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“You’ll do no such thing,” Ruby says, hurriedly kissing Helen on one cheek before moving on to Sunday, who whoops loudly as she throws her arms around Ruby’s neck. “I have five bedrooms in this house, and as luck would have it, both Harlow and Athena are here right now. So we have just enough room for everyone.”
“Oh, I’m so happy to see you!” Sunday says, squeezing Ruby as tightly as she can. “Why haven’t you called?” She frowns and pushes back from Ruby, holding onto both of her arms as she admonishes her. “I’ve been worried about you, and you didn’t answer my emails or texts.”
Ruby doesn’t have a good answer for that. Sunday has always been someone she trusts, and surely their bond runs deeper than the fact that their husbands worked side-by-side in the White House. In fact, there were times when Sunday’s friendship was the only thing Ruby knew she could count on in a world of artifice and politics, and maybe it’s the sense that she leaned too heavily on her friend towards the end, or that she revealed too much, that’s kept Ruby away.
“I don’t know…” Ruby says, looking out at the boat bobbing in the water. “I should have, but I got wrapped up in moving down here and getting the bookshop going, and I felt like I needed to do all of that on my own. I abused our friendship enough after Jack died, and—”
Helen clears her throat. “Let’s reminisce later, ladies. I need a bathroom and a cup of coffee, in that order.”
Helen shepherds them up the dock like a schoolteacher herding kids on a field trip. She’s looking more relaxed than Ruby ever saw her look in the halls of the White House or in the Oval Office, but even though she’s switched out her normal black or navy suit for a cream linen capri pants set, she still looks official and not fully on vacation. Which is a reminder to Ruby that they’renotthere on vacation.
“I’m just so happy to see you both,” Ruby says, stepping back and offering a hand to each woman. Sunday takes her right hand and holds it excitedly; Helen clasps her left one, gives it a light squeeze, and then lets go. As the former Chief of Staff, Helen is pragmatic, reserved, and whip-smart. She is not given to overly emotional displays of affection, though it’s no secret that she loves and admires Ruby.
“Honey, we’re glad to seeyou. We’ve worried about you being alone down here, and I wanted to see you with my own eyes and make sure you hadn’t completely gone off the deep end.”
“I haven’t,” Ruby assures her. “And I don’t plan to.”
“So we won’t catch you dressed up like a pirate or a wench and ladling out grog to island visitors?” Helen asks as she waddles up the dock to the golf cart that Banks is driving.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Ruby says with a laugh. “My wench costume is at the dry cleaners at the moment, but I wouldn’t mind forcing mugs of grog on unsuspecting strangers.”
Sunday is carrying both her own overnight bag and Helen’s, and she drops them easily onto the backseat of the golf cart, sliding over to make room for Ruby. Helen takes the front passenger seat next to Banks.
“Lovely to see you, Banks,” Helen says, giving the Secret Service agent a crisp nod.
“You as well, ma’am,” he says, then flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror. “And you, Mrs. Bond.”
Sunday busies herself with the leather duffel bag that she’s brought along for the trip, but she glances up at the rearview mirror and catches Banks’ eye. “Thank you,” she says, before turning to face Ruby. “Okay,” she says, nearly bouncing up and down on her side of the bench seat. “Now tell meeverythingabout this island. Everything. All the details—leave nothing out.”
Ruby laughs again as Banks pulls away from the dock, swinging the cart towards home. “Everything?” she asks. “Okay, let me start at the beginning. In 1513, a ship called theFlor de Azucarwrecked just off the island, and there was only one survivor: a woman everyone calls Flora. They say that the ghosts of every man who died on the ship haunt Shipwreck Key, and I’ve had more than one person come into the bookstore to tell me to watch out for Flora wandering Seadog Lane after midnight—just in case I’m ever there alone that late.”
“Seadog Lane?” Helen snorts, turning in her seat. “Are you kidding me with all this pirate twaddle?” She turns her wide upper body back around with some effort, muttering to herself as she does.
Sunday reaches over and laces her fingers through Ruby’s, giving her hand another squeeze like they’re co-conspirators and allies once again. Ruby squeezes right back. There’s nothing better than the feeling of having another woman—a true and dedicated friend—right by her side.
* * *
It takes no time at all for Ruby to get Sunday and Helen both set up in rooms that have views of the sand and the sea. They eat a fresh fruit salad for lunch made with juicy cantelope, chunks of sweet, tart pineapple, strawberries, and grapes, and then take a long walk on the beach. All three women gather shells and let their bare feet sink into the warm sand as they stroll and chat about their children, their marriages, and the people they know in Washington. There is an agreed upon rule between the three of them that anything they talk about while not wearing shoes is completely off the record (they invented this rule one late night on the campaign trail as they kicked off their heels in Helen’s hotel room and shared a bottle of wine).
“God love him,” Helen says, her pale, white feet sticking out below the loose pink cotton pants she’s changed into. “Kent tries. But look at me.” She touches the brim of the oversized sun hat on her head. “I’m no Victoria’s Secret model—at least not anymore.”
“But I bet you were,” Sunday says loyally. She’s the biggest supporter of other women that Ruby has ever met, and it’s one of the things she loves most about Sunday.
Helen chuckles. “I was never runway material, but I wasn’t too shabby in a bathing suit back in my day.”
“Kent loves you,” Ruby assures her, and she means it from the bottom of her heart. She’s never seen a couple more in tune than Helen and Kent, and even though they’ve been married for thirty-five years, they still look at one another adoringly when they think no one is watching.
“He does,” Helen says, nodding and looking out at the sky in front of them. “But love alone doesn’t always help a man when it’s time to lift the old flag, if you know what I mean. Sometimes it takes a little extra help.”
Ruby looks at her hot pink toenails digging into the sand. “Oh,” she says, nodding sagely. There is still a part of her that feels as if she can’t speak freely about her sex life with Jack—after all, her husband was the president, and even though most of the free world seems to have some knowledge of his secret life with Etienne, she still can’t bring herself to discuss anything that happened in her marriage.
The ocean roars just feet from them and Sunday throws her hands in the air, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light as she laughs with abandon. “Men!” she shouts. “Why are they so complicated?” Her hands fall to her sides and her voice gets quieter. “We all know that my husband is no picnic between the sheets.”
Ruby glances in Sunday’s direction, as does Helen. Neither of them says anything, instead letting the moment hang there until Sunday turns around so that she’s walking backward and looking at the two of them.
“But hey, what do I know. Maybe heisa picnic between the sheets—you’d just have to ask every gay man in Washington to find out!”
With a playfulwhoopthat is pure Sunday Bond, she turns back around and starts to run toward Ruby’s house. “Last one to the front porch uncorks the first bottle of wine!” she yells over her shoulder.
