“Nothing wrong with a rascally sort,” Hattie said as Mary walked away. “But you’ll need to do better than handsome. Come out with it, Ruby. You’ve got something cooking in that brain of yours, any fool could see.”
“Well, yes,” Ruby said, eyes sparking. “I do have a scheme starting to bubble. Here’s what I’m thinking. The boys will be in town for the holiday on Tuesday. Why don’t we grab a bite together on the first? All of us? At the club?”
“A bite, huh? I s’pose Mary’s not on the guest list.”
“Well, no. It’d be Topper. And you. And me and Sam.”
“Wow,” Hattie said, and whistled. “Are arranged marriages still in fashion? Who would’ve thunk it?”
“No, no, no!” Ruby said, blushing madly. “It’s nothing like that. You’re a cosmopolitan girl, anyone can tell. I merely suspect the pair of you would get on like wildfire. You’re the two most interesting people on the entire blasted island.”
Hattie was perfect for Topper, patently perfect!
She possessed the face and the sophistication, with a hint of an adventuress lurking inside. She was basically European, so the proof was right there. If they did eventually marry, Ruby would have to relinquish her title of “Red” to the true redhead in the family. It was a price she’d gladly pay.
“Okay, Rubes,” Hattie said. “Why the heck not? I’d be pleased to join you and your brother for dinner. Sounds like a real gas.”
21
Tuesday Evening
They’d sat for dinner at the Yacht Club, though Cissy hardly touched her plate.
Her small appetite is customary, a byproduct of the time and effort expended planning and scheming. Cissy’s one of those people who proclaims, “I forgot to eat today!” And genuinely means it.
“Cis, are you sure you had enough?” Bess asks as they tromp along the road toward the Public Safety Building, where the Board of Selectmen meets. “It could be a long night.”
“Oh, sure! Plenty! That sea bass smelled great, didn’t it?”
“What about your clothes?” Bess says. “I’m not sure we have time to run home and change.”
Cissy’s in her chambray shirt and Red Sox cap and though this is her standard getup, Bess can’t help but think her presentation attire needs a boost. Or else she looks fine and the problem is that Bess has enough jitters for both of them.
“Change?” Cissy says. “Why would I want to do that?”
“You look great, but I was thinking of something a little less … everyday? It’s an important meeting.”
“You don’t say.”
Decidedly peeved with Bess’s fashion advice, Cissy accelerates.
“Mom! Hey! Slow down!”
Bess is about to get outrun, she’s sure of it. The throngs of people don’t help. It isn’t even summer and there are already bands of tourists buying whale T-shirts and streams of twenty-year-old drunk dudes lurching out of bars.
“And what do you suggest?” Cissy asks as Bess puffs up behind her. “That I don a loud, colorful tunic and white jeans? No thanks. People know who I am.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Not that you won’t try.”
Cissy stops in front of the Public Safety Building. Hands on hips, she surveys the two-story brick structure, top to bottom. As Bess joins her, she detects the distinct scent of … buffet?
“Do you smell something meaty?” Bess asks.
“What?” Cissy turns to her. “Oh, is it the lamb meatballs?” She pops open her knapsack. “I threw in a few, plus a dinner roll. This meeting might run long. I was worried you could get hungry.”
“Lamb meatballs? In your purse?”
“Just trying to be prepared. You’re so darn testy when you haven’t eaten.” Cissy wallops Bess on the back. “So. You ready to do this?”
“Do what? I’m simply along for the ride.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Cissy pivots on a Ked and takes three skips forward. Bess straggles up behind her and together they walk through the white wooden door and up the stairs to the second floor, where the meeting will be held.
It’s a public hearing and the room is already packed with fifty or sixty Nantucketers, by Bess’s estimation. The eight rows of plastic chairs are occupied and spectators have resorted to setting up small encampments throughout the room. At once Bess remembers how blond and pink Nantucket can be. It’s a crazy place where a college kid and his grandfather can show up in the same outfit with zero embarrassment. And of course Cissy was right about the caftans.
As the meeting is called to order, nerves rumble through Bess’s belly. Just along for the ride? Hardly.
“Hello,” says a man, a pink-pants-wearer. “Today we’re here to vote on the Sankaty Bluff Storm Damage Prevention Project. The proposal includes the construction of a revetment, a shore-parallel structure designed to protect the land behind it.”
The man points to a diagram, which hangs from a nearby wall.
“The structure under consideration is a stone seawall that would extend forty-two hundred feet, or approximately three-quarters of a mile. The project’s purpose would be to protect the homes and public infrastructure along Baxter Road and to preserve the historic residential community on Sconset Bluff.
“We have two scheduled speakers today. Mrs. Caroline Codman, president of the Sankaty Bluff Preservation Fund, and coastal geologist Morton Schempler. After they finish we will open the floor to questions and comments. Then we’ll dismiss the public, and the Board of Selectmen will vote. Cissy, would you care to start?”
“I’d be delighted!” Cissy says, and jumps to her feet.
She scrambles to the front of the room like she’s chasing after a tennis ball. At the podium, she tightens the ponytail poking out through her cap.
“Well, there’s not a person in this room who hasn’t heard me yammering on about preserving our beautiful bluff. But just in case, my assistant will pass out flyers detailing the pertinent information.”
Cissy pauses. Blond and gray heads bounce about, trying to locate the flyers, though most have probably read them. After all, Cissy spent Easter weekend tacking one onto every door on the island.
“My assistant!” Cissy booms, and gives Bess a look.
“Oh, me?”
Bess pats her stomach as if the information might be on her.
“In my knapsack, dear.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Bess retrieves the flyers—which are meat-sauce-free, thank God—and stands to pass them out. Suddenly a body materializes beside her. Without asking, Evan Mayhew takes half the papers from her hand.
“Thanks,” Bess mutters.
“And what do we have here?” Cissy warbles. “Even Chappy Mayhew’s son is on my side!”
“Uh, I’m only helping Bess.”
“Oh I’ll bet you’re helping her all right. Where’s your girl—?”
“Cis!” Bess warns, and then waggles her fingers. “Get on with it. We’ll pass out the sheets.”
“Fine.” Cissy exhales as Bess and Evan make their way around the room. “The other members of the Preservation Fund and I truly believe that the historical and natural beauty of the bluff can and should be protected to benefit future generations. Our mission is to do this in a scientifically sound and financially viable way.”
“Hi Bess,” people whisper as she wends her way through old classmates and teachers and Yacht Club pals.
“You look great.”