Page 7 of Bluebell Tides

Celia grinned wider at that. “Thanks for saying so. You’re too kind. But really, Ruth. Tell me now. Can we help you with anything?”

Clearing her throat, Ruth explained that she wanted to extend her stay at least another five days, if not more. “I’ve barely scratched the surface on this town,” she said. “It all has to go in the article.”

“I understand,” Celia said. “How about I reserve that room for another two weeks? After that, we can reassess.”

“That sounds incredible,” Ruth said, breathing easier.

“It’s all on the magazine’s dime, right?” Celia winked. “I remember those days, when I expensed every meal, every hotel, every rental car. Everything was paid for. Oh, but Ruth, today I have to insist. We’re having dinner at Ivy’s again tonight. Fewer of us will be there. Just the sisters. You have to come.”

Ruth hesitated, searching first Celia’s face, then Juliet’s. It was clear she couldn’t get out of this. And after four days all alone in that room upstairs, her thoughts chasing themselves in panicked circles, she knew a little conversation would do her good.

“What can I bring?” she asked.

At seven that evening, Ruth appeared on the front porch of Ivy’s place—what they called the Harper House, as they’d all grown up there with their father James—with a bottle of red wine. It was still rainy and cold, and she shivered in her winter coat, which she’d brought up from New York City, fearful of Maine springs. She remembered what Quentin had always said about them: that they could leach into your bones. The door flung open a moment after she knocked, revealing a smiling Ivy.

“Ruth, you made it!” Ivy said. “Come in.”

Ruth stepped into the foyer and scanned leftward to find the teenage boy from the previous dinner party, watching television and sort of doing his homework on his lap.

“That’s Tyler,” Ivy said. “He should be working harder than that, but I’m too tired to fight him.”

Ruth laughed and waved at Tyler. “I’m Ruth.”

“Hey, Ruth,” Tyler said, barely looking up. His voice was deep and strange, as though it had only just dropped.

Ivy led her to the kitchen, where Celia, Juliet, Wren, and baby Nelly all sat, Nelly in Wren’s arms. Bottles of nonalcoholic wine and normal champagne sat on the table, along with an empty glass waiting for Ruth.

“Ruth! We’re so glad you came.” Celia stood to give her a light and easy hug, as though they hugged like that all the time. She took the wine and opened it immediately. “Finally, some good, robust red.”

It had been ages since anyone had touched Ruth, and she continued to flinch long after Celia let her go.

“You’ve met Ivy, I guess. And Juliet. This is our baby sister Wren, and her baby, Nelly,” Celia said.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ruth said, sitting across from Wren. Nelly was asleep in Wren’s arms, so pink and small and perfect that it made her heart ache. It hadn’t been so long since she’d held a baby, but she was petrified to do it now. She prayed they wouldn’t ask if she wanted to.

“Celia was just telling us that she’s trying to bribe you into writing a good article about our Eco-Lodge,” Wren said teasingly. “Don’t let her sway you one way or the other.”

Celia and Juliet laughed while Ivy looked at Wren as if she couldn’t believe she’d just said that. Already, Ruth felt as though she were picking up on the family dynamics. They wore their relationships like old sweaters: they itched but were warm and would never be thrown away.

Ivy pulled appetizers from the oven: fish-filled biscuits with spices and plenty of butter. The first that Ruth nibbled on melted across her tongue. She closed her eyes and said, “Goodness.”

Juliet laughed. “There’s the first bribe, I guess.”

“We have so much more than that,” Celia assured them all. “That’s Theo’s recipe. He’s Juliet’s guy. He owns that restaurant I was telling you about. The Dockside. Have you made it out there yet?”

“Not yet,” Ruth admitted. It had been ages since she’d had a proper meal.

“Where have you eaten in town?” Ivy asked, tilting her head from where she stood at the counter, putting the finishing touch on their meal.

“Goodness, I’ll have to look at my notes.” Ruth smiled. “My memory for names is terrible.”

The truth was, all Ruth had done was walk hooded through Bluebell Cove, scouting the place, searching. She’d survived on tiny snack-based meals of cheeses and breads and crackers and sliced veggies. But she half remembered a few names of places she’d passed by and listed them now, grateful that she could pretend to have a real journalistic interest in Bluebell Cove. She truly was here to write an article. At least, that was what her editor thought.

She’d pitched him the idea herself. “Eco-lodges are very in right now. There’s this new one off the coast of Maine. The way I envision it, the article’s about how small towns are pivoting to become more environmentally friendly. Thoughts?”

Her editor had loved it. But her editor had always said yes to whatever Ruth pitched him. She was a veteran writer, with previous experience in publishing houses before moving to the tourism magazine. He respected her more than she respected herself, she knew, which was a rare thing at any magazine.

“My sisters say you’re from the city?” Wren asked Ruth then.