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This is just such a night, as she’s invited Sunday, Heather, and Marigold for drinks and appetizers, and she’s spent the afternoon getting everything ready.
Harlow and Athena have decided to take a weekend trip to Destin together—their first trip off-island since arriving in the summer—and Ruby is excited for them to get their feet wet with a trip to the mainland, though she’s still in no hurry to have Athena scuttle back to D.C. or for Harlow to head back to New York. Having her girls there has been blissful in a way that Ruby couldn’t have anticipated, and watching Harlow go through therapy to slowly unwind herself after the terror of the bar shooting has been gratifying. Athena’s heartbreak seems to be fading into the rearview mirror, and now it feels more like the three of them are living together by choice rather than out of fear and sadness, which Ruby dearly loves.
She’s playingCharlie Parker Live in Sweden 1950on the speakers that are scattered around her house, and as Ruby rushes from pantry to kitchen, and from kitchen to laundry room to grab more linens, she hums along to the jazz music, stopping to check on the bacon-wrapped brussels sprouts and the fried mac and cheese balls in the oven. She’s also got stuffed mushrooms, sweet chili chicken bites, and a veggie platter to make it seem less like they’re filling their faces with snack food. But to be perfectly honest, Ruby loves nothing more than a party with hors d’oeuvres that she can gorge on and pretend that she “only had a few bites.” She’s also got the makings for hot buttered rum and for appletinis, and if everything goes as planned, Ruby will light her apple-cinnamon scented candles just in time to fill the house with fall goodness.
By six o’clock, she has everything set up the way she wants it, and she’s even found the time to change out of her gray sweatsuit and into a pair of stretchy black jeans, an oversized cream-colored tunic, and a pair of brown suede ankle boots. Ruby pushes up her sleeves as the doorbell rings, and she turns down the music, which she’s changed to a playlist that intentionally encompasses music of all genres and eras. “Domino” by Van Morrison is playing as Ruby throws open the front door with a smile to greet Heather, her first arrival.
“Hey!” Heather sweeps in, planting a kiss on Ruby’s cheek. In her hands, she has a foil-covered platter, which she presents grandly. “I went old-school and made Rice Krispie treats,” she says with a shrug. “They just sounded good.”
“You can’t go wrong,” Ruby says, setting them on the island, which is already covered with the food she’s spent the afternoon making. “Appletini?”
“Love one.” Heather shrugs off her sweater and hangs it over the back of a tall bar chair, then climbs up and sits on it as she watches Ruby fix her martini. “This was such a fun idea. Thanks for inviting us all over.”
For the most part, the women seem entirely used to the fact that they can count a former First Lady as one of their friends and as the hostess of their book club, but as Ruby watches Heather's eyes skim the framed photos of Ruby, Jack, and the girls on the side table in the living room, she can see the slightest hint of awe on her face.
Ruby smiles and turns her back to Heather as she works on the drinks, but she casts a glance over one shoulder. “Of course. I'm so happy you can all come, and I hope it’s not too exclusive to just have the four of us, but Tilly and Vanessa are young, and I figured they might feel obligated to attend a little party with four old gals if their boss was asking, and we all know Molly likes to be in bed around seven, so…it’s just us.”
Heather uses both hands to toss her hair behind her shoulders before reaching out to take the martini glass that Ruby hands her. “Thank you. And no worries. The four of us is a perfect mix.”
The doorbell rings again, and when Ruby opens the front door, Marigold is standing there in a body-hugging black catsuit, black suede, knee-high boots with a flat sole, and a loose, camel-colored cardigan that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair has been smoothed into a long sheet of light brown satin, and she’s wearing makeup. She looks every inch the supermodel that she used to be, and Ruby takes a step back.
“Wowza. Are you just dropping by on your way to the catwalk?” Ruby accepts a kiss from Marigold as well as an expensive-looking box of macarons.
“Darling, the world is my catwalk,” Marigold says in an faux British accent, letting her sweater fall off both shoulders alluringly as she stalks through the entryway, turning dramatically like she’s at the end of the runway, then flinging herself around again and trotting off towards the kitchen.
Ruby laughs and starts to close the door when Sunday bounds up the stairs holding a mini crockpot in both hands.
“Don’t close the door on me, girlfriend—I’ve got the corn and jalapeño dip!” Sunday is out of breath as she crosses the threshold. She kicks Ruby’s front door shut behind her unceremoniously with her white Ked-clad foot. She’s actually wearing a matching sweatsuit much like the one that Ruby had worn all day while getting the appetizers ready, but Ruby knows her friend well enough to know that Sunday won’t care at all if she’s walking into a room full of women dressed for a shindig while she’s dressed for comfort. Since arriving on the island, Sunday has shed the formality of their previous life, opting instead for comfort and happiness, which Ruby wholly endorses.
Within ten minutes, everyone has cocktails in their hands, and they’ve each loaded a plate with appetizers and picked up one of the linen napkins that Ruby had ironed that very afternoon as she stood facing the windows looking out onto the beach.
“Let’s sit outside,” Ruby says, nodding at the door that leads to the wraparound deck. She’s lit candles inside of heavy glass lanterns and set them on the railings, giving the porch a cozy feeling as the sun dips toward the horizon.
Sunday sits and spreads a plaid blanket over her lap right away, kicking off her tennis shoes and slipping her feet under her as she tucks into a pile of stuffed mushrooms and chicken bites.
Whoever designed the house had very thoughtfully installed speakers outside as well, so all Ruby has to do is hit a switch and the music spills out into the early fall evening, with Stevie Wonder singing “For Once In My Life” as the women get settled and put drinks on the arms of their chairs and rest their plates in their laps.
“This is amazing,” Heather says, popping a fried mac and cheese ball into her mouth as she scans the beach happily. “I can see the ocean from the balcony of my townhouse, but it’s nothing like having the waves crash just feet from where you’re sitting. I bet you drink your coffee out here every morning and your wine here every evening, Ruby.”
Ruby nods. “I definitely do. I realized pretty quickly that I could become numb to this kind of beauty, and I never want to take it for granted. Living here is a dream come true.”
Sunday has chosen a hot buttered rum to drink, and she’s sipping it quietly, looking out at the water.
“I’ve been here for almost ten years,” Marigold says, crossing her legs and spreading a blanket over her lap. Her plate is heavy on the veggies and light on the fried appetizers, but she’s got an appletini in her hand and she smiles wistfully. “And I never get tired of the ocean. I love not being recognized every time I walk out of my house, and I love that no one here asks me about what it was like to be married to Cobb Hartley. Every so often we have tourists and someone will approach me about all that stuff, but the people on Shipwreck Key know how to let a girl live a low-key life, and I respect that.”
Finally, Sunday pipes up. “Whatwasit like being married to a rockstar?”
Marigold laughs. “It was wild. And for the record, I don’t mind talking about it at all with you guys—I just meant I hate going into a Starbucks and having the barista ask me whether Cobb kept his Grammys on our bookshelf.” She sips her cocktail. “He kept them in the bathroom, by the way.”
“I bet it’s comparable to being married to a politician,” Sunday says, ignoring the thought of Grammys on the bathroom counter. “People have expectations of who youshouldbe, and it’s easy for them to completely ignore who you actually are.”
“I can second that,” Ruby says, lifting her drink. The light from the candle flame catches the rim of her glass and Sunday looks her way. The women make eye contact and hold it meaningfully.
“Peter is going to tell all my secrets,” Sunday says softly, still looking at Ruby. “He wants to save face politically, and I heard he’s going to make me look like the bad guy in our divorce.”
Ruby sets her glass on the arm of her chair and she sits forward, reaching for Sunday. She touches her arm. “No, Sun—no way can he do that.”
Sunday nods vehemently. “He can, and he will. Trust me.” She looks sad. “He’ll drag me through the mud and come out smelling like a rose. It makes me sick.”
