to my soul. “Imagine Daddy’s reaction to that. Kissing and pork. Poor man would have a stroke.”
“We wouldn’t want that. Although your mother could do better.”
“You don’t like my father? You called him a fuddy-duddy before.”
She lowered her glasses again. “What would you call him?”
I didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know. He’s my father.”
Ada sighed. “And I knew your mother before him. She was so full of life.” She glanced at me, and I felt the weight of what she was implying. “I understand why she wanted the stability of marrying him. Don’t get me wrong. It’s what most of the women who bring their daughters to me want. But for Rose, I wanted more.”
“More?”
“Love. Passion. All of it.”
“She loves Daddy,” I said defensively. Didn’t she? The opposite was obviously true. He was smitten with her, going along with buying those ovens rather than believing it could be her fault when the brisket was too dry again. And she was the only one who could smooth him over when he was upset. I certainly couldn’t. Granted, I was usually the reason he was upset. But I never saw them show affection. I had always chalked it up to the era they grew up in. But the pitying look Ada was giving me made me wonder.
We rode in silence for the next half hour as Philadelphia changed to Camden, then to marshes and farms.
I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but Ada had made it clear she wasn’t answering any about my mother.
“Do you like ice cream?” Ada asked suddenly, breaking my reverie.
I checked my watch. It was only ten o’clock in the morning. “Yes.”
“Good. The two best ice cream parlors you’ll ever see are on the island.”
“I thought cream was bad for you.”
Ada laughed. “This is worth it.”
“Avalon is an island?”
“All of the shore towns are. But Avalon is special. It’s a mile further out than the others, so the temperature is always cooler.” She fell silent for a moment. “It’s changed a lot since your mother was here. The storm in 1944 wiped out a good chunk of the pier. They rebuilt, of course, but it isn’t the same.”
“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?”