AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Look, Ruby," Banks says, watching her calmly. "I understand how you must feel about the fact that I observed Jack doing things when he was away from D.C., but I also know that you understand the facts of my job and of this life."
Ruby nods. She does--she gets it.
Sunday has been quiet for a few minutes, but she speaks up here. "Maybe more than anyone else on the planet, I get how you feel, Rubes," she says softly. "Do you think it never crossed my mind to be angry at everyone who essentially condoned Peter's bad behavior? Do you think a single one of his Secret Service agents approached me to let me know that my husband was going into bathroom stalls with strange men out on thecampaign trail? Do you think anyone thought to help me save face or preserve my dignity?"
Ruby's anger dissipates instantly. "You're right, Sun. I know you understand."
Sunday finally walks up to her and the women embrace, holding each other tightly. The simple action of being in someone's arms causes Ruby to sob, to let down completely, and she gives in to it, burying her face in her best friend's hair as she cries.
"Ruby," Banks adds, putting a hand gently on her back. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about all of it, and that any of it happened in the first place." With that, he walks up the steps to her house and he and Dexter go into the kitchen together, leaving the women outside.
"Hey, it's okay," Sunday says, shushing Ruby gently as they hug. "Let it out, girl. I'm here."
"I just want to be okay with all of it," Ruby says, pulling back and wiping at her eyes with the fingertips of both hands. "I want to be able to read Jack's diaries and not feel like every word is a knife right through my heart."
Sunday chuffs. "Well, good luck with that. As a woman who has been down a few roads, I can tell you that the embarrassment lessens--I don't care anymore that other people see me as some poor woman who was wronged--but I do care that I gave Peter some of the best years of my life, and that I raised his children while he went out and just lived like a single man."
"Exactly!" Ruby says, flipping her hair over her shoulders. "That's it. I feel like I was at home, giving it my all, raising the girls and trying to be the best wife that I could. And Jack got to go out and have the son he always wanted,apparently," she says, an edge of sarcasm creeping into her words, "and livesome grand love affair on another continent like the hero of a Hemingway novel."
"We definitely chose men who thought they were the main characters," Sunday agrees, taking Ruby by the hand and leading her out onto the sand. They walked towards the water as they talked, each woman kicking off her shoes and leaving them behind on the deserted beach. "Could we have found two more self-involved husbands?"
Ruby shakes her head. "We did manage to find two exceptionally self-indulgent men."
"Do you want to talk about what you're reading? Anything that Jack has said or done? I'm all ears, and you know I'm not judgmental about it."
Ruby sighs deeply. "I've really enjoyed reading about his childhood. Teenage Jack was pretty amusing. I've also had some time for self-reflection, reading about how he felt when Athena was born and I took her to California for a month to stay with my mom. I'm not without fault, Sun. None of us are."
Sunday stops and stares at her, hands hanging at her sides. "So you think that you having postpartum depression gave Jack the right to have an affair and father a child?" She looks gobsmacked. "Or that me having put a child up for adoption and then adopting two of my own rather than choosing to get pregnant again gave Peter the right to sleep with every man east of the Mississippi?"
"Well, no," Ruby says, turning to face Sunday. "No, of course not. And I'm not saying anything about your marriage at all, because that's not my place to do so, but with regards to my own marriage, I can tell you that I wasn't always perfect. I made mistakes. I could have done things better."
Sunday looks disappointed. "I'm a realist, Ruby, you know I am. And sure, there are moments in every marriage where you could choose one thing but you instead choose another.You could choose to be kinder, more patient, more loving, more giving--but I also think that for the most part, we're all doing the best we can in any given moment. You were there everyday; you showed up. Can Jack say the same?"
Ruby chews on her lower lip as she considers Sunday's words. They've walked nearly to the water's edge, and in the distance she can see her house with the kitchen lights on. Dexter and Banks are standing inside, talking and gesturing as Dexter leans against the island and faces the windows. Dexter laughs at something Banks says, and for a moment Ruby can imagine the four of them together, having dinner on the deck of the Black Pearl, or even walking around New York City together, as she and Dexter had done the past autumn.
“You know,” Ruby says, pulling herself back into the conversation. “I’m not sure. I guess, looking back, I would say that when Jack was there, he was there, but how much of any distance I felt between us was because he was busy helping to run the country, and how much of it was due to the fact that his heart and mind were in France?”
Sunday lifts her eyebrows as she nods. “Sure, that’s a good point. Listen, we both spent enough years with men who had other things to worry about than their wives’ needs or changing moods, but at this point, Rubes, I have to tell you: I’m ready for a man to worry aboutme, aren’t you?”
Ruby glances again in the direction of the kitchen, where the guys are still standing there, talking. “Yeah,” she nods, folding her arms across her chest. “I am. I think I really am.”
Sunday holds out a hand and Ruby takes it; she squeezes her friend’s fingers meaningfully. “Then let’s go inside and have a beer or a glass of wine with these two great guys who seem to like us, shall we?”
Ruby nods in agreement and they cross the sand together, still holding hands as they approach the house and evening falls around them.
Ruby
There’s a storm raging over the island at midnight. It’s unusual, but not unheard of, and the crack of thunder wakes Ruby from a deep sleep that night. She rolls over and sees that Dexter is peaceful and untroubled, and so she climbs carefully from under the blankets, stepping onto the rug next to her bed and feeling around with her feet for the slippers she likes to wear on the bare wood floors.
Downstairs, lightning illuminates the whole space, filling the front room with its boxes of Jack’s diaries like a jolt of electricity. Ruby stops in the center of her tall-ceilinged living room and reads the flaps of the boxes nearest to her:1997, 2012, 1979. Without thinking, she opens the box that says 1997 and pulls out a book that she carries into the kitchen.
With the kettle on for tea, Ruby sits at her table and turns on a low light, opening the book to a random journal entry. This might not seem productive, to read her late husband’s words in such a non-linear fashion, but there’s something exciting, like the mystery of a grab bag, about pulling a random bit of Jack’s life to the surface and watching it in her mind’s eye like adramatized episode. The page she turns to first makes her smile: it’s from shortly after they’d met.
June 29, 1997
Ruby Dallarosa is atomic. She is a bright spark of light in a dark room. From the moment I spotted her, delivering flutes of champagne to a room full of people whose personalities rival oatmeal, I knew that I needed to know her. I invited her out to the patio of the art museum where the fundraiser was taking place, and though she told me she could get fired for abandoning her post and leaving wealthy businessmen and women parched for lack of a fresh glass of bubbly in their hands, it was clear that she was willing to risk that fate in order to find out what could happen between us.
And now, just look what’s happened: we’ve been to Carmel together, golfed (me, fairly well; her, quite badly, to my amusement), and made love under the stars. That makes me sound like a much younger man, going on that way about having a tussle with a woman al fresco, but it wasn’t just a passing interlude with an inconsequential woman. I think I can comfortably say this in my own diary without shame: for the first time in my life, I was truly making love with someone rather than just passing time together or scratching an itch. Every bit of Ruby is beautiful, and in my arms, she feels not so much like a woman made of flesh and bone, but a statue carved of ivory and gold. In a short span of time, she’s become extremely important to me.
