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“Ruby,” Helen says warmly. “It’s so good to hear your voice. You stunning beauty, what are you doing?”
Ruby is, in fact, standing on Seadog Lane with a paper to-go cup of coffee in one hand and the keys to Marooned With a Book in the other.
“Hi, Helen,” she says, sticking the key into the lock and twisting it as she wedges the phone between her ear and shoulder. “I’m just opening up my shop here. How are you?”
“Listen, honey, I’ve been better. I’m not going to yank your chain here: I need to see you. Can I come down to your island?”
Ruby gives a throaty laugh as she punches the code into the alarm system and sets her coffee and keys on the front counter. “Technically the island isn’t mine, Helen, and I would love to see you. I truly would.” She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter, looking around at the shop in the morning light. It could use a few plants here and there, but still, there’s nothing Ruby loves more than unlocking the door and staring at a day ahead with all its unwritten potential.
“Fabulous. I’ll be there tomorrow,” Helen says, sounding thrilled that it’s settled.
“Oh,” Ruby says, tilting her head to one side as she puts both hands on the counter. “Tomorrow? I was thinking you and Kent might be planning a weekend down here or something.” She loves Helen and her husband Kent; both are in their late sixties and both are lifelong politicos. The best part about having dinner with Helen and Kent is the fact that they’re complete opposites when it comes to their politics; they agree on nothing, but they do it so cheerfully and with such gusto, and they always lean over and kiss one another full on the lips after every debate, no matter how messy it gets.
“No, no, honey—no Kent this time. Just me. I can stay at the local hotel or wherever. I don’t care about that. I just need a few hours of your time.”
“Nonsense,” Ruby says, turning on the computer at the front counter and adjusting the air conditioning so that it’s cool enough in the shop. “You’ll stay with me. I have plenty of room.”
“Thank you, Ruby. Just one night—I need to get back here as soon as possible, but this is face-to-face business.”
Ruby is instantly on edge. “Is this about…her?” she asks softly, breathing in and out as she stares at the counter in front of her.
“Maybe,” Helen allows. “It’s important. I’ll be there at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll meet you at the dock.” Ruby is grim-faced. This feels like it’s definitely going to be bad news.
“Okay, honey,” Helen says, then pauses before saying goodbye. “Have a good day, and don’t worry too much. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
But Ruby does worry. All day long. She worries about the new crease that Helen is about to put into her life. She worries about how she’ll handle whatever twist is coming her way, and whether or not it will be one more thing to upset her girls and send shockwaves through their lives when they’re both currently in a semi-fragile state. Every single thing that happens needs to be vetted, dealt with, and shared accordingly, and this is exactly the kind of drama that Ruby wants to leave behind. She wants to shed that skin and leave it all back in D.C. In her old life. In the past.
She sighs and scratches her forehead, then puts her phone and keys into the drawer behind the front counter. Vanessa and Tilly are both scheduled to cover the bookstore tomorrow so that she can pick up Helen and spend the day listening to whatever she needs to tell her.
Ruby is already lost in thought as she straightens the store and turns on the appropriate lights in each room. She chooses a jazz station on Spotify and connects it to the speakers so that music is playing, then runs through her list of orders that she’s going to place in the next few days. A handful of people walk past the front of the shop—a woman with a giant, loping Dalmatian on a leash; a dad with a little boy perched on his shoulders; two elderly women with their arms looped together—but no one comes in for nearly an hour.
And then, like a hurricane blowing the door off its hinges, Marigold Pim bursts in, holding a piece of paper in her hand. Ruby nearly jumps out of her skin, but she can see Banks sitting in his golf cart out front, looking alert but relaxed as he drinks a cup of coffee. It’s clear that Marigold does not raise any alarm with him, so Ruby turns her attention to the tall, lithe woman in front of her. It’s nearly as surreal for Ruby to see a supermodel in the flesh as it is for Marigold to see a former First Lady.
“Hey,” Marigold says breathlessly. She’s dressed in a pair of biking shorts and a tank top. Anyone with eyes can see that she is in the best shape of her life, despite that fact that she’s solidly into her fifties. The whole world knows her not just as a model, but most recently, as an extremely vocal advocate of aging gracefully, and a staunch proponent of women not being written off or ignored the minute they pass forty.
“I saw this hanging up at The Frog’s Grog.” Marigold holds up a wrinkled page that Ruby recognizes as the flyer she made and hung around the island advertising her potential book club. “We need this,” Marigold says, nodding firmly and definitively. “We need this, and I want to help.”
Ruby
Helen's boat pulls up the next morning at 10:58. Ruby is standing at the dock with her blonde hair tucked under a hot pink Martha's Vineyard baseball cap, wearing a pair of black leggings and a white t-shirt that whips in the wind coming off of the water. Between Vanessa and Tilly, the bookstore is covered all day, and Ruby has already planned out the dinner she'll serve Helen on the porch of her house that looks out on the water.
From the fish stand on Seadog Lane, she's purchased four lobsters, and with them she'll serve her famous sriracha potato salad, homemade buttered biscuits, sweet corn and tomato salad, and an apple crumble with a bottle (or two) of a California Chardonnay. Ruby has fixed up the third guest room and covered the queen-sized bed in clean, cool sheets, but she resisted the temptation to pick out a 1000-piece puzzle to work on while they talk, because this visit is not a social one, and even though it might be nice to have something to do with her hands while they talk, she wants to be fully present.
Ruby reaches up to hold her hat in place while the boat docks. Helen stands up, reaching out to take the hand of another woman, someone much younger and more petite than Helen is. Ruby squints and tries to make out a face.
It's...no, it can't be...
"Sunday?" Ruby shouts, cupping her hands to the sides of her mouth. "Oh my God! Sun!"
Sunday's head whips around so that her shoulder-length, light brown curls bounce in the breeze. "RUBY!" she screeches, jumping up and down and clapping her hands like a cheerleader.
Ruby's heart leaps. Sunday Bond is the former Second Lady, married to Jack’s Vice President, Peter Bond, and she’s one of Ruby's absolute favorite people in the world.
Ruby rushes to the edge of the dock and helps Helen up the steps and onto dry land, which is no easy feat. At sixty-two, Helen has already undergone a hip replacement, and her knee can’t be far behind. But what she lacks in mobility, she more than makes up for in presence and personality.
“Ruby,” Helen says, huffing and puffing a little as she smoothes her linen pantsuit. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought along some company. I’ll take the couch if there isn’t room for all of us.”
