Mary studied her before finally relenting with a resigned nod. Ruby squeezed her sister-in-law’s arm, her heart at once softening to the old gal. Mary would give her left eye, or her new girdle, for the chance to produce the first Young offspring. And here was the scamp Ruby beating her to the punch. Not that Ruby’s tot would be a Young in name. So Mary still had that at her hip.
“I suppose Mother’s earned the right to grump,” Ruby said. “With Daddy so sick and fighting her every step of the way. She turns her back and he’s out the door, headed toward the office.”
Ruby shook her head, feeling a little pluck of happy at the thought of Daddy acting like his normal self.
“He’s a handful,” Mary agreed.
“Isn’t it unusual sometimes?” Ruby asked. “I know they’re trying with the dances and parties and same old rigmarole, but it makes everything bleaker. Like a bad paint job on an old clunker. Why try to impersonate last summer? Or the summer before? This cake…”
She mashed her fork into it.
“Let’s stop pretending we can have dessert,” Ruby said.
Mary made a sound. Was she crying? Choking? Fighting off a seizure? Ruby went to slug her on the back, but realized it was only Mary, suffering from amusement. A chuckle, almost.
“Have you ever met such a spoiled brat?” Ruby said. “A war overseas and I’m complaining about parties that aren’t up to snuff!”
“Actually, I was thinking that I quite agree. Enough with the pretending. What’s that expression Topper uses? ‘You said it’?”
Ruby smiled.
“The phrase you’re looking for is ‘You shred it, wheat.’”
“That’s the one.”
Ruby sighed deeply. She set her fork on the table.
“I shouldn’t grouse,” she said. “The boys are off saving the world, putting themselves in danger, and I’m meowing about dessert.”
“But it’s not about the cake, really,” Mary said, astonishing Ruby with her insight. “It’s the change. And you miss your friend, too. The Rutter girl.”
“I do,” Ruby said, one eye on Mary, who was suddenly the most changed of all. “I miss Hattie something fierce. I know you didn’t much care for her—”
“Oh, she’s fine,” Mary lied.
“But Hattie just had a way of making everything seem gayer. She swears she’ll come out soon but she’s hunkered down in Sag Harbor, entertaining an offer or twenty.”
“Twenty offers!” Mary yelped, grabbing at her throat.
Ruby could see it all over her face: I knew that girl was fast …
“Offers of the career variety,” Ruby clarified as Mary managed to look relieved and disappointed all at once.
Thank God it was Ruby who stumbled upon Hattie and Topper in the pantry. Mary likely would’ve called the fuzz. Or expired on the spot.
“What would Hattie need with a man?” Ruby said. “She’s going places. I guess that’s half the problem. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud as peaches, but sometimes it’s hard to be the one left behind.”
Left by Hattie, and Sam, and Topper, too, as it happened. And though Ruby tried not to think about it, soon Daddy would be added to the group. He’d already outlived doctors’ estimations by a good six months.
“It can be hard to be left behind,” Mary said, once again displaying uncharacteristic human understanding. “But, rest assured, when a woman claims to be ‘going places’ it is usually in the wrong direction.”
Ruby let out a cackle. So she was the same Mary, by and by. Swell to know that not everything was thrown to the four winds.
“Oh, Mary,” Ruby said, still chuckling. “You do hold a curious place in my heart. And I think Hattie will do all right. She’ll score some primo gig at the Post, then jet-set all over the world, hobnobbing with dignitaries and irritating fascist dictators left and right. What a life!”
“Yes. But you have a life as well. Two times over.”
Mary gestured to Ruby’s stomach, and Ruby smiled in return. Yes, a baby. Her parting gift from Sam, the lug. If nothing else, she had that—motherhood. Nothing important, mind you. Only what she’d dreamt of her whole dang life.
“Fancy a smoke, Mare-bear?” Ruby asked. “Because right about now I could use a cig and some fresh air like a rat needs his cheese.”
“A rat and his cheese,” Mary said, grumbling and rising to her feet. “No one would doubt you were raised with a pack of wild brothers.”
“Nah. Mostly I was raised away at school.”
Ruby put a ciggie to her lips and bummed a light from the chap two tables over. Folger-something-orother. He was in uniform, another body for the cause. If Hattie were there, she’d give the man a farewell look-see of her leg, raising her hemline to midthigh to tide him over. Ruby would never do such a thing. She didn’t have Hattie’s gams, for one.
“Let’s go outside,” Ruby said, taking a puff. “The night’s clear. Not a bank of fog for miles. A damned miracle.”
“I’ll join you but, Ruby, I have to say, when I was in Boston last I was talking with your father. And, well, he believes cigarette smoke is unhealthy. A carcinogen. He read it in some scientific journal. It made me quit cold turkey!”
“Don’t listen to old Dad,” Ruby said with a snort. “He also thinks they’ll discover a cure for polio.”
“Be that as it may, the smoking thing seems to have legs. Notably bad are the Turkish ones you prefer. You should at least switch to ivory-tipped.”
“My cigarettes are French.”
“Same thing.” Mary slapped at the air. “Foreign, you know. I’m only suggesting you lay off on account of the babe.”
She pointed to Ruby’s not-quite-a-belly.
“Aw, Mare,” she said. “Don’t be such a nervous Nell. Smoking is a stress reliever, everyone knows. Plus, the doctor says I can only gain fifteen pounds. How else am I supposed to keep my weight down?”
“Ruby Packard, you look fantastic. I’d never know you were pregnant if you hadn’t told me.”
“Thanks, kid. So, whaddya think?” Ruby said, the cig hanging out the side of her mouth like a Hollywood gangster’s. “Should we check out what’s happening on the harbor?”
She linked her arm through Mary’s. Mary gave a little jolt as though she’d been stung by a bee. But after thinking about it, she settled into the gesture.
“Sure,” Mary said. “The harbor.”
“All those boats,” Ruby said, leading her along. “I hear there’s a soirée on every one. With no gas and no go they might as well put the clippers to some use. At least these parties aren’t pretending to be something they’re not.”
July 10, 1942
Dear Ruby,
Shoot! Shoot and a half!
I’m sorry I haven’t made it out Nantucket way. Things have been dizzy-busy and I hardly have time to sit down for a meal. I hate that I missed the Independence Day festivities. And I could stab myself for not getting the telegram out to you in time. My apologies! Kiss, kiss!