Page 78 of The Book of Summer

“Ruby Genevieve, enough with the sourpuss act. You get your fanny in there!”

Mother clomped up and whacked her mining pan against the very bench on which Ruby sat.

“You’ve got to show your face eventually,” Mother said. “They’re playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and the entire orchestra is dressed in doughboy uniforms. Come on, love.” Her voice softened. “All the good stuff is happening inside.”

Ruby didn’t respond and clamped both arms tighter around her belly. The Liberty getup was already hitting the skids. If Ruby wasn’t careful, people would think she’d come dressed as the inside of a garbage can.

“Ruby?” her mom pressed. “What is it? Tell me.”

“It’s nothing, Mother. I just want to be alone.”

“Are you…hormonal?”

“No!” Ruby said, and narrowed her eyes. “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then what…”

“I keep thinking he’s going to come,” she blurted. “He promised that he would.” Ruby let out a shaky sigh. “It’s the first time Daddy’s ever gone back on his word.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mother said with a deep, gut-filling exhale. She sat beside her girl. “You can’t be mad at your father. He’d give anything to be here.”

“I’m not mad. I’m… worried.”

“Aw, honey.” Mother looped an arm around Ruby’s shoulders. “You can’t fret about your dad. He’d hate it. The man works hard to give you a life where worries are never had.”

“Is he sick?” Ruby turned to face her. “Is there something wrong with Daddy? Because Topper says…”

Mother looked down at her hands.

“So he was right.” Ruby let out a small gasp. “Topper says he hasn’t been out because he’s ill.”

“He’s been out some?”

“Three lousy days at Cliff House. Three! And he only spent one night.”

“Oh, petal.”

Ruby made a face. “Petal.” The nickname was Daddy’s, and his alone. Mother never used it and she wasn’t one for nicknames. Already she seemed to be trying to patch some kind of hole.

“He’s not been in top health,” Mother said. “You’ve heard that nasty cough of his. The dang thing won’t go away.”

“It won’t go away?” Ruby said, wide-eyed and gawping.

“That’s not what I meant! He’ll be fine! Your daddy is fine. He merely needed to be closer to his doctor these past weeks and didn’t want to hassle with all the to-and-fro. Daddy will be right as rain by autumn!”

But autumn was just around the corner. What, exactly, was going to happen to make him “right as rain” in such a short time?

“That husband of yours has the lungs of a millworker,” Ruby overheard Dr. Macy tell her mother over a hand of bridge one afternoon. “The old so-and-so hacks away like he works the factory lines himself.”

It was meant to be a joke, but working the lines was exactly what Daddy did. He got down there, elbow-to-elbow, with all manner of immigrants and indigents, laboring among the grit and grime and Lord-knows. Whenever Ruby found a ball on the course she stopped to contemplate whether Daddy had touched it with his own two hands. That is, when he still made golf balls.

“How can he improve by autumn?” Ruby asked. “Summer ends in two days.”

“Huh.” Mother looked pensive. “I suppose it does. I don’t know, Ruby. I can only tell you what I’ve heard. Your father is seeing his doctor, and working less, and forcing himself to rest, all things that go against his very nature. But he is determined and if Philip Young tells me that his cough will disappear, by Jove, I believe him.”

Ruby nodded, unable to speak. Blasted doctors. Why couldn’t they prescribe a good dose of sea air? It was said to cure anything from melancholia to tuberculosis. Surely it could remedy Daddy’s run-of-the-mill (har, har) cough.

“I don’t understand—” Ruby started, but was interrupted by a sudden flurry of spunk and costuming pouring out through the double doors.