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And Harlow is a force to be reckoned with. Her short skirts, late nights, and penchant for swearing at paparazzi were all things that Ruby and Jack used to argue over. In Harlow, Jack saw a liability: a president’s daughter who went to nightclubs, shopped at Goodwill for fun, and once got caught smoking weed with the son of a White House groundskeeper just off the property and within view of the early morning delivery trucks (unforgivable, in Jack’s eyes), but Ruby saw her as a spark plug. How many times had she defended Harlow to her husband, reminding him that while he had signed on for his job and she had supported his run for the Oval Office, the girls had done nothing but be born into the family? They couldn’t be expected to slip from the womb and into adulthood with no mishaps, no awkward mistakes, no friction. Jack had always looked exhausted during these arguments and had referred to Harlow as “a pound of whipped cream that you have to scoop into a teacup with your hands.” There were times when Ruby had to agree that it was an apt description, but she was always supportive of her younger daughter’s independent streak.
Watching Harlow now as she moves through the crowd that’s growing inside of the bookstore, Ruby feels nothing but pride. Harlow helped her think up some of the key marketing strategies that she’s now prepared to implement, and while Athena is the organized and pragmatic one, Harlow has a keen eye for design and for visually appealing details. In fact, it was her choice to hang a different chandelier in every room of the bookstore, from an ornate brass light fixture with strings of cut glass beads draped over it, to a chipped, antique white metal chandelier whose arms are shaped into flowers that boast petals of pink, and green glass leaves. When the lights are turned on, it adds a flair of femininity to the Romance Room, as Ruby thinks of the very back room, which offers visitors two wing chairs upholstered in different floral patterns to sit in while they browse their books.
“Well,” Ruby’s own mother says, walking with with completely erect posture as she moves from the front of the store into the center room. “Looks like you’ve done it, doll.” There is a massive, round wooden table laden with various book displays beneath a heavy chandelier covered in seashells and sea glass in the middle of the room, and Patty Dallarosa stops next to the table to admire her nearly fifty-year-old daughter as she basks in the glow of her bookstore success.
Patty is seventy-eight, and to this day she is still one of the most regal women Ruby has ever encountered, heads of state and formidable female politicians included. When Ruby was a young girl, her mother had once told her to “never leave your bedroom if you aren’t going to be dressed enough to answer the front door.” She abhors people who schlump around in sweatpants and pajamas, and Ruby can honestly say that she’s only ever seen her mother in a nightgown a handful of times in her life. When Ruby was young, Patty was always up before the sun, dressed, sipping coffee, and being more productive than any other human she’s ever known.
“Thanks, Mom,” Ruby says quietly, stepping closer to her mother. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Patty says, her eyes glittering with pride.
When Ruben Dallarosa died of a heart attack at the age of forty, he’d left Patty a widow, and his namesake and only child, Ruby, a fatherless eleven-year-old. Patty had used her resources and her dormant law degree and had become, in her forties, a lawyer with a reputation for being fierce and tireless. It was through her constant encouragement and pursuit of perfection that Ruby had excelled in her own ways, and had ultimately become the kind of woman that one of the country’s most popular senators—and the future President—had fallen hard for.
“This is quite an island,” Patty says, reaching out to pluck a glass of champagne from a silver tray as a waiter in a pristine white shirt and starched black pants passes by. “Bit heavy on the pirate kitsch, but it’s cute nonetheless. You think you’ll be happy here?” Patty’s words are sharp and fast, and Ruby feels like her mother has slipped into lawyer-mode, which she frequently does.
“I actually really like it,” Ruby says, watching as people filter in off the street, looking around with curiosity and more than a little awe at the fact that they’ve been invited to a cocktail party/bookstore opening thrown by Ruby Hudson. “I think the people are wonderful, and the whole pirate thing is very tongue-in-cheek. Trust me, it’ll grow on you.”
Patty sips her champagne, her heavy gold rings and stack of tasteful gold bangles and chain bracelets catching the light of the chandeliers. She lifts a groomed eyebrow as a trio of women Ruby’s age pass, their hair blown out and their grays covered. They’re dressed in beach-chic dresses and sandals and carrying expensive purses. It’s clear that Patty has instantly clocked them as ladies who lunch, but Ruby already knows the women, who have dropped in to introduce themselves as she’s worked on the bookstore, brought her coffee, and offered to show her around, and they are each far more than meets the eye.
“I’m so glad you all could make it,” Ruby says, walking over to the women and extending both hands so that she can reach out and touch each of them in a warm, friendly way. “I’d love for you to meet my mother, Patricia Dallarosa.”
Patty smiles, holding the stem of her champagne flute as she looks at them all expectantly.
“Mom, I’d like you to meet Shelly Winetraub, who runs the most successful real estate company in Okaloosa County.” Patty offers a hand. The faintest flicker of amusement passes over her face as she hears the wordsOkaloosa County. As a native Californian who loves big cities and all that they have to offer, Patty eschews anything that smacks of small-town, backwoods charm. “And this is Marigold Pim, the former—“
“Model,” Patty interrupts. “Of course. I recognized you right away,” Patty says, shaking Marigold’s hand as the model turns up a thousand-watt smile and her spine immediately straightens. “Lovely to meet you.”
“And last but not least, this is Heather Charleton-Bicks, who—“
Heather thrusts out a hand and takes over. “Who has been married to every rich old man under the sun,” she says with a honeyed Southern accent.
Patty can’t help herself: she laughs out loud. “Well, I do admire a woman who can distill her own highlights down to a single sentence. It’s much harder than you think.” She lifts her champagne in a toast to the three women she’s just met and then takes a sip.
“If you had to distillyourhighlights down to a single sentence,” Heather says to Ruby’s mother with a challenge in her voice, “what would it be?”
Patty’s eyes twinkle; she loves a sharp cookie, and Heather is clearly far more than she appears to be. She squints for a moment as if thinking.
“A woman who was once a shark of a lawyer, and who likes her men young and her cars old.” Patty casts a glance at her daughter, knowing that Ruby will approve. Even when she was living in the White House, Ruby had supported her mother’s unwillingness to mince words. Ruby likes to think that Harlow has inherited some of her sass and sauciness from her grandmother, and that from Patty, Athena has gotten her work ethic and sense of self.
Heather nearly chokes on her own champagne. “Oh, Patty—may I call you Patty?”
Mrs. Dallarosa nods her assent. “You may.”
“Patty, I think we’re going to get along like a house on fire.” Heather reaches out and takes Patty’s sun-spotted hand in hers. Patty’s nails are perfectly manicured a sedate but glossy shade of coral, and she lets Heather lead her away with nothing but a glimpse over her shoulder at Ruby and the other women. “Now, Patty. The first question I have for you is which of the naughty books in the romance section you’d recommend to a lonely divorcee who loves to read in bed…”
Ruby watches her mother walk along next to tall, toned Heather, whose long legs are bare beneath a clingy jersey knit dress, and whose jewelry rivals anything Patty has ever owned, in terms of carats or clarity.
Marigold sighs as they all chuckle to themselves. “Incorrigible,” she says, shaking her head.
“Heather, or my mom?” Ruby asks, turning her attention back to Shelly and Marigold.
“I’m going to say both,” Shelly pipes up, turning her hand over to inspect her own manicure. Patty has always had that effect on other women: she intimidates and excites them, but everything about her silently urges them to rise to the occasion—whatever that occasion may be. Ruby has watched it happen her entire life.
“I’m sure you’re not wrong,” Ruby says with a smile as she sees several new groups of people wandering in through the front door. “I’m sorry, ladies. If you’ll excuse me, I see some new guests and I’d love to welcome them in.”
“Oh, of course. And everything turned out amazingly well in the store,” Marigold says, reaching over and putting a hand on Ruby’s arm lightly before she and Shelly wander off to browse the shop.
As Ruby winds her way through the guests, nodding, smiling and welcoming each of them personally as she passes, she takes stock of the room, a habit she’s had for years. Her daughters are talking to three men in golf attire who appear to be in their fifties, and who are no doubt pumping them for information about their late father. Ruby suppresses a wave of annoyance, though this is nothing new. People can’t help but ask questions about Jack, always hoping for tidbits of unknown gossip or stories they can share during cocktail parties or business lunches. But her girls have always been good about knowing what’s fit for public consumption and what isn’t.
