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"Are we comfortable with that topic?" Heather asks boldly, her plate balanced in one hand and her clear plastic wine cup in the other. "The whole ‘president's mistress’ trope?"
Ruby can't help it: she laughs. "Thank you for calling it a trope, Heather," she says, feeling her guard drop like a curtain at the end of a play. "You have no idea how much that lightens my mood and endears you to me.”
Heather winks at her conspiratorially, and Ruby knows that this is just the beginning of new and interesting friendships with all of these women.
Ruby takes a deep breath. ”I think this is a place for honesty," she says. "At least I want it to be."
"Well, I'm always going to tell you how it is," Molly says, crossing one denim clad leg over the other and letting her Birkenstock sandal dangle from her bare foot. "I've been called a lot of things, but 'pussyfoot' isn't one of 'em."
Heather laughs. "Truer words were never spoken."
"Remember when you brought that last husband into my shop?" Molly asks, nodding at Heather. "And I told you he looked like he could handle either a pacemaker or Viagra, but not both?"
Marigold sputters and the wine she's sipping spews out everywhere.
Flustered, Vanessa stands up and reaches for a stack of napkins, handing one to each book club member for good measure. Tilly sits in her chair next to Vanessa’s, looking slightly bored.
"How could I forget?" Heather laughs, tears coming to her eyes as she tries not to knock her plate off her lap. "And you weren't wrong, sadly. Rest in peace, Jacob Edwin Polymer the third." She bows her head in a moment of reverence.
"So which was it?" Marigold nudges her with an elbow. "Did the pacemaker or the Viagra finally do him in?"
"Let's just say that he took a lickin’, but he couldn't keep tickin’," Heather says with a smirk. The women all roar with laughter and Heather shakes her head. "I tease, I tease," she shouts over the laughter. "Jacob was a wonderful man. Of course we were only married for eighty-six days, and I would imagine he was far more lively in the years before WWII, but…”
“Oh, stop!” Marigold says, wiping away the tears from her own eyes. “You’ve seriously married a man old enough to be your grandfather?”
Heather pauses and shoots Marigold a serious look before cracking and breaking into laughter again. “More often than the Kardashians have gotten plastic surgery!”
Even Molly is chuckling at this exchange, though she looks a little scandalized. “Listen, ladies,” she finally says, sweeping her hand through her unkempt graying hair—a habit Ruby has noticed. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep up with you lot. I married Rodney in 1975 and he was the love of my life.” The room gets quiet and Molly clears her throat, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her splayed knees. “When he was killed on the water seven years later, I thought I wouldn’t go on. But I did. And I never found love again. I don’t read romances, and I don’t believe in spewing hogwash. I won’t be hornswoggled or bamboozled, and I don’t suffer fools.”
Heather looks appropriately chagrined. There is no way that she and Molly would ever move in the same circles outside of this room, and anyone can see that of all the women, Molly is the least polished—at least on the outside. Marigold, with her long, yoga-toned limbs and strong bone structure, is more cosmopolitan and worldly than most of them, and even Ruby’s daughters have traveled the world and been exposed to fashion, food, human nature, different cultures, and life. But there’s a balance to this small gathering of women sitting together in the bookstore: Ruby, well-traveled and known around the world. Vanessa and Tilly, one quiet and sweet, the other quiet and brooding, but both observing the goings on around them without imposing their own personalities on the group just yet. Heather, bombastic in speech, but obviously vulnerable in ways that she doesn’t like to show. Marigold, serious, sharp-eyed and determined to be heard, regardless of whether people still want to hear what she has to say now that she’s not just a pretty face. And Molly, salt of the earth, honest to a fault, and completely guileless.
Ruby smiles at them. Already she is growing to love this group of faces, and the feeling of being amongst women who laugh, talk, and joke is thrilling to her. Aside from Sunday and Helen, most of the female friendships in her adult life have been ones that revolve around politics or the alliances of husbands who lead countries and governments, but this group is hers and hers alone.
“Okay, truth time. The real reason I wanted to nominate the Dexter North book is that I don’t want to read it alone,” Ruby says, her eyes landing on each of the women in turn. “I found out recently that he’s doing a book about my husband and…some of his personal choices,” she says, nearly choking on the words. “And obviously Mr. North will be coming for me. Either literally or metaphorically—maybe both.”
Molly’s face hardens as she listens. “So we’re reading him to find out what kind of dirt he likes to put in his books?”
Ruby sandwiches her hands between her knees and nods. “Essentially. I want to know what’s coming.”
“Then we’ll read it,” Heather says with a firm nod. “Easy-peasy, that’s our choice. We’ll read this guy’s book, and by the time he gets here—if he comes to Shipwreck Key—hewon’t know what’s coming.”
“In my experience, they rarely do,” Marigold adds, inspecting her cuticles.
“So should we order more copies of that particular book?” Vanessa asks softly, her voice floating through the room like the tinkling of wind chimes.
“I think the peanut gallery has spoken,” Molly says, standing up. “Order me a copy, if you will, and I’ll swing by to pay for it. Now, if you all don’t mind, I should call it a night. I’m up at three o’clock to get my baking in before The Scuttlebutt opens.”
Ruby stands up and walks over to Molly, reaching out for her. The women clasp one another’s hands briefly and then Molly nods at everyone else before making a beeline for the front door.
“I’m going to order ten copies of Dexter North’s book right now.” Vanessa stands up and gathers her long dress in both hands, stepping around the chairs as she goes.
That leaves Ruby alone with Heather, Marigold, Tilly, Athena, and Harlow. On the table are three bottles of wine and plenty of bite size hors d’oeuvres.
Heather and Marigold look at one another.
“Real question time,” Heather says, waiting for Ruby to sit down again. “This book—if and when it comes out—how are you going to feel about everyone knowing the ins and outs of your marriage? Because I’ve seen a couple of interviews with Dexter North, and he does not give up. That man will take a deep dive into the vault of your soul.”
Marigold bumps Heather with her elbow, much as she had earlier, only this time it’s a warning nudge.
