Page 79 of The Book of Summer

“All right! Listen here, cookies!”

Hattie led the charge, with Topper, Sam, Mary, and P.J. trailing behind. Hattie was dressed as a cowgirl—a Fifth Avenue cowgirl, that is—with her mink bolero and calfskin heels. Topper was her Indian, eager to show off his “peace pipe” to anyone who cared.

“Well, lookee here,” Mother said with a titter. “A welcoming party right out of Americana! I hope you aren’t representing the Donner Party.”

“No ma’am!” Hattie trilled. “Just a cowgirl and her band of assorted misfits, all of us intent on dragging ol’ Lady Liberty onto the dance floor. You don’t want Ben Franklin wandering off with some other dame, do ya?”

“I’d never!” Sam said. “Everyone knows Ben is a most loyal guy.”

Ruby smiled weakly at her husband and then looked at Hattie.

“I’m not in the mood for dancing,” she said.

“What kind of dingy excuse is that?” Hattie asked in a manufactured huff. “Listen here. You’d best get in the mood. You’re not going to pout all night and be crowned the dullest girl at the ball. I simply won’t allow it! It’s the last party of the season.”

“Actually there’s the oyster party tomorrow night,” Mary said. “At Cliff House. So not the last party, factually speaking.”

“Okay, Mary Todd.”

P.J. and Mary were dressed as the Lincolns, the joke being that they should’ve swapped roles. Mary was a dead ringer for Abe himself.

“I stand corrected.” Hattie rolled her eyes. “It’s the lastdanceof the season. Come on, you fuddy-duddy.”

She reached a hand toward Ruby.

“Up!” she said. “Up and at ’em! You can’t be this gorgeous and hide outside all night. Hip hop! To your feet! Get that hiney on the dance floor!”

Hattie snapped three times in rapid succession as Ruby continued to eye her outstretched hand. Things had been stiff between them, at least on Ruby’s side, after what occurred in the pantry. Ruby recognized her own prudishness. She might have been a virgin on her wedding night, but there’d been stories aplenty at Smith. Nonetheless, the wad of revulsion lodged in her belly was difficult to pass. Yet as Ruby looked at her pal’s hand, her reserve began to crackle like ice in the sun. Damn that Hattie, she could charm the gloom out of a ghoul.

“Let’s go, my friend,” Hattie said. “Chop-chop.”

“Come on, baby,” Sam said. “Where’s that happy girl of mine?”

“I’ll let you try my peace pipe,” Topper offered.

At last Ruby smiled.

“A peace pipe?” she said, and stood. “An interesting accessory for someone so jazzed about the war.”

The uncertainty and agitation began to lift from Ruby’s body, like the fog off the ocean at midday. And just in the nick of time.

The summer was over and, according to Topper and Sam and the president of the USA, a war was imminent. Daddy was probably sicker than Mother let on and Topper and Hattie were… they were something. But Ruby couldn’t let the summer end like this. Sconset had her heart and she needed to leave a piece of it there, a bookmark to hold her place until they returned.

“All right, people,” she said. “Let’s head inside. And I’ll show you how the jitterbug is really done.”

***

Just like that it was over.

The last drink was poured, the final cigarette ground out and left smoldering on the flagstone. The oysters had been scraped out, the shells hauled off. All that remained was a fishy scent in the air and Ruby on a chaise, blue polka-dotted frock fanned out around her.

As the caterer’s van rumbled away, Ruby drained the last of her champagne and sighed. Soon she’d be back in her bedroom, in the tall brownstone near the river on Commonwealth Ave. A hundred miles away—no greater distance than the world. Ruby always felt at odds those first weeks back, even though Boston was her home and a few doors down Mother would be keeping house at number twenty-five, same as forever.

Yet the early days fit awkwardly, like a dress in the wrong size. Ruby would catch glimpses of herself in a mirror and marvel at her hair, shades blonder, and her legs, longer and leaner and tan. Even her eyes seemed to have an extra kick to their green. But by September’s end, she’d fade back to her dishwater self. Everything would fit again.

Sam would do what he had all summer—it didn’t change much for the men. He’d rise for work every Monday at six o’clock sharp, then toil away for the week, the chief difference between the seasons being where he dined and drank on weekends. Meanwhile, without Mother and Hattie and tennis and Cliff House itself, Ruby would need to drum up a scheme or two to fill her days. More war work, she thought with a frown. God bless it, she still wasn’t sure about FDR and his big plans.

“Hey there, Ruby Red,” Topper said as he tromped out onto the veranda. His shirt was untucked, his hair a sprawl.