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Ruby's first instinct is to laugh at the idea that she's done anything well. Inside, she feels messy and complicated and conflicted and unsure of herself a lot of the time, and right after Jack's death, when the breadth of his betrayal was still revealing itself, she couldn't have feltlesslike a person to admire. But instead of saying all that to Delia, she smiles softly. "Every day is a fresh page of your book with nothing written on it yet," she says, squeezing Delia's hand. "And when I get down about things--because sometimes I do--I remind myself that today I get to decide who I am, how I act, and how I react to things. It doesn't always work and some days I'm ready to turn the page and try again the next day, but I thought of that often when my husband died. It's up to me to choose what goes on the next page of my book."
Sugar puts an arm around her sister and hugs her close. "We're writing this book together," she reminds Delia and Delia nods, wiping at her eyes again. "I won't leave you alone, Deel."
Watching them together makes Ruby wish for a moment that she had a sister, but then she reminds herself that all of the women in her life function as her sisters, in one way or another. They're all part of the grand sisterhood that makes up the fabric of a woman's life.
"You two are lucky to have each other," Ruby says, letting go of Delia's hand and walking around the counter so she's standing in front of them. "Would you mind if I gave you both a hug?"
Naturally they are thrilled by the offer of a hug from someone they idolize, and after posing for photos, promising to stay strong and positive, and buying a few books as souvenirs, the women leave, headed towards the Black Pearl for lunch at Ruby's suggestion.
Ruby stands behind the counter of the bookshop again, looking out at Seadog Lane. It never ceases to amaze her that her life is somehow, or has at some points, been on display for others to watch and observe. Even with the constant presence of cameras, media, and assistants, it is still easy to forget that she was ever anyone other than Ruby Dallarosa, a girl from California who'd married a man she loved and had a couple of kids. To think that people have invited her on talk shows, interviewed her for podcasts, or that someone wants to write a book about her late husband's life through her eyes is still mind-boggling when she stops to think about it. At heart, she's just a woman like Delia: she got married, she followed the script, she ended up alone.
Only now, she thinks, turning to look around the bookshop that is, for the moment, empty,I'm not alone. I have my girls, I have Dexter, I have all of this.
She sincerely hopes that Delia finds her own second act, and that the women inherlife fold around her and give her the strength she needs to soldier on.
"It's a bit of a struggle," Dexter admits to Ruby over dinner that night. They're at the Black Pearl, sitting near a window rather than on the deck that butts up against the water. Ruby loves to eat outside, but August--even later in the evening--is fairly humid. "I'm finding that some of the things I would have written are hamstrung by...you know." He looks around, one hand wrapped around a frosty mug of beer.
“By you and me?" Ruby ventures.
"Yeah. There's stuff that I want to write, but I feel protective of you. I want to make sure that nothing I write hurts you."
Ruby gives a loud, surprised laugh. "Oh, Dex. I don't think you writing any of this stuff can hurt me." She shakes her head and her shoulder-length hair swishes around her. "Seriously. Living through it hurt me, but now we have a job to do, and I feel motivated to push ahead."
Dexter scratches his cheek; he looks unconvinced. "But what about these diaries? This is clearly digging up a lot of stuff for you."
"Sure. But it would be even if I were reading them alone with a bottle of wine. Or sitting next to Helen or Sunday and trash-talking Jack now that he isn't here to defend himself. All of it would make me feel like you were pouring alcohol on a nasty patch of road rash. That's just life." She hasn't told him yet about Delia and Sugar, who'd been in that afternoon, so she tells him the story now, including the details about the strip clubs and the foot photos.
Dexter lets out a low whistle. "Damn. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that a woman of the same age isn't stillthat randy, huh? That if the roles were reversed--what was her name?"
"Delia."
"Right--Delia wouldn't have paid some young stud she met online to send photos."
Ruby shrugs and takes a sip of her ice water. "You know," she says, "everyone is different. But no, I'd say that for the most part, a woman of a certain age isn't looking for that kind of, shall we say,eroticthrill. But there is a reason why so many older women fall for what they call 'love scams.’ You know, the ones where they get a friend request on Facebook from a handsome, older man who claims to be a widower and a retired military colonel, but he's really just some skinny young guy sitting at a computer in another country, and he somehow convinces her to send him all of her money?"
"Mmm," Dexter says, nodding as he swallows a sip of beer and sets the mug back down. "I do. I read a really heartbreaking piece on that very scam one time."
"Exactly. Women crave that feeling of beingwanted. We long to be seen as beautiful, desirable, special. And scam artists know this. They prey on our weakest emotions: loneliness, the fear that we're losing or that we have lost our beauty, and the knowledge that no one really needs us anymore. Our kids are gone, our parents are possibly gone too, and maybe we're divorced or widowed. So yeah, there are equivalents, I guess. Maybe if Fred wasn't very nice to Delia and some scammer swooped in and told her how amazing and beautiful and desirable she is, she might have sent their money to a stranger too."
“Good point." Dexter sits back in his chair as the server drops off their shared platter of Sauvignon Blanc-steamed mussels with garlic toast with a second plate of crispy crab cakes drizzledwith tomato butter. "So, to bring it back to us, you're saying that life just sucks sometimes and you have to plow through it?"
"Yeah, I guess that is what I'm saying. Life happens to all of us." She picks up a fork and cuts off a bite of flaky crab cake, dragging it through the tomato butter and then spearing a piece of arugula. "And no matter how visible or invisible you are to the rest of the world, you're not above a little misery." She chews the bite thoughtfully, looking out the window next to them at the few people who are braving the sticky evening to drink cocktails on the outdoor deck. "This is my misery, and I need to find some closure on it. That's all."
Dexter eats for a couple of minutes as the idea of processing and getting closure sits between them. "Well," he says, wiping his chin with a white linen napkin. "I appreciate you trusting me enough to let me be here while you go through all of this. And by 'this' I don't just mean Jack's diaries, I meanthis, as in your healing."
Ruby smiles at him over the candle that flickers on the table in its glass hurricane lamp. "I love that you're here," she says, taking another sip of water to hide the fact that tears have sprung to her eyes. Dexter has quickly become a comfort to her, and his solid, stable presence is something that she's beginning to count on more than she ever imagined she would. "And I love that we're working on this book. Aside from being my husband, Jack Hudson was a president who many people believed in, and a man who did some good things for our country. Those people who admired him deserve to read a book about who he was, and I think it brings something to the table, us making him more accessible this way. Whether I like it or not, he and our family—extended as it is by Etienne and Julien--are a part of history."
Dexter is watching her with plain admiration in his eyes. Without saying a word, he pushes back his chair, stands up slightly, and leans across the table to kiss Ruby on the lips.
And she, maybe for the first time in decades, stands up without any hesitation and no consideration for who might be watching and for what they might think. Instead, as she holds her napkin in one hand and laughs softly, she kisses Dexter back.
"No journals tonight, okay?" he says, his eyes twinkling as they both sit back in their chairs. "Let's just be us for an evening."
"Agreed," Ruby says, holding up her water glass to tap against his beer mug. "Let's just be us."
Ruby
There was a moment during the course of Ruby and Jack's marriage where she'd seen through the veil and realized how far they'd drifted from where they'd started. She can still recall the sensation of looking at him and thinking that she might be married to a stranger, but then it passed--that feeling always does--and she saw him again in the clear light of day: Jack. Her Jack.
