“For now, though I’ll likely change my name.”
“You will?” Ruby balked. She shook her head. “I don’t give a rip. You’re still family to me.”
“Aw, Ruby.”
Mary patted her arm. The wet sock, dry dock back on the scene. Ruby gave her a hard glower in return. When it came to human connection the woman was a dang boomerang.
“Still family?” Mary said. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, even including when I actually was family.”
“And I think that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said!”
“Okay.” Mary sighed. “I didn’t realize … I didn’t expect you to have this vociferous of a reaction.”
“Vociferous!”
“Listen, we’ll keep in touch. I’ll swing by Cliff House whenever I can.”
“That’s all?” Ruby said. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? Our relationship, everything we’ve been through? It ends here?”
Squinting, Mary contemplated the home, eyes skimming the windows, then following the line of the privet hedge.
“I loved your brother,” she said at last. “Very much. But in the end you were the best thing about this place.”
Ruby’s crab shell began to crack.
“Kind or mean,” Ruby said. “Pick a side.”
“Lovely girl, I’ll be back,” Mary said. “If for no other reason than to see your face.”
Mary had promised to return, but whether she truly meant it, Ruby would never know. The two women would keep in regular contact over the years, but Mary would never again set foot on the white-shelled drive.
She planned to, or so she said, but it was a great trek from France, where she eventually settled after marrying a French soldier. Then there would be kids and dogs and money stretched thin, and so in France Mary stayed. Ironic, after all the comments she muttered about the continental Hattie Rutter that summer of ’41.
Before returning to Europe, Mary would make a final meddling move, an act that’d leave an indelible mark on the people who remained. Whether for good or for ill could be left to some debate. Mary believed that Sam Packard deserved to know there was a family, and so she asked Hattie Rutter to track him down one more time.
61
The Book of Summer
Evan Mayhew
May 27, 2013
The Last Day of Cliff House Dear Bess,
I’ve come to Cliff House to supervise the movers and pack up the last of your things. Cissy is here, too. She seems to be preparing for departure, but since she loves to keep people guessing, I’ll believe it when she’s physically out of the house.
I write this from my car, parked on the white-shelled drive of the great, grand Cliff House. This will be the last entry in the Book of Summer. I won’t rip it out, even though it’s no less embarrassing than the first.
Do my words look strange? Stilted? Wobbly? Your mom commented that my hands were shaky. She’s right, though I had to play it off. It seems a little callous to admit excitement on such a sad day. I can hardly take the hours between right now and tonight, when I get to escort you to Felicia’s wedding.
A little birdie called last night. She claims you need a chaperone. You’re supposed to “take it easy” and there’s a better shot at following doctor’s orders if someone else is keeping guard. But this babysitting bunk is not the favor she is trying to do us both.
Tonight is tonight but at this very moment my guys are guiding a piano through your front door. Behind them stand empty rooms, the ocean in the distance. It’s damn near choking me up. I guess it’s a good thing you haven’t been in Sconset much this century. These past few days will be tough enough to shake. Deep down, I hope you stay on-island, just like we talked about in our fake Nantucket novel. But I understand why you can’t, and therefore why you won’t. I can only ask that one day you come home.
Well, Lizzy C., until next time, because there will be one.
Always,
Evan Mayhew
62
Monday Evening, Memorial Day
Bess is draped across a tan couch in “For Everyone Else,” the cottage at the edge of the Bradlee property.
She has on wedding wear, but is struggling to gin up the appropriate wedding face. Either her bleakness sullies Flick’s beautiful event, or Bess doesn’t show up at all. There’s no way to win tonight.
There is a knock at the door.
“Whaaaaat?” Bess grumble-moans.
Some envoy, she assumes, sent to usher Bess back among the living. No one in that family will let her get away with skulking all night, recent hospitalizations notwithstanding.
The person knocks again. Bess lets out a whimper and gives a sturdy pout. Answering seems like too much effort but you don’t throw a tantrum on your cousin’s wedding day. Not even Cissy would do that.
“Coming,” Bess gripes, hoping the person has already decamped.
Bess shuffles across the hardwood, grains of sand sticking to her feet. With an inhale, she opens the door. On the fish-and-coral mat stands Evan. He’s in a suit, carrying a reusable grocery bag.
It’s a full minute before Bess can admit that it’s him.
“Oh my God!” she says, heart clunking around inside of her. “What in the world…”
As surprised as she is, Evan is visibly gaping, too. Is it the dress? Or the presumed state of her eyeliner and hair?
“You look fantastic,” he says.
“What you are doing here?”
“I’m your date. Mind if I come in?”
Evan scoots past Bess, as if she’s just said yes.
“But I … who said I needed a date?”
“I can’t tell you,” he says, then grins over his shoulder. “It was Palmer.”
Evan turns all the way around and Bess takes him in. His suit is light gray; he wears a white shirt and periwinkle tie underneath. A tie. The man is wearing a tie.
“Bess. You are beautiful. That dress. The necklace.” He gestures. “Everything. Flick will be pissed at you for stealing the show.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bess says.
She put on the only dress she could tonight—a loose-cut, wool-and-silk-blend navy shift with deep Vs in the front and in the back. Thank God she’d left it at Cliff House. It was, she remembers, her backup rehearsal-dinner dress. This one would’ve been better than what she chose.
As for the necklace, it was Grandma Ruby’s. Boston jewels to be sure, as emeralds and diamonds are far too citified for Cliff House. But somehow they seem ideal to celebrate Felicia.
“Well,” Evan says. “Are you ready? Of course you’re ready. Look at you.”
“Evan. I don’t…”
Bess’s insides are all mixed up, stirred and shaken. He’s given her the butterflies by simply walking through that door. On the other hand, is this a pity date? Shouldn’t he be with Grace and Jack?
“What about…?” Bess starts.
What the hell. Why ruin a good moment? She’ll worry about mysterious girlfriends later.
“Hold on, let me get my shoes,” she mumbles, then fishes her heels out from beneath the couch.
“You shouldn’t bend over like that,” he says. “Although it’s a nice view.”
Bess bolts to straight.