The Shell Shop in Provincetown, MA had just what Michael was looking for: Great Screw Shells at reasonable prices. He bought a dozen. Dana liked this shop much more than the one in Florida. It smelled good, was well lit and breezy.

Provincetown is a thickly settled, historic, maritime community bordering Provincetown Harbor. It hosts a large population of Portuguese fishing families that have lived and worked there for many generations. It was also once home to a bohemian chef, named Howard Mitchum, who wrote the ‘Provincetown Seafood Cookbook’. Dana wanted to find out more about him from the locals, for an article she was writing about him.

They spoke with the owner of a small book store that carried a few of his books. He told Dana that the deaf/mute cook had been quite the character in Provincetown and that the staff at his favorite drinking establishment, ‘Ye Old Colony’, might be able to provide her with more information.

The letter ‘Y’ had fallen off the word ‘Colony’ over the entrance way into the old and decrepit pub. An empty row of hard stools hugged the bar. They ordered two beers from the bartender and asked if she had known Howard Mitchum.

The bartender said she had worked there for over fifteen years and was well acquainted with Howard, before he passed away, ten years ago. She proudly pointed to the window booth he held nightly court at and plied them with colorful stories. The most controversial one concerned his well attended memorial party, which was held at the pub shortly after his death.

She confided, or perhaps confessed, that Howard’s daughter and she had carried out his final wish that day: they surreptitiously mixed his cremated ashes into a large bowl of French Onion dip, set out on the tabletop of his favorite booth for all of his guests to enjoy.

Was Howard Mitchum’s last act on earth artistic licence, sheer devilry or a contrivance?  I don’t know. If it was true he must have felt it was a fitting end for a chef to be consumed by his dearest friends. In life he enjoyed creating new and exotic dishes. Why not also after death?

They drove a crooked road on their way back to Massachusetts and their new life together. Most of Michael’s family had moved to Florida years ago and were spread out across the state. They stopped in Orlando to visit with his elderly father and two of his sisters before turning north to visit Dana’s relatives.

Dana’s Aunt Mary lived in St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest continuously settled (by Europeans) city in the United States. She was one of Dana’s many aunts, on her mother’s side of the family. Mary was expecting them. She was almost ninety years old and still played golf with her friends every week.

Michael valued close family relationships and enjoyed getting to know Dana’s Aunt Mary. His Great Aunt Mary, whom he loved very much as a child, was like a grandmother to him. While the two women visited he repaired a leak in the refrigerator and fixed a few other things around her home.

Dana and Michael explored St. Augustine after saying goodbye to Aunt Mary. Tom’s Shell Shack, on A1A, immediately attracted his attention. Giant clam shells, bleached shark jaws, varnished puffed up blow fish hanging from the rafters and weathered pallets laden with conch shells littered the entrance way into the slightly fishy smelling interior.

The bespectacled store owner, Tom,  greeted them with a nod from behind the check out counter and resumed working at his computer. Natural light filtered through the long and dusty store front picture windows. Row after row of shells and nautical bric-a-brac filled the shop from floor to ceiling.

Michael wondered if he should ask Tom for permission to sound test shells, but decided not to. He asked Dana to shield him from the anti-theft cameras, as he discretely discovered which shells made the best sounds. They found a dozen shells that met with his approval. He paid Tom for the shells and they happily left the shop, for completely different reasons, I’m sure, and headed North to New England and Spring.