Cape May

Epilogue

Thursday, February 22nd, 2018

Rachael Weinstein put the coffee in the filter and locks it into the coffee maker. Her husband Jules, already seated by the window is reading the paper and awaiting his morning brew. This has become their winter morning routine. They sit in front of the huge window, drinking their coffee. She, looking out into the ocean while he reads his morning paper. From their perch in their apartment above the restaurant could be seen the boardwalk and beachfront for miles around. They have front row seating to one of nature's most beautiful panoramas.

But this Thursday morning in late February, there is little beauty to behold in Cape May. The sky is grey and foreboding and the giant waves crash onto the beach like a lover betrayed, spraying up plumes of mist some 30 to 50 feet high before retreating back onto itself. Far out into the ocean could be seen clouds, dark, menacing clouds, which causes the ocean to heave and rise angrily, causing one to only wonder at the monsters and dangers lurking beneath it's water's. As she views this spectacle of nature, Rachael Weinstein is glad she is in the comfort of her cozy, warm apartment.

As has become her habit, she joins her husband on the love seat strategically placed in front of the floor to ceiling windows while she waits for the coffee to brew. The warmth on her feet from the radiant heat on the wooden floor is a welcomed addition to her winter morning routine. She's glad Jules put in the radiant heat system a few years back for it keeps the cold at bay.

As she sits, the 'bing' goes off signaling the coffee is done. She frets that she did not have enough time to sit and relax. But she gets up and makes a cup for her and her husband. Finally, she returns to where he sits, reading his paper, hands him his coffee and pulls the blanket over her legs as she takes her first sip. They sit there in silence for a long while, he with his face in the paper and she just contemplating as she watches the maelstrom playing out in the ocean. They sit in comfortable silence as only two people who have been together for so long can. The silence itself is an intimate and bonding form of communication.

The silence is broken when she asks, to no one in particular,

"I wonder what happened to him."

At which her husband readily lifts his head from the paper to reply,

"You know, I was going to mention that. It's been a whole week since we haven't seen him. I hope he came to his senses and is in a shelter somewhere. Just look at that wind will ya,"

"Yeah," she replies with a heaviness that makes him look at her. Last week after bringing him the chicken soup, she continued bringing him food for the next few days. And every time she would find the empty bowl by the restaurant's door. However, it has been a few days now that she hasn't seen him. This worried her although she knew he probably was in a shelter somewhere, but still, something inside her would not be still.

"Hey, I'm sure he's alright. The cops must have picked him up and taken him to St Mary's or something."

Jules sets his cup on the coffee table before him, takes her hand and rubs it. "He's alright, babe. These things work themselves out."

He goes back to his paper as she attempts a feeble smile.

She has the gift. She is one of those. Her mother had the gift. As a teenager she would accompany her mother to flea markets where they would set up a stall and read hands or tarot cards. People called them gypsies, but they were far from it. Because of their Mediterranean lineage, they could pass for gypsies and so they did not deny it, rather, chose to hitch a ride on the reputation of these people as fortune tellers and mystics. It drew in the crowds.