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Maxine shakes her head and clucks to herself. "Such a tragic figure," she says, her pretty dark brows knitted together. She's no older than Dexter, and perhaps even a few years younger, but there's something blank about her face that leaves him cold; despite traveling the world and seeing war with her own eyes, Maxine is still young--she has no personal mileage.
"Tragic? Who--Jack Hudson?" Dexter asks, lifting his coffee cup.
"No, his widow," Maxine says with a slight shake of her head. "Moving to an island to hide out from the world, opening a bookshop." She wrinkles her nose like she's smelled something rotten. "Women without an education are left with nothing when the powerful men they've tied themselves to are gone."
Dexter can feel something rising inside of him and he knows that it won't end well if he opens his mouth and lets it out. Instead, he nods slowly and takes another long sip of his coffee, thinking. When he finally sets the mug on the table, he speaks. "As it turns out, Ruby Hudson attended UCLA and got an English degree." Maxine lifts one eyebrow skeptically. "She's extremely well-read and thoughtful. I think you'll find, if and when you read the book, that she's nothing like what you think she is. Moving to Shipwreck Key and starting over--opening the bookshop, letting her daughters move down there with her in their time of need--was a brave move on her part. Not every woman can recover from something as shocking as her husband's blatant infidelity and his suicide in front of the entire world, and then start her own second act without missing a beat. Ruby is a remarkable woman."
Maxine sets her cup and saucer on the table and leans forward, resting her elbow on her knee as she looks Dexter in the eye. "Sounds like she has a true fan in you, Dexter North. Better watch out so that your admiration doesn't taint your reporting." Maxine stands and smooths her loose linen pants with both hands as she gives Dexter a tiny smile. "It was lovely chatting with you."
Dexter watches as she walks back through the small lobby and climbs the stairs, her long fingers holding the chipped banister as she ascends and disappears from view.
"Was it something I said?" he mutters to himself, looking around to see if anyone else has noticed the lovely Maxine's hasty retreat. Not that he cares, but he's sure it looks like he said something to offend her, when in truth all he'd done was defend another woman.
Dexter looks out the rain-streaked window at the street outside the hotel. There are cars moving hesitantly down the street the same way the pedestrians do; everyone and everything that he's seen so far on this journey appears to be hunched over and trying to hide in plain sight. He's certainly getting the different perspective that he'd hoped for when Theo first pitched this trip to him, but now that he's here, he's had enough. He needs to finish this reporting and get back to his real life. He wants to get back to New York, maybe even take a quick jaunt to Christmas Key to lay in the sun and warm his cold bones after spending time in this cold, gray place, and most of all, he wants to get back to working with Ruby.
Sunday
Sunday is floating on her back in the Gulf of Mexico, looking up at the December sky. She's been on Shipwreck Key now for six full months, and it feels more like home to her than Washington ever did. In fact, D.C. is at least a million miles away right now for Sunday, with her ears submerged in the water and only the sounds of ocean life to accompany her thoughts.
So much has happened in these months, and Sunday feels like a different person than she was the Easter she spent searching the White House for Peter, finding him inflagrante delictowith another man. She's also a different person from the one who felt as if she'd lost a daughter and was barely hanging on to the other one. Now, she and her girls are in touch all the time, and over the months since their trip to Tangier Island, both Cameron and Olive have reached out to her with further questions about Benjamin and with thoughts about whether or not Ruby should ever try to find him. She personally feels the way she always has: that if he wants to find her then he will. But she loves hearing her daughters' opinions and thoughts, and she is more than willing to answer any questions they might have about her life. It's the least she can do.
A wave lifts her weightless body and sends her drifting sideways on the current, but she doesn't fight it. The sky overhead is so blue that it looks like it goes on infinitely into the heavens, with not a cloud in sight. It's the perfect morning, and while the water is cool, it's also refreshing and crisp. This is the way Sunday wants to start all her days until the end of time, and she comes out here as often as she can and floats just like this. Some days Banks jogs by and she swims to shore to talk to him briefly, and other days she doesn't even bother to lift her head out of the water until she's ready to swim in and wrap herself in a towel.
But now it's three weeks before Christmas, and both Cameron and Olive have come down to the island to spend a long weekend with her. She'd told them that there was no guarantee they'd get any holiday shopping done, unless they were looking for Jolly Roger themed gifts to give the people on their lists, but they'd both said they didn't mind, and that they wanted to come down and get away from their real lives for a few days anyway.
Sunday climbs out of the water and walks over to where she left her towel on the sun-warmed sand, shaking it out before she squeezes her hair with it and then wraps it around her body.
The beach is totally empty as she crosses the sand and climbs the steps to her house. The door to the kitchen is flung wide open, and when she walks in, she sees that one of the girls has already plugged in the Christmas tree lights. Their voices drift to her from down the hallway, where the sound of water running in the bathroom competes with the television, which is on in the front room.
Sunday stands there in her wet bathing suit and towel, appreciating the happy noise of the television, the shower, and her daughters' voices. This is a moment she could have only hoped for just months ago, and now she has it right here, in the palm of her hand. It's almost too good to be true.
“Mom? Is that you?” Cameron comes down the hall with one hand on her growing belly. She rubs it constantly and without even realizing that she’s doing it. “Hey, I made crepes while you were in the water, and there’s hot coffee in the pot.”
Sunday smiles at her older daughter, grateful for her presence in a way that is so physical that she feels it throughout her entire body. Cameron’s beautiful dark hair is pulled up into a loose topknot, and her Guatemalan heritage means that her skin takes on the most gorgeous caramel shade after just a few days in the sun.
“Thanks, babe,” Sunday says, tightening her towel around her body. She pads back into the kitchen and pours herself a mug of hot coffee. With a smile, she notes that Olive and Cameron have dug through her boxes and unearthed her holiday tea towels, leaving a red one with a Santa in a sled hanging over the edge of the sink, and a green one embroidered with a rainbow of Christmas lights is looped through the handle of the oven. There’s an apple cinnamon candle burning in the center of her round kitchen table, and each place is set with a red and green plaid placemat and matching napkin.
“Mom,” Cameron calls out from the front room. “Dad is on TV! You gotta see this.”
Sunday finishes pouring cream into her coffee and stirs it with a spoon. She puts the cream back into the fridge and drops the spoon in the sink with a clang. She’s in no hurry; she’s seen Peter on television more times than she can count.
“Coming,” Sunday says softly, sipping from her overly full mug as she walks into the front room.
Cameron is sitting on the couch with one bare foot pulled up under her, and one hand resting on her belly. Next to her on the end table is a cup of tea. “Come, sit,” she says to Sunday, patting the couch beside her. Sunday sits.
“And you’re officially announcing your bid for the Oval Office this morning?” the newscaster—a beautiful redhead with perfect makeup and just the right combination of inquisitiveness and seriousness—asks Peter as he sits in a chair across from her with his legs crossed at the knee.
“I am,” Peter Bond says, giving her one firm nod. “I think the four years I spent as Vice President give me the background and the understanding of what it means to be President, and that’s a definite advantage for the American public.” He turns and looks directly into the camera. “When you vote for Peter Bond, you’re casting a vote of confidence and support for the good work that Jack Hudson and I did as a team during his term in the Oval Office. I was Jack’s right-hand man, and everything I learned and everything I’ll bring to the job are things that I learned from him.”
Sunday feels her damp bathing suit against her skin under the towel, but she’s not cold. She holds her mug with both hands, not drinking the coffee, but instead watching the man she’d been married to for over thirty years as he does his best to show the viewing public the man that they could have as President, if they feel so inclined to cast their vote in his favor.
“Do you think Dad could actually pull this off?” Cameron asks as the redhead lobs another question at Peter.
Sunday turns her head to look at her lovely daughter. “I think he really could,” she admits. “Your father is a politician to his very core, and I mean that in a flattering way.” Peter hadn’t always taken his role as Vice President seriously and Sunday knows that, but there were times that she watched him and knew that his position was simply one of back-up anyway. He was part of the establishment, but at times he was just the Prince Harry to the Prince William, and his impishness and relaxed attitude reminded her of how extraneous he was.
Cameron laughs. “Yeah, I guess being considered a true politician could go either way, couldn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” Sunday sips her hot coffee.
