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By nightfall, Dexter is on a boat back to the mainland, headed for the airport and the bright lights of New York City, and Ruby is alone again with just her thoughts.
Chapter14
Banks
Ruby's back door is open and Banks can hear her singing along to loud music from the porch. She's in the kitchen, banging pots and pans as she cooks, and he makes sure to cough loudly and knock on the open door to announce himself so that he doesn't startle her.
"Banks!" Ruby says, setting a giant metal mixing bowl on the marble countertop of her island. "Come in, come in."
"Ma'am," he says, slipping carefully and safely back into their routine now that they're not sitting next to a fireplace at a restaurant in France, sharing a bottle of wine.
Ruby doesn't seem to notice that he's called herma'amagain, and she carries on with her bustling, throwing open the doors to the refrigerator and consulting the shelves in a manner that borders on mania.
"What do we think of homemade pasta, Banks?" She pulls a carton of eggs and a small container of cream from the fridge and sets them on the counter, followed by a bowl of multi-hued heirloom tomatoes, a bunch of green onions, and a wedge of parmesan.
"Pasta is a crowd pleaser," he says mildly. Ruby walks over to a cupboard and reaches up to pull down a giant pasta maker. "Let me get that for you, ma'am."
Ruby steps aside and lets Banks set the large contraption on the island, where she plugs it in and begins to assess the various pieces. She'd fully kitted out her new home on Shipwreck Key so that she could live here comfortably even if a hurricane hit and prevented her from leaving for six months, but some of the items have yet to be used, like the pasta maker.
"Are you having people over?" Banks returns to his post in the doorway but watches her as she works.
"I was going to invite you and Sunday--are you free?"
Banks leans against the doorframe and puts his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "We are," he says, feeling himself frown. "But are you sure you want to do all this cooking?"
Ruby stops in the middle of sprinkling flour in a pile on her kitchen island. She looks up at him. "Of course," she says simply. "I love to cook. And I want to celebrate love and happiness and freedom."
Banks's eyebrows shoot up before he can stop them. Madonna is singing about getting into the groove from the speakers in Ruby's living room, and he's sensing something slightly off about this entire scene.
"Do you mind if I turn that music down?" he asks, pointing at the front room.
Ruby shrugs like she doesn't care and pushes up the sleeves of her loose, paper-thin t-shirt, which she's wearing over a hot pink tank top. Her hair is pulled back haphazardly in a messy ponytail.
When Banks comes back, Madonna is now humming gently in the background and Ruby is cracking an egg into the flour and tossing the shell into the garbage can that sits under the sink.
"Is it the Fourth of July?" Banks asks, turning on the sink so that he can wash his hands and offer to help. Ruby glances up at him quizzically. "You know, the celebrating of freedom and all that," Banks says in response to her look.
"No," Ruby says, handing him a rolling pin and pointing at the ball of dough that she's been kneading on the counter. "I just envy the two of you. You're both free. You're young. You're in love."
Banks is amused but doesn't want to show it for fear that she'll feel as if he's mocking her. "I don't know aboutyoung," he says. "Although I don't want to insult you, as you and I both have a big birthday coming up."
"We do!" Ruby shouts, clapping her floured hands together. As she does, a cloud of white puffs out in front of her face and a bit of it settles on her cheeks and nose like a fine dusting of powder. "We need to do something, Banks. We're both turning fifty, and that calls for a celebration."
"Oh," Banks demurs, "I'm not sure. I don't usually do anything for my birthday."
"Nonsense." Ruby waves this away as a statement without merit. "We're having a party, and it will be for both of us." She walks around the edge of the counter and pats his bicep firmly, leaving a white handprint on the arm of his black polo shirt. She glances at it. "Sorry."
"Don't worry, my washer and dryer work just fine," Banks says without concern. That's one of the things he feels he's done well with as an adult: letting go of the military precision of his childhood and of his years as a Marine. He's figured out how to brush away the little things that don't bother him--but he's still never left his house with an unmade bed or without wiping down the basin of the sink after shaving.
"I'm thinking a beach party," Ruby says, turning her head to the window with the dazed look of a daydreamer. "Maybe a dance floor on the sand. Live band. Open bar right out there," she says, pointing with a powdery hand at the deck outside her house. "No!" Ruby turns to look at Banks. "We could charter a boat and take everyone on a sunset cruise with dinner."
Banks laughs. "The biggest thing I've ever done for my birthday is go out to dinner and occasionally someone gets me a gift. One time my parents bought me a bike and I thought it was Christmas."
Ruby is looking at him seriously. "Banks. Fifty is an accomplishment. We're going all out. I'll plan it and pay for it and organize the whole thing--all you have to do is show up."
"Ma'am, that's not necessary--"
"Ruby," Ruby says, finally correcting him. "And it is. End of discussion." She hands him a ball of dough and points at the rolling pin one more time, indicating that he should flatten the dough while she sets up the machine. "We're making spaghetti carbonara, by the way. I have a fresh baguette that I picked up today from The Scuttlebutt because Molly decided to make some."
