Page 50 of The Book of Summer

The spectacle will be followed by a Yacht Club dance, which Ruby expects me to attend with her brother, provided tomorrow’s dinner goes as she dreams. Oh that Topper Young. Poor kid. Rumor does paint him as a suave and handsome sort but I doubt he’ll relish his big sister’s assistance in matters of the heart. Either way, I’ll make sure we all enjoy some fun this summer. That much I can guar-an-tee.

Until later, I remain, yours truly,

Hattie R.

24

RUBY

July 1941

As they sat in the dining room of the Yacht Club, Hattie Rutter glowed and crackled like a blaze. Her hair, her cheeks, her lips, all a fireball brand of red. She had on a dress, God love her, a maize Parisian number so impeccably tailored she’d make a military fella look a wreck. And beneath it all, breasts that were high and full like a moon over water. Ruby longed to quiz Hattie about the specifics of her foundations—she could do with a little perk-up herself—but it was too crass, even for the summer and the beach.

Plus, there were things more pressing than the pertness of one’s breasts. For all of Ruby’s talk about Topper’s dash, his suave bewitchery, the man was seriously rough. Possibly hungover. Like he was going to capsize.

Topper’s hair was greasy and matted, his face sweaty and pale. He spoke in the rambling, slurred manner of a drunken vagrant as he smoked cigarette after cigarette, barely letting one extinguish before taking flame to the next. Not even Ruby could ferret out the handsome devil within him and she always saw the best in her brother, as a rule. It was a wonder Hattie hadn’t excused herself to the ladies’ and wiggled out the window.

“I can’t believe FDR still thinks we can stay out of this war,” Topper said.

“He doesn’tthinkwe can, hehopeswe can,” Sam returned. “Two different things.”

Ruby’s husband and brother were pecking at each other like a couple of roosters. Something about the recently announced Russian invasion. Bolsheviks. Two equally hateful countries duking it out until their deaths. Ruby took a few slugs of her sloe gin fizz to stave off an encroaching headache.

“Nothing,” Topper said, mindlessly tapping his fingers as he stared out at the harbor. “We’re doing nothing. Bunch of yellow-bellied pansies.”

“Speaking of yellow, what’s that color you’re wearing, Hattie?” Ruby asked, trying to direct the conversation back toward the prettiest dame in the room. “Would you call it a Naples yellow? It sure is nifty!”

She was awkward as hell, but Ruby had to dosomething.

“Huh.” Hattie shrugged. “Never thought to check. I just call it my yellow dress from France.”

“Well, you look sensational,” Ruby said, and meant it.

Hattie Rutter’s fashion sense was bar none, yet she always seemed desperately clueless about it. “My yellow dress,” for Pete’s sake. Hattie had a gift, an innate gift. Style spilled right onto her.

“Whaddya think, fellas?” Ruby asked. “Isn’t Hattie just beyond?”

“Now’s the time to strike,” Topper said. “While Hitler’s focused on Russia.”

“Boys.”

Ruby slammed both palms on the table and rose to partial standing. The men startled, and every adjacent party turned to stare. With a mad blush, Ruby slowly lowered herself back down. Mother would hear about this within the hour and likely have her head.

“Can you please,” Ruby said between gritted teeth. “Can you please, for the love of all that is holy, shut up about Hitler and pay our new friend the slightest respect? Every man in this cotton-pickin’ joint developed a puppy crush on her before the salads were out. What’s wrong with you two? Communists and Nazis, when this stunner’s at our table. For the love of God.”

“Oh, golly, Ruby,” Hattie said after a giggle and a gulp of gin. “You’re sweet as hell, but you don’t need to come to my defense.”

“It’s not about your defense. The point is…”

Ruby sighed. What was the point, exactly?

“I just wish these two imbeciles would stop jawing for a second and appreciate the scene that’s in front of them.”

“Honey,” Sam said, and placed a hand gently on Ruby’s knee. “I appreciate you like nothing else. No two ways about it.”

“Yeah, Red. Don’t take it so personal.” Topper’s eyes zipped all over the table, every which way but up. “Your friend’s a real doll. A dish times two. Sorry, Miss Rutter. We’re a mite single-minded at present. When the entire world is on the precipice…”

“Don’t think a bug about it,” Hattie said. “These are serious times.”