Thinking of my recent trip to Cape Cod, I notice that some of the most interesting things which happened, I didn’t plan on. For instance a three -course “menu” of happenings at restaurants, starting with yet another round of oysters on the half shell ordered by my oyster-fanatic husband.

On our second visit to The Pearl, we were seated happily on the porch overlooking the marsh and Wellfleet Harbor. Though all working on Labor Day, somehow everyone from cooks to waitstaff to oyster shucker seemed in a happy, relaxed mood; so were all of us dining. Especially a group of six nearby, who were either friends of long standing or affectionate close relatives. With them were a cute little boy, perhaps five, a bit bored (though humored and cosseted by all the adults) and his sister, who was perhaps nine. Her eyes darting around, she watched as the adults kept ordering rounds of drinks and appetizers. In particular, a woman facing us (the kids’ mother, I think) possessed a great fresh smile, and she smiled often.

I happened to look over as a waiter bent down and delivered the little girl a Shirley Temple: a tumbler-full of rosied-up gingerale, with a big red maraschino cherry. She extracted the cherry by the stem, held it in the air a moment, and smiled rapturously, then put it between her lips—I could almost taste it myself.

Another day, another restaurant, an old favorite on Barnstable Harbor. Andy was engaging with yet another spread of oysters. A woman from the next table asked his opinion of them.

“Oh, yeah, they’re excellent here, truly fresh!”

He then moved on to taking down a huge pile of fried clams, I a salad, and as we chewed, we found ourselves eavesdropping. The woman who’d spoken to Andy was a retired lawyer or trust officer, I think, and clearly she loved to tell tales. Her friends fell silent.

She started off, “Hey, Mr. ___ — you remember him?” Of course we didn’t, apparently neither of her friends did, either.

“You know, he lost his wife really suddenly — one day he came home and she was gone, sitting in her chair!”

“Oh, no!”

“Well, after a few weeks, once he got her buried, he came to see me!” I was getting more and more intrigued.

“He explained to me that she’d always kept their financial records, and that he’d never written a check in his life! How on earth was he going to manage now? And then he held up these two tote bags! It looked as though they were full of bills!”

All ears strained toward her.

“So I said to him, ‘Let’s count it, see what you’ve got!’ And we did—and he had four million dollars in there!”

She detailed the counsel she’d given him, how they deposited the money ASAP, and then went on to some less interesting details of his life and arrangements. By now Andy and I had finished, so paid our check and somewhat reluctantly left. But much of the way, we talked over the tale, which had left quite an aftertaste.

I wondered, “Could you even get four million bucks into two tote bags? . . .You’d have to have it all in big denominations!”. . . And what I really want to know is, what did he do to make all that money?”

Andy, immediately, “Oh, the drug trade, Mafia or something.”

“I dunno, the rest of his details all sounded fairly up and up. . . But then, why wasn’t trusting his savvy wife with the cash all that time, instead of squirreling it away like that?”

And on we went. Amazing local tales weren’t listed on the menu, but we’d sure been served one.

When we dine out, we of course go to be fed, but we also accept, and enjoy, whatever situation presents itself. The “ambience,” meaning our temporary spot in a community, a place to read the scene.

But about ten days into this Cape Cod trip of ours, we’d both contracted Covid. Luckily, very light cases, like a head cold. Holed up in our cottage, we just waited it out, and I took walks in the woods. Finally, stir-crazy and feeling fine, we took off one day on a driving expedition, figuring that scenery was free and safe, and probably we could find an outdoor place for lunch. I had tested negative, though Andy was still positive, but symptomless.

After much driving, we finally found a restaurant with two tables on a back patio, both unoccupied. Thankfully, a friendly waitress came out and took our order. The food was good—but I was missing the show. Like the little girl I’d seen in Wellfleet, I wanted to take in the action. The parking lot didn’t offer much in the way of ambience “Who’s that?” “What happened next?” “What’s that they’re having? Is that good?” You might say I wanted the “cherry in the drink.” The charm and dazzle of participating, a seat at the table of life.

And I still wonder if you really can stuff four million dollars into two tote bags.