Ruby wasn’t looking for a gift, but she didn’t even get a response.
Ruby sent more letters over the years, all unanswered. She even invited Hattie to the “Salute to Summer” cocktail soirée they were holding that very night. They were raising money for the old sailors’ home, and Hattie loved a good charity case. Plus, Ruby wanted to introduce her to Sam’s pal, an honest-to-God congressman in the U.S. House of Representatives. John Kennedy was handsome as the devil and miraculously unattached. Ruby could tell he was a good mama’s boy, not to mention Sam said he planned to run for governor! The kid was going places.
“Kennedy,” Sam said with a laugh when Ruby broached the topic weeks before. “Hattie Rutter is too ambitious for the likes of Jack. He has big plans and needs a wife without too many plans of her own. Hattie would just get in his way.”
Ruby didn’t agree, but it hardly mattered, as Hattie obviously didn’t plan to show that night or ever again. In the end, Ruby told herself it was for the best. They should leave the summer of 1941 where it belonged: in a trophy case on the highest and prettiest shelf.
*
“You look stunning,” Sam said.
Ruby stepped out of her dressing room and into the light. She had on a gown of deep blue crepe, two daring gaps running from beneath her arms all the way down to her waist. As she walked, the accordion-pleated skirt skimmed across the floor. It was all a tad grand and chichi for Cliff House, but this was a benefit and Ruby always did her best to look the part.
“Why, thank you,” she said, and took a small curtsy. “Mind helping me with my jewels?”
She walked toward the blue velvet box on the dresser. Inside was a necklace of diamonds and emeralds, a present from Sam on their anniversary several weeks before. The gift was a mite over-the-top, as he’d missed quite a few. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to make up for what he did. That is, when he wasn’t picking himself up after yet another fall.
“Of course I’ll help,” Sam said, and approached the dresser. “It’d be my honor.”
As he went for the box, his hands shook. He struggled with the clasp.
Damn it, Sam was drunk already. Ruby smelled the whiskey on him but told herself all was fine. Sam had always been a drinker and he seemed in a dandy mood. She hoped he could hold it together for the rest of the night.
“Here you go, my darling,” he said, fingers clammy against the back of her neck.
“Thank you,” Ruby whispered.
When he stepped away, Ruby felt for the clasp to make sure it was secure.
“Well,” she said, chipper as sunshine. Ruby reached toward her husband. “Shall we?”
Sam nodded.
“We shall.”
They locked fingers and exchanged wistful smiles, looks of love and appreciation, of shared history and pain. After sucking back all the bad, they walked downstairs to welcome their guests to the biggest party Cliff House had ever seen.
66
Island ACKtion
MUDSLIDE ON SANKATY BLUFF
June 7, 2013
Mother Nature’s been no friend to the efforts of the Sankaty Bluff Preservation Fund. Though town selectmen okayed the geotube project, Sconset residents are wondering if it might be too late.
Never mind the storms of the past year, over the last three weeks the bluff has endured a dangerous combination of near-constant light rain and a barrage of heavy winds. Yesterday a major portion of the cliff conceded the fight. At around five o’clock in the evening, a mudslide began. The bluff lost over seven feet.
There are still homes to save and miles of shore to protect. But the woman who’s been the face of this fight is waving her flag. It’s hard to imagine but the fact is this. Cissy Codman’s Cliff House will come down.
* * *
ABOUT ME:
Corkie Tarbox, lifelong Nantucketer, steadfast flibbertigibbet. Married with one ankle-biter. Views expressed on the Island ACKtion blog (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, et al.) are hers alone. Usually.
* * *
67
June 2013
Cliff House is gone.
Most of it anyway, the parts that matter. Bess and Cissy stand on the drive, holding on to each other, as bulldozers scrape away the last bits of their home. Some of it will remain. Hunks of foundation. Plumbing and wires. Leftover bricks from the now-demolished patio. They’ll do their best but the machines won’t tempt or tease the bluff’s edge, so they can’t remove it all.
“I still don’t believe it,” Cissy says again and again.
Her eyes are glassy but she’s past crying, having achieved that near-peaceful state that follows a hard sob.
“I really can’t believe it. My mother would hate this.”
Bess doesn’t say anything, because Grandma Ruby would hate this but what more can Cissy do? She’s already done everything—every last little thing. Bess is beginning to understand the unspoken expectations placed on Cissy, being the only child in a troubled home.
“Grandma would be proud of you,” Bess says, as this is also true. “For fighting so hard. No one could say you didn’t try.”
“I tried all right.”
“Good thing I came to the rescue,” Bess says jokingly. “Because if not for me, you’d still be trying. You’d still be in that house instead of moving on.”
“Is that right?” Cissy says archly. “Frankly, I think you needed to see the house before you could move on.”
Bess rolls her eyes, though Cissy has a point.
Her mother smiles wistfully as she squints toward the sea. It’s dazzling outside, the sun high and bright. Twenty-five years ago, on a day like this, they would’ve been clambering about the kitchen, pulling together food and tanning oil and hats. It’d take a full sixty minutes for someone to wrangle toddler Lala, who would no doubt be sitting buck-ass naked on a couch.
“For the love of Pete,” Grandma Ruby might’ve said. “Has anyone thought to teach that child the benefit of pants?”
Together they’d march across the wide lawn, over the public walking path, and down their private stairs to the beach below. They’d spread out blankets and set up their chairs. Passersby would smile at the pretty family from the big old house.
“Well, Mom,” Bess says at last, scowling at the spot where the kitchen once stood.
Cissy looks at her.
“I love when you call me Mom,” she says. “It’s quaint. Old-fashioned.”
Suddenly Bess’s frown loosens. She shifts her face halfway to a smile.
“Oh, Mom,” she says, and sighs. “Mom. Mom. Mom. The best one there is. We should get you back to Tea Time. Clay and Lala will be there by now.”
“And Sarah,” Cissy says, grinning, as she thinks of her new grandchild, only a week old.
“And Sarah,” Bess agrees.
“Plus you have a flight to catch.”
Bess glances toward the truck behind them, which holds her luggage in its bed. The very idea of San Francisco is unthinkable. It feels like she’s been gone a century. Will she even remember the route to her new apartment? Does she live on the second floor or on the third?