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At Anacortes, the tiny seaside town perched at the waters edge, she bought a one-way ferry ticket and pulled into line. It was still early in the tourist season; two weeks from now the wait for this ferry could well be five hours.
Less than a half hour later, a ferry docked, sounded its mournful horn, and unloaded its cargo of cars and bikes and walk-on passengers. Then, an orange-vested attendant directed Rubys car to the bow, where she parked and set the emergency brake. First car in lane , a primo spot. The gaping, oval mouth of the ferry was a giant, glassless window that framed the view.
The Sound was rainy-day flat, studded by the ceaseless rain into a sheet of hammered tin. Watery gray skies melted into the sea, the line between them a smudge of charcoal, thin as eyeliner. Puppy-faced gray seals crawled over one another to find a comfortable perch on the swaying red harbor buoy.
Ruby got out of the car and went upstairs. After buying a latte at the lunch counter; she walked out onto the deck.
No one was out here now. The rain had diminished to little more than a heavy mist. Moisture beaded the handrails and slickened the decks.
A long, single blast of the boats horn announced their departure.
Ruby slid her fingers along the wet handrail, holding on, shivering at a sudden burst of cold. A few brave seagulls hung in the air in front of her, wings stretched, motionless, riding a current of air. They cawed loudly, begging for scraps.
Lush green islands dotted the tinfoil sea, their carved granite coastlines a stark contrast to the flat silver water. Polished red madrona trees slanted out from the shore, their roots clinging tenaciously to a thin layer of topsoil. Houses were scattered here and there but, for the most part, the islands looked empty.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the salty, familiar sea air. In eighth grade, shed started taking the ferry to school at Friday Harbor on San Juan Island; memories of high school were inextricably linked with this boat . . .
She and Dean had always stood together at just this spot, right at the bow, even when it was raining.
Dean.
It was strange that she hadnt thought of him right away.
Well, perhaps not so strange. It had been more than a decade since shed seen him, and still it hurt to remember him.
After her mother had left, Ruby hadnt thought it was possible to hurt more. Dean had taught her that the human heart always made room for pain.
She still thought of him now and then. Sometimes, when she woke in the middle of a hot, lonely night and found that her cheeks were slicked and wet, she knew shed been dreaming of him. She knew from Caroline (who knew from Nora) that hed followed in his mothers footsteps after all, that he was running the empire now. Ruby had always known that he would.
At last, the ferry turned toward Summer Island. The horn sounded, and the captain came on the loudspeaker; urging passengers to return to their vehicles.
Ruby raced downstairs and jumped into the minivan.
The captain cut the engine and the boat drifted toward the rickety black dock. A weather beaten sign--it had been old when Ruby was a child-hung at a cockeyed angle from the nearest piling. It read SUMMER ISLAND WELCOMES You.
A woman walked out of the closet-size terminal building and stood watching the ferry float toward her. She was wearing a floor-length brown dress with neither collar nor cuffs. An ornate silver crucifix hung from a thick chain around her neck. Waving at the few walk-on passengers clustered at the bows railing, she dragged a tattered, wrist-thick length of rope across the dock and tied the boat down.
“Oh, Lord,” Nora said, blinking awake, “is that Sister Helen?”
Ruby couldnt believe it herself. The nuns had always run the ferry traffic on Summer Island, but it was still a shock to see that nothing had changed. “Amazing, isnt it?”
Nora sighed. It was a tired sound, as if maybe she wondered if changelessness were a good thing. Or maybe, like Ruby, she had just realized how it would feel to be here again, at the site of so much heartache.
Ruby drove off the ferry, past the post office and general store. What struck her first was the total lack of meaningful change. She felt as if shed just taken a boat ride back in time. Here, on Summer Island, it was still 1985. If she turned on the radio, it would probably be Cyndi Lauper or Rick Springfield . . .
This was why shed stayed away.
The road turned, climbed up a short hill, then flowed down into a rolling green valley.
To her left, the land was a Monet painting, all golden grass and green trees and washed-out silvery skies. To her right lay Bottleneck Bay, and beyond that was the forested green hump of Shaw Island. Weathered gray fishing boats sat keeled on the pebbly beach, forgotten by their owners more than a generation ago. A few sleek sailboats--mostly owned by the few Californians brave enough to purchase a summer home on this too-quiet island where drinking water was never guaranteed and power came and went with the wind--bobbed idly in the gently swelling sea.
There were only a few farmhouses visible from the road. The island boasted five thousand acres, but only one hundred year-round residents. Even in the Summer; when mainlanders swarmed to their island vacation homes, Summer Island had fewer than three hundred residents.
It was as different from California as a place could be. Here, hip-hop was the way a rabbit moved, and a drive-by meant stopping to say hello to your neighbor on your way to town.
Nora looked out the rain-dappled window. Her head made a thumping sound as she rested it against the glass. The lines around her mouth were deeply etched, heavy enough to weigh her lips into a frown. When I first came here . . . no, that doesnt matter now . . . ”
Ruby approached the beach road. Instead of turning, she eased her foot off the gas and coasted to a Stop. Her mothers half sentence had implied . . . secrets . . . things unspoken, and Ruby didnt like it.
