“So, er, what are you up to the rest of the day?” she asked.
Just then a girl pedaled up on her bike, no care to the slip seams. This was a local dame, plain-faced and thick-ankled. Ruby recognized her as the woman who’d recently earned top spot as the island’s most famous old maid.
“Hi there, Marg,” Miss Mayhew said, and gave her friend a hug. “Margaret Hamblin, this is Ruby Packard. Mrs. Packard, this is my dear friend Margaret.”
“Miss Hamblin,” Ruby said, and jutted out an arm. “I’m honored to meet you.”
Margaret Hamblin was big news thanks to her boyfriend, a seaman from New Bedford who’d been found on a life raft in the middle of the ocean. His unarmed freighter was bombed by a Nazi submarine and he’d bobbed along for thirty-two days before rescue.
Several started out on the raft, but expeditiously met their gruesome ends. The man’s best mate, driven to lunacy by the cold and exposure, threw their food overboard before hurling himself into the deep blue. The only thing that survived, other than the man, was a picture of Margaret Hamblin.
“What a love story!” Ruby cried when she heard about it over a hand of bridge at the casino.
“I can’t believe his ‘girlfriend’ is thirty-five” had been Mary’s generous response.
It was bonkers, this war. Margaret’s beau wasn’t even a serviceman but they tried to sink him all the same.
“I’m so sorry about your Jules,” Ruby said. “And what he endured. But I’m thrilled he’s home where he belongs.”
“I didn’t realize news had traveled quite that far,” Margaret said, eyes jumping toward Cliff House.
“Uh, er…” Ruby stuttered.
“In any case, thank you for your kind words.”
“Well, I’ll let you two be,” Ruby said quickly, the air suddenly changed around them. “Nice to run into you both.”
Ruby flipped around and cut a path toward Cliff House. She glanced back once more to see the girls link arms. Thoughts of Hattie hit her in the chest with a pain that was sharp and real. Ruby reached into the pocket of her dress to feel for the letter. No need to dump it just yet. She’d find a way to keep it from Mary’s prying eyes.
August 23, 1942
Dear Rubes,
Oh you silly billy goat!
Don’t let Mary talk you into the blue moods about my being a career gal. Working for a living is hardly a chore given the men I work with. They’re all here. The ballplayers on the field, the serious types back at the paper, and, yes, the married ones, too. Don’t fuss! I steer clear of those fellas, despite their efforts. I have their number and the bid is not high enough. All that to say, the war hasn’t stolen all the men.
Ruby love, I might be a ways from having a ring on my finger (thank God!) but don’t fret about me dying from old maidism just yet. I’m not going to end up like the dame from the life raft, or however that convoluted story went. Gotta say I didn’t follow you all the way down that road but I think I sorta got the gist.
So tell me all about the island! I’m crushed that I didn’t get out this year. Never mind Dad’s old cottage, it’s Cliff House that I miss! There’s no place like Sconset on the whole damned planet. I would know. I’ve been to a country or twelve. Ha! I imagine it’s different with the boys gone but, let’s be honest, it’s the gals who keep things going.
Well, my dear, off I must go. Come and visit me in the city, won’t you? I know driving with gas is a no-go and every train is filled with servicemen. But you could charm any soldier off his seat. They’d be G-eyeing you left and right.
In the meantime, take care of that bean inside your tum. If it’s a girl, you shall name her Harriet. If it’s a boy, Harriet would suit, too. Simply call him Harry.
Farewell sweet Ruby—until next time.
Love and kisses,
H.R.
*
For a Saturday evening, Cliff House was unsettlingly empty.
Mary was off doing this or that with the Red Cross. She’d graduated from rolling bandages and was now permitted to dicker with actual human flesh. Hard evidence that these were desperate times.
Mother remained in Boston, the “not feeling well” number playing once more. The quintessential repeat show, a maddening encore. Sure as sugar (or not, since it was rationed), she stayed to look after Daddy, though she claimed he was doing swell. Mother always took his weaknesses as hers to bear. Ruby supposed that’s what a good woman did.
“Do I need to come see him?” Ruby asked one week before.
To say good-bye, she was too terrified to add.
“No!” Mother yowled, quite snippy for her. “We’re not there yet. I’ll let you know when it’s time. Don’t stew, darling. Your father is a stubborn old mule. You stay put and look after my grandchild. I don’t want you traveling about.”
So with Mary and Mother gone, not to mention the permanent absence of Hattie, Ruby was bored right out of her noggin. She’d already played four sets of tennis that day and tried to chat up Miss Mayhew to little success. And wouldn’t you know? Now she needed a smoke and was flat out of cigs.
Ruby checked her cigarette case and her two-in-one as well. She surveyed drawers and cupboards galore, not to mention Mary’s way station for “Bundles for Bluejackets.” The servicemen care packages included cigs but nary a spare could be found. Mary would never be so sloppy, which left one more option for snaffling some smokes: Topper’s room. He wasn’t the kind to let a butt go unused but he could be slovenly as hell.
Topper last visited Cliff House in April—over four months ago—and not body nor soul had entered his room since. When Ruby turned the knob, the door opened with a groan. She stepped gingerly on through, as if in a museum.
Glancing around at the trophies and flags and books, too many Hardy Boys to count, Ruby could almost kid herself that he’d be back soon. Except the room was too neat, too tidied and final.
With a sigh, Ruby approached his desk, which was un-Topper clean, no stray papers, golf pencils, or ball caps. No cigs either, as her luck would go. Ruby glanced up at the large crimson Harvard flag overhead.
“Come on, Topper,” she said. “Help out your big sis.”
Ruby jimmied open a drawer. Tops would flip his wig if he saw her mousing around like that but she needed a smoke and it didn’t seem like her brother’s room anymore. Or so Ruby told herself to make the situation square.
The drawers themselves were far more Topper, thank the stars. They were cluttered and jammed to the gills, a bit of him left after all. There had to be at least one loose cig somewhere.
In the bottom drawer, Ruby uncovered a stack of pictures. They featured family, mostly, though she found some friends, too. As she flicked through them, Ruby smiled. She imagined her baby brother fopping about, that camera jangling from his neck. Tops was a dang good photographer for a hobbyist. He should’ve gone to war for that and stayed behind the lines, shooting a camera instead of a gun.