Rum Spring (21 page)

The ferry pulled into the dock at MacMillan Wharf. Rebecca gathered her bags and, like she had been doing all day, followed Dylan’s lead. Dylan looked around to get her bearings before she consulted the map she had bought in the ferry station in Boston. They had left her car in the station’s secure parking lot. Mrs. Dunham said Provincetown was so small and its streets so narrow that cars weren’t necessary. She suggested they walk or rent bikes instead.

“According to the map, we need to find Commercial Street and head west.”

Commercial Street was the main road through town. Spanning the length of the village, the thoroughfare was dotted with dozens of hotels, restaurants, souvenir shops, bars, and art galleries. The outdoor cafés were overflowing as patrons competed for the best spots to watch the crowds of new arrivals stream past.

Rebecca’s eyes bugged in amazement. Everywhere she looked, same-sex couples were being openly affectionate. Some were holding hands. Some were kissing. Some were practically going at it right there in the street. She had never seen anything like it.

Nine men dressed in nuns’ habits whizzed by on rented bicycles. One wore a placard around his neck that read, “The Sisters of (No) Mercy. Prepare to be Disciplined.” One of the men at the back of the pack, an older man with a silver goatee, a white wimple, and a long string of rainbow-colored beads tied around his waist, looked right at her as he passed. Laughing, he turned to his identically dressed companion and said, “Looks like someone forgot to tell Dorothy she isn’t in Kansas anymore.”

Stung, Rebecca quickly shifted her eyes away from the men and turned back to Dylan. Their hotel was located on Bradford Street, which ran parallel to Commercial. If they had calculated correctly, their destination should be only a few blocks ahead.

Dylan slowed down, carefully regarding the street signs. Rebecca followed her as she turned right on Gosnold, then left on Bradford. They walked another block, then stopped in front of The Sand and The Sea, a restored eighteenth-century ship captain’s house that had been converted into one of the few women-only hotels in town.

A set of wide plank pine stairs led to a wraparound porch. White rockers and weathered Adirondack chairs lined the bright yellow banister.

Inside, Dylan and Rebecca headed to the reception desk.

“May I help you?” the spiky-haired clerk asked.

“We’d like to check in, please. I made a reservation for two. Last name Mahoney. First name Dylan.”

While the clerk clicked through screens on her computer in search of the reservation, Rebecca looked around the lobby.

True to its seafaring origins, the area had a nautical theme. The walls were covered with vintage photos of men and women who made their living in, on or around the sea. Models of ancient sailing ships lined the mantel of a huge stone fireplace flanked by two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The bookcases contained works written by area authors—Emily Dickinson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, and the like.

I may never leave the hotel. I have everything I want right here.

“There you are.” The clerk tapped a few more keys. “You’re in the Crow’s Nest,” she said, pointing to a diagram of the hotel’s layout. “It’s on the top floor. It’s our smallest room and, I’ll admit, one of our least popular. If something else becomes available, I’ll see if we can move you.”

Dylan showed Rebecca a copy of the drawing. Based on the listed measurements, the room was much smaller than the others and sported a sharply angled roof that could make maneuvering in the dark something of a challenge. Maneuvering around each other was going to be even more of one.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Rebecca said.

“You haven’t seen it yet.”

“I don’t have to. It’s in Provincetown. Nothing else matters.”

Dylan turned back to the clerk. “We’ll keep this room.”

The clerk tapped more buttons on her computer. “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes,” Dylan said.

“Then I’m sure you’re anxious to do a little exploring. Here’s a map of the village. Ptown’s only three miles long, so the chances of you getting lost are pretty slim, but if your sense of direction is as bad as mine, just aim for Commercial Street and you’ll get back on track in no time. If you don’t want to risk venturing out on your own, there are several escorted walking tours that are really good. The dunes tour is excellent, and I’m not just saying that because my girlfriend’s one of the guides. Anything that includes a barbecue on the beach is automatically tops in my book.”

“Where do we sign up?”

“The departure point is on Standish Street near the wharf. The first group leaves at ten and they drive you over to National Seashore Park. The group’s not too big—at least four people and not more than eight—so everyone really gets to know each other. It’s a three-hour trip altogether. You walk the dunes for a couple of hours, learn about the area, have lunch, and come back. If you’re interested, I can give Tracy a call and get you hooked up.”

Dylan turned to Rebecca. “Do you want to?”

Rebecca nodded enthusiastically.

“Hook us up.”

“You got it.” The clerk pulled several sheets of paper off the printer behind the desk and gave the forms to Dylan to sign. “This is your receipt for the room.”

Dylan signed where indicated, then slipped the duplicate copies and a list of the week’s scheduled events into the side of her suitcase.

During the ferry ride from Boston, Rebecca had not been able to wipe the smile off her face. Unable to sit, she had stood near the railing for the ninety-minute trip. As the ferry chugged across the harbor, she had dreamed of a life on the water. A life filled with opportunities as vast as the ocean that beckoned her. The wind whipping off the water had chilled her to the bone, but she had refused to seek shelter inside the warm cabin. Why would she watch the beautiful views through thick, weatherproof glass when she could see them as God intended? The experience was magnificent. Even better than she had imagined. Having Dylan to share it with made it even more special.

She had watched, fascinated, as the mainland disappeared. When the Cape had come into view, she had felt as if the ties that bound her to her home had been severed. She was free. Free to be whoever she wanted. Free to be herself.

When they finished checking into their hotel, she and Dylan climbed two flights of stairs and headed to the door in the middle of the third-floor hall. Because the area was so small, there was only one room on the entire floor. Rebecca already thought of it as theirs—hers and Dylan’s.

Dylan unlocked the door and they headed inside.

The room was small—cramped, even—but it had a certain charm. Like the rest of the inn, the room was designed with a nautical theme. Framed portraits of female pirates lined the wall, creating a veritable rogue’s gallery. A wooden carving of a topless mermaid hung above the double bed. The nightstand was an authentic lobster trap, the coffee table a brown leather footlocker with brass hardware.

Two small porthole windows were on the ends of the room. One looked out over Bradford Street. Its mate offered a bird’s-eye view of the entertainment area on the back of the property. Nearly a dozen women were frolicking in the pool, soaking up the sun on the patio, or having a drink in the bar.

Rebecca’s eyes drifted from the window to the bed. One bed, not two. She and Dylan had not slept together since they had slept together. Sharing a room would be hard enough. Sharing a bed might be too much to ask. How was she supposed to lie next to Dylan every night without wanting to curl her body around hers? Wanting isn’t the same as doing. You can do this. You have to. It’s too late to change your mind.

“We made it.” Dylan held up her hand. Rebecca gave her a high five. “What do you want to do first?”

The smell of burgers sizzling on the communal grill made Rebecca’s stomach growl. Mrs. Dunham had given her the day off so she and Dylan could get an early start. Rebecca had been so excited about her journey she had not been able to eat breakfast. Eight hours later, she had finally regained her appetite. In spades.

“Let’s get something to eat.”

“It’s too early for dinner, so let’s have a snack somewhere and spend the rest of the afternoon wandering in and out of the shops on Commercial Street. That will give us time to decide what to do tonight. We should have seafood for dinner, obviously. We can’t visit Massachusetts without sampling one of the world-famous steam pots.”

“What about afterward? What will we do then?”

Dylan shrugged. “The options are endless. We could take a dip in the heated pool downstairs, check out the view from the pier, or go for a walk on the beach.”

Rebecca’s mind reeled. How was she supposed to pick just one? Dylan called dibs on the shower. She emerged wearing a gray Villanova sweatshirt and a pair of navy blue shorts. After her shower, Rebecca pulled on a pair of khaki Capri pants and a white cap-sleeved T-shirt. On her feet, she wore thick-soled flip-flops.

The thermometer outside the inn read sixty-five degrees. Temperatures were unseasonably warm, but not warm enough for T-shirts and shorts. Rebecca grabbed a yellow cardigan sweater to guard against the chill. She regarded her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. She hadn’t worn English clothes in months. She was going to have to get used to them all over again. Her T-shirt and short pants revealed more skin than she had ever shown in public. To wear the swimsuit that rested in the bottom of her suitcase, she would need to employ the courage Mrs. Dunham had urged her to find.

At Spiritus, a local landmark famous for its extravagant design as well as its late-night cruising, Dylan limited herself to an espresso milkshake while Rebecca inhaled a slice of pepperoni pizza in about two seconds flat. Rebecca was tempted to go for seconds but she wanted to save room for dinner. The steam pot sounded too good to miss.

On the street, Rebecca walked briskly. Her head swiveled from side to side as she tried to soak in all the new sights and sounds.

Dylan grabbed Rebecca by the elbow, forcing her to ease her frenetic pace. “We have all week. We don’t have to do everything the first day.” Her hand slowly slid down Rebecca’s arm. Then she wrapped her fingers around Rebecca’s. The gesture seemed companionable, not romantic.

Rebecca squeezed the hand she held in hers. “It seems odd that you’re the one slowing me down for once.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

They visited a couple of souvenir shops. At one of them, Dylan bought a water globe with figurines of a tiny whale and mermaid inside. The inscription on the outside read, Provincetown—Having a Whale of a Time. Then they headed to The Write Stuff, a bookstore that doubled as an art gallery. Rebecca picked out a postcard for Mrs. Dunham and another for Sarah—one card was slightly risqué, the other benign. She prayed the cards wouldn’t get crossed in the mail when she posted them the next day.

After paying for her purchases, she spent several minutes leafing through the books and magazines. The bookstore at the mall had a tiny GLBT section that she had seen from a distance but had never visited for fear of discovery. Here was an entire store devoted to such themes. And she had all week to wander the aisles.

“Why don’t you buy a couple of books to read while we’re hanging out at the hotel?” Dylan said.

“But I couldn’t possibly take them home with me.”

“Give them to me. I’ll take them back to school with me next week. A nice lesbian romance would make a refreshing change from Ethics in Journalism.”

Rebecca couldn’t resist teasing her. “These are books, not movies.”

Dylan pursed her lips. “I do know how to read, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? Prove it to me.” Rebecca picked up the closest title, a book from the Men’s Erotica section, and flipped it open to a random page.

“See Spot. See Spot run.”

Rebecca snapped the book shut. “That’s not what that says.”

“You don’t want me to read what that says. But seriously, pick out as many books as you like. I’ll be in the movie section if you need me.”

“I never would have guessed.”

Dylan laughed, obviously enjoying the teasing banter. “You’re a funny lady, Rebecca Lapp.”

Rebecca picked up a romance, an action adventure, and a historical epic. All written by and for lesbians. Books in hand, she turned to head to the cash register when a title in the Spirituality section caught her eye. She felt drawn to it. As if the book were a magnet and she was a pile of metal shavings. The book’s title was Amish and Gay: Is it Possible to Be Both?

Heart racing, palms sweaty, she picked up the book, which the introduction said had been written under a pseudonym in order to protect the author’s identity since he was still an active member of his congregation.

“I’m not alone,” Rebecca said under her breath. “There are more like me.”

She turned to the first chapter, expecting to find the guidance she would need to live her life openly. The first paragraph took that hope away.

“The Amish faith is one of the most conservative in the world. It is a religion that stresses forgiveness, yet its views on homosexuality are unforgiving. Its followers believe sexual orientation can be changed. Gay and lesbian members are urged to reject their natural urges or risk being shunned. As a result, there are many more closeted gay and lesbian members of Amish congregations than there are openly gay ones. I am one of those people.”

The writer went on to describe a life eerily similar to Rebecca’s—an existence filled with secret trysts, guilt, indecision, and a constant fear of discovery. She felt like she was reading her own story.

The answer to the question posed by the book’s secondary title—Is it Possible to Be Both?—appeared to be yes and no. But the answer to the question that mattered to her most—was it possible to be Amish and openly gay—appeared to still be a resounding no.

Disheartened, she put the book back on the shelf. And came face-to-face with the man who had laughed at her earlier. He had changed out of his nun’s habit into a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of jeans, but she recognized him nevertheless. She could never forget that cruel smile.