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“How is that?” Molly asks, lifting her chin in Banks’s direction. “Having a handsome specimen of manhood follow you to and fro all day, with nothing to do but guarantee your safety?”
Ruby frowns just slightly. “It’s weird,” she says honestly. “At first I kept wanting to tell whoever was on my detail that they could just go have a cup of coffee or something because no one was going to bother me, but I was wrong.”
“People bother you?” Molly’s eyes cut back and forth between Ruby and Banks as she ties a piece of white string around the pink pastry box.
Molly is sixty, if she’s a day, and she gives the distinct impression of a woman who has spent her entire life on the ocean in one way or another. In fact, Ruby knows from their interactions thus far that Molly is one of just a handful of life-long Shipwreck Key residents, and that her husband died in a boating accident in 1982. Her hands and her skin have the weathered appearance of a woman who knows how to tie a knot in a thick piece of rope under the hot sun, and her hair—far more salt than pepper at this point—is short and windswept. Her blue eyes dance above pink cheeks, and she is no stranger to colorful language or sarcasm.
Ruby tries to choose her words carefully. “People have bothered me on occasion, yes. But mainly they mean well. I think a lot of people are unaware just how unsettling it can be to have strangers following you with cameras out, or to have men shouting your name angrily simply because they disagree with your husband’s economic policies.”
“I hear that,” Molly says, slicing the string with a pair of scissors and sliding the box across the counter to Ruby. “Men are always running off at the mouth. It’s one of the reasons I never bothered to find myself another one after Rodney went on his permanent fishing trip in the sky.”
Under other circumstances Ruby might have laughed in disbelief; after all, making jokes about your husband’s untimely death could come across as distasteful, but Ruby already understands the need to find a way to cope with loss, and laughter and jokes are both huge stress relievers. Not to mention the fact that Molly has been a widow for over forty years, so she’s certainly got a handle on how she deals with her own grief.
“Are you coming to the book club meeting tonight?” Ruby asks her, tapping her credit card on the screen next to the register to pay for the pastries.
Molly looks at her with surprise. “You want an old barnacle like me to crash your cookies and tea book club?” She runs a rough hand through her unstyled hair.
Ruby laughs. “Of course I do. I want a book club filled with people who love to read. I want varied life experience and different personalities and—“
“Okay, madam, I’ll show up.” Molly gives her a half-smile. “But can I bring a bottle of wine? I’m not much for dainty little hors d’oeuvres and chamomile.”
“No need,” Ruby assures her, picking up the box. “I’ve got wine already chilling. Six-thirty, just bring yourself.”
She walks to the door and pauses. Almost as if he’s got a sixth sense that’s finely attuned to Ruby’s whereabouts, Banks steps away from the window to hold the door for her wordlessly.
* * *
The back room of the bookstore is filled with chairs and a table is set along one wall with drinks at one end (wine, bottled water, sodas), and hors d’oeuvres at the other (a variety of cheeses, crackers of varying shapes and colors, grapes and strawberries, Molly’s flaky pastries, and tiny bits of prosciutto wrapped around herbed ricotta on toothpicks.
At six-thirty, Molly strolls in, picks up a wine glass, and serves herself a generous pour of Chardonnay as she scans the chairs. Vanessa and Tilly are there to greet people as they walk in, and Ruby is standing with Marigold Pim and Heather Charleton-Bicks. Ruby eyes Tilly’s short tartan skirt and ripped fishnet stockings with mild disapproval, but in the short time that Ruby has known her, Tilly has stayed completely on-brand. These getups aren’t just to make a point; Tilly is clearly committed to this gothic lifestyle, and Ruby does admire commitment.
“Ladies,” Ruby says with a big smile for Marigold and Heather as she walks by them. Harlow and Athena are seated next to one another across the room, each with a glass of wine in hand as they watch their mother with pride. They’ve been so supportive of her with the entire move and with the bookstore, and a tiny part of her is secretly thrilled that they’re here, regardless of the life circumstances that have delivered them to her doorstep.
Ruby smiles at Molly warmly; she’s happy to see her there. Her real intention for these book club meetings is to build a bond with the other women in her community. And she isn’t trying to be sexist or exclusionary—men are certainly welcome if they choose to join—but Ruby knows that a safe, accepting place for women to congregate, talk, and break bread is nothing to sneeze at. It’s something she wants to create on Shipwreck Key, and it’s something she desperately wants for herself.
“So this guy was basically ripping you apart on your own Instagram post?” Heather asks Marigold in a hushed whisper as everyone waits to get started. “Who the hell does he think he is?”
Marigold shrugs a narrow shoulder and lifts an eyebrow like the guy in question isn’t worth the effort of raising two shoulders or two eyebrows. “Who do any of them think they are?”
“Goldie,” Heather says, lifting her wine glass to her lips. “You are a wonder to me. A woman as gorgeous as you should not have to put up with that kind of BS when it comes to men.”
Marigold shakes her head emphatically. “It has nothing to do with beauty,” she insists, holding up an elegant hand with long, tapered fingers. “No woman should have to deal with the scrutiny of a man on social media when it comes to her looks. No woman should have complete strangers feeling comfortable enough that they can voice their opinions about her aging, her place in society, or her value. That is one hill I will absolutely die on, and I’m already halfway there.” She laughs at her own joke.
Heather bows her head slightly in deference. “Thank you for giving a voice to this. Seriously. Every time I post a picture of myself in a bikini on my Instagram, I have some creep sliding into my DMs, or commenting on how I need to give up and stop being so thirsty for attention.”
Ruby is listening to their conversation, but this is where she excuses herself. It’s not that the topic doesn’t fascinate her—it does. As a woman aging very publicly and as someone who has had her appearance dissected by strangers, Ruby knows that this matters. But she needs to get the ball rolling here, so she steps over to the table where the food is and turns to face the small gathering of women.
“Ladies,” Ruby says, clapping her hands together. “Thank you so much for coming this evening, and I want to welcome you to the first of what I hope will be many meetings of the Marooned With a Book Club. I know we haven’t officially chosen our first book, so tonight I’m hoping we can just chat, get to know one another, and vote on our first pick.”
Molly leans back in her chair, looking around at the other women. “Uh, Ruby?” she interrupts, raising the hand that isn’t holding a wine glass. “I think we all basically know each other. This island isn't much bigger than your fist.”
Ruby should have counted on this, given that Shipwreck Key isn’t exactly a booming metropolis, but she still pauses and glances at everyone briefly. “Okay, then how about we just mingle a bit more, and you can vote on the three books I’ve selected as possibilities for our next meeting. I have them all there to browse on that table,” she says, pointing to where she’s chosen three books and laid them out next to scraps of paper and pencils. “And if you want to leave your vote in that little box there, then I’ll email you all later with the book that we select.”
"I see you went with the Monica Lewinsky book," Molly says loudly and to the room at large. She really is a woman who just presents herself exactly as she is at all times without fear or shame, and Ruby loves this about her. "Any particular reason?"
Ruby tries to keep her face neutral. "No," she says, “no reason.” Though this is untrue. Dexter North has gotten into her head, and if she's being honest, she wants to read his work--but only if some other force is pushing her to do it. It makes no sense, even in her own mind, but if the book club is reading it and discussing it, then it's not just her picking it up and forcing herself to turn the pages as she gags at the way Dexter peels back the layers of a former president's love life. "I just thought it might be a compelling read."
Heather and Marigold have moved down the length of the table, filling their small paper plates with bites and nibbles, and now they perch on the edge of two chairs, their eyes on Ruby.
