She gave a small hummingbird of a snort.
“When I do visit the U.S.,” she went on, “it’s usually the Cape. Mother has a house in Osterville with her new husband. Shabby place but with beaches for miles. Nothing like this outfit, though. You know how divorces are. They spread the green too thin.”
“Er, um,” Mary stuttered. “I hear Osterville is grand. And thank you for the compliment on my home.”
Ruby’s head snapped in her sister-in-law’s direction. Since when was Mary the Cliff House emissary? Its mistress? “Her” home? Didn’t that just beat it all. The last Ruby checked, both of her parents were still around.
“This place is a beauty,” Hattie said. “Massive! It keeps going and going!”
“Yes, well, Mother Young has a grand imagination,” Mary said. “And my father-in-law gives her whatever she pleases.”
“The right kind of marriage, if you can get it.”
“I suppose. Either way, they built the place from scratch, entirely at her direction. It’s a nit overdone, but we enjoy it quite nicely.”
Ruby rolled her eyes. Mary had spent all of three summers at Cliff House and was acting like she’d been there all along. Of course, she did have greater claim to it than Ruby, what with being married to Philip Junior and possessing the uterus that would harvest the heir to the family fortune. Whatever “fortune” might remain, that is, after the transition to gas masks.
“The house is snazzy as all get-out,” Hattie said. “But what gets to me are these cliffs. So beautiful. Dramatic. At Points North we have a boring flat beach.”
“I can see how that would be dull,” Mary said.
“Tell me, though. How’s the shopping around here? In Sconset or Nantucket Town? Since coming back from France I’m having a fiend of a time finding decent togs.”
“You’re worried about your clothing?” Mary said, her eyebrows spiked.
“A dame wants to look her best, right?”
“The shopping in town is fine,” Ruby said. “Nothing spectacular, but adequate.”
“Tell me, where do you buy your hats?”
“Our hats?” Mary said, and scrunched her nose. “What do you mean? We already have hats.”
Hattie chuckled amiably and gave Mary a rap on the back.
“Oh, gals, we’re going to have a hoot of a time. So, kittens.” Hattie stood, hiking up her pants to expose slim and graceful anklebones. “Do we have one of those, whaddya call it, quotas? Let’s kick off this show. The more efficiently we work, the more quickly we can have fun.”
“Fun?” Mary said, utterly perplexed.
“Yes. You know, the stuff we get up to when the men are off-island? So, my new friends, show me where to start.”
As Mary handed the girl a ball of white yarn, Ruby released a small smile. If the rest of the Grey Ladies were like Hattie Rutter, perhaps they wouldn’t be so gray after all.
* * *
“Pardon me, Mrs. Young.”
Miss Mayhew stood in the doorway in a simple beige dress. A glorified sack, really.
“And Mrs. Packard,” she added halfheartedly.
Miss Mayhew was the latest addition to the household staff, hired by Mrs. Grimsbury to work directly for Mrs. Grimsbury because evidently their maid was in need of a maid herself.
“It’s like I put something in order,” Ruby overheard Grimsbury telling Daddy. “And the girls scramble it up again! I need some extra hands.”
Ergo, Miss Mayhew. She was a local girl, plain as water, but nice in that Nantucket Quaker way.
“The guests are arriving,” Miss Mayhew told them. “But they seem inappropriately early. Shall I make them wait? Mrs. Grimsbury is in a right fit about it.”
“No one made me wait,” Hattie said, and looked up from the bundles of wool in her lap. “Well, the old bird tried, but I sailed right past.”
Miss Mayhew pulled an odd face, as if stifling a sneeze.
“Mind you, I have all the manners of a field cow,” Hattie said. “So you shouldn’t count me as a legitimate guest.”
“Too true. Mrs. Young, what’s your decision? About the early arrivers?”
“Oh, um…” Mary hemmed.
“For Pete’s sake tell us who they are!” Hattie said. “Who’s arrived? The fun ones or the dullards? Any of the lunkheads, make ’em wait.”
Ruby tittered and turned her work. Miss Mayhew took in a sharp inhale, struggling to maintain her composure. Mrs. Grimsbury hadn’t warned her about this.
“It’s Miss Macy and Mrs. Brooks,” she said. “But I really don’t think…”
“Good grief, bring them out!” Mary said with uncharacteristic fire as she lifted from her seat. “Who cares if it’s two o’clock or one fifty-three? For the love of puppies, there’s a war happening.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Young.”
Miss Mayhew turned on her heels and padded back into the house.
“Sakes alive,” Mary muttered.
As she sat back down, a strong gust hoisted up a chunk of coif. An impressive feat, given how doggedly Mary plastered it to the side of her face. Finger waves or corrugated metal, there really was no difference. Meanwhile, the very wind also kicked a mostly used ball of yarn into a nearby gooseberry bush.
“Whoops!” Ruby said, and rushed to retrieve it. “If not for the bush, we could’ve lost that one to the sea.”
“More likely the tennis court,” Hattie observed.
“Ruby Young Packard,” Mary chided. “You need to take more care. We might be under ration soon. Wool doesn’t grow on trees.”
“Nope. Sheep, I think,” Hattie said.
Mary shot daggers at them both. Here was the old Mary, pre–Red Cross style. Pigeons would soon start roosting on her shoulders.
“Mary, just sit down,” Ruby said.
Her sister-in-law gasped.
“Oh brother.”
“Ruby Packard, as I live and breathe,” Mary said. “Look at what you’ve made! Blankets and socks and knit caps.”
She bent to fetch one, appearing quite like a jackknife.
“These are marvelous.”
“Well, thank you.” Ruby blushed. “I still have room for improvement but at least I’ve accomplished something.”
“Yes, buckets of room for improvement. But I’m tickled! All this time we’ve been so worried about you.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Oh, you know. Everybody.”
Hattie glanced up.
“Worried about her?” she said, jabbing a needle in Ruby’s direction. “Why?”
“Pish. No one’s concerned.”
“It’s the war.” Mary lowered her voice and plopped down onto a nearby ottoman. “Ruby was an isolationist as of last week.”
“Not an isolationist,” Ruby said. “And I haven’t changed my views, necessarily. Dang it! I dropped a stitch! Again!”
“Isolationist, huh?” Hattie smirked. “I didn’t take you for that kind of gal.”
“Listen, I don’t ascribe to one particular notion or another. I simply feel we should be cautious about the issues we get ourselves enmeshed in. More so when our involvement might result in casualties.”
“Might result?” Hattie balked. “Might’s gone clear out the window, doll. Just ask a European. Especially a queer or a Jew.”
“That’s quite enough of that talk, Miss Rutter,” Mary said. “Let’s just be glad that Ruby is finally seeing things in the correct light. I know her husband is pleased as pie.”
“My husband?” Ruby said. “And how did you get his take? I don’t recall you two exchanging much more than table salt.”
Old Talon-hands, Ruby could almost hear Sam say. Her husband was inexorably polite, but Mary Young was not a person whom he could abide. A walking cadaver, he called her. All the charm of a lamppost.
“The information came to me secondhand,” Mary said. “Philip met up with Sam and Topper for lunch last week. In Boston. Have you heard the latest? Topper’s scratched the naval care
er concept. He wants to be an airman.”
“Hold on.” Ruby blinked. “Topper? And Sam? In the same room? Voluntarily and without my aid? This war’s good for something, apparently.”
“Heavens, Ruby! What a thing to say!”
Just then Miss Macy and Mrs. Brooks pattered out onto the veranda.
“Hello ladies,” one of them said. “Your girl runs a right ship. Made us sign some sort of book. Thought she was going to ask for a piece of jewelry as a security deposit.”
“That’s Mrs. Grimsbury for you,” Mary said. “Carries out her orders to the letter. Well, thank you for coming. There’s plenty of yarn on the table. Help yourselves.”
“So who’s this Topper person?” Hattie asked as the women went to choose their yarn. “Lord, what a name. Let me guess, he’s some kind of privileged milksop. Thinks the whole world is Harvard and summer homes. Wants to join the war because it sounds romantic but can’t tell the difference between a foxhole and the crack in his rear.”
“Hey!”
“That’s about the gist of it,” Mary said.
“Excuse me,” Ruby snipped. “Topper is my baby brother. His real name is Robert. He’s a senior at Harvard and he’s smart and handsome and…”
At once an idea formed. A glistening, star-shine of a plan.
Topper was smart and handsome. And Hattie Rutter was ideal: gorgeous, well schooled, and with a sly side he’d not be able to resist. In sum, she was the exact kind of girl who could keep a fella from war, even Ruby’s little brother, who never stayed locked on one broad for long.
That was the problem, Ruby realized. Topper was anxious for adventure because nothing tethered him to the States. He’d be graduating soon and didn’t have a girl or any solid occupational plan. No wonder he wanted to fight. Poor boy needed some meaning in his life.
Ruby cleared her throat.
“Well, the first thing you should know about my brother is that he’s handsome as the devil,” she said.
“Acts like the devil, besides,” Mary added. “And watch out because he’ll snap your photo when you least expect it. Lord knows what he does with all the prints. I’m afraid to ask.”
“Topper is a gentleman of the highest order!”
“Of the highest order?” Hattie said. “What a shame.”
“Ruby can’t see it,” Mary said. “They’re Irish twins, ten months apart, but are like rascally little brothers Mark Twain might write about. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have more guests to greet.”
“Nothing wrong with a rascally sort,” Hattie said as Mary walked away. “But you’ll need to do better than handsome. Come out with it, Ruby. You’ve got something cooking in that brain of yours, any fool could see.”
“Well, yes,” Ruby said, eyes sparking. “I do have a scheme starting to bubble. Here’s what I’m thinking. The boys will be in town for the holiday on Tuesday. Why don’t we grab a bite together on the first? All of us? At the club?”
“A bite, huh? I s’pose Mary’s not on the guest list.”
“Well, no. It’d be Topper. And you. And me and Sam.”
“Wow,” Hattie said, and whistled. “Are arranged marriages still in fashion? Who would’ve thunk it?”
“No, no, no!” Ruby said, blushing madly. “It’s nothing like that. You’re a cosmopolitan girl, anyone can tell. I merely suspect the pair of you would get on like wildfire. You’re the two most interesting people on the entire blasted island.”
Hattie was perfect for Topper, patently perfect!
She possessed the face and the sophistication, with a hint of an adventuress lurking inside. She was basically European, so the proof was right there. If they did eventually marry, Ruby would have to relinquish her title of “Red” to the true redhead in the family. It was a price she’d gladly pay.
“Okay, Rubes,” Hattie said. “Why the heck not? I’d be pleased to join you and your brother for dinner. Sounds like a real gas.”
21
Tuesday Evening
They’d sat for dinner at the Yacht Club, though Cissy hardly touched her plate.
Her small appetite is customary, a byproduct of the time and effort expended planning and scheming. Cissy’s one of those people who proclaims, “I forgot to eat today!” And genuinely means it.
“Cis, are you sure you had enough?” Bess asks as they tromp along the road toward the Public Safety Building, where the Board of Selectmen meets. “It could be a long night.”
“Oh, sure! Plenty! That sea bass smelled great, didn’t it?”
“What about your clothes?” Bess says. “I’m not sure we have time to run home and change.”
Cissy’s in her chambray shirt and Red Sox cap and though this is her standard getup, Bess can’t help but think her presentation attire needs a boost. Or else she looks fine and the problem is that Bess has enough jitters for both of them.
“Change?” Cissy says. “Why would I want to do that?”
“You look great, but I was thinking of something a little less … everyday? It’s an important meeting.”
“You don’t say.”
Decidedly peeved with Bess’s fashion advice, Cissy accelerates.
“Mom! Hey! Slow down!”
Bess is about to get outrun, she’s sure of it. The throngs of people don’t help. It isn’t even summer and there are already bands of tourists buying whale T-shirts and streams of twenty-year-old drunk dudes lurching out of bars.
“And what do you suggest?” Cissy asks as Bess puffs up behind her. “That I don a loud, colorful tunic and white jeans? No thanks. People know who I am.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Not that you won’t try.”
Cissy stops in front of the Public Safety Building. Hands on hips, she surveys the two-story brick structure, top to bottom. As Bess joins her, she detects the distinct scent of … buffet?
“Do you smell something meaty?” Bess asks.
“What?” Cissy turns to her. “Oh, is it the lamb meatballs?” She pops open her knapsack. “I threw in a few, plus a dinner roll. This meeting might run long. I was worried you could get hungry.”
“Lamb meatballs? In your purse?”
“Just trying to be prepared. You’re so darn testy when you haven’t eaten.” Cissy wallops Bess on the back. “So. You ready to do this?”
“Do what? I’m simply along for the ride.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Cissy pivots on a Ked and takes three skips forward. Bess straggles up behind her and together they walk through the white wooden door and up the stairs to the second floor, where the meeting will be held.
It’s a public hearing and the room is already packed with fifty or sixty Nantucketers, by Bess’s estimation. The eight rows of plastic chairs are occupied and spectators have resorted to setting up small encampments throughout the room. At once Bess remembers how blond and pink Nantucket can be. It’s a crazy place where a college kid and his grandfather can show up in the same outfit with zero embarrassment. And of course Cissy was right about the caftans.
As the meeting is called to order, nerves rumble through Bess’s belly. Just along for the ride? Hardly.
“Hello,” says a man, a pink-pants-wearer. “Today we’re here to vote on the Sankaty Bluff Storm Damage Prevention Project. The proposal includes the construction of a revetment, a shore-parallel structure designed to protect the land behind it.”
The man points to a diagram, which hangs from a nearby wall.
“The structure under consideration is a stone seawall that would extend forty-two hundred feet, or approximately three-quarters of a mile. The project’s purpose would be to protect the homes and public infrastructure along Baxter Road and to preserve the historic residential community on Sconset Bluff.
“We have two scheduled speakers today. Mrs. Caroline Codman, president of the Sankaty Bluff Preservation Fund, and coastal geologist Morton Schempler. After they finish we will open the floor to questions and comme
nts. Then we’ll dismiss the public, and the Board of Selectmen will vote. Cissy, would you care to start?”
“I’d be delighted!” Cissy says, and jumps to her feet.
She scrambles to the front of the room like she’s chasing after a tennis ball. At the podium, she tightens the ponytail poking out through her cap.
“Well, there’s not a person in this room who hasn’t heard me yammering on about preserving our beautiful bluff. But just in case, my assistant will pass out flyers detailing the pertinent information.”
Cissy pauses. Blond and gray heads bounce about, trying to locate the flyers, though most have probably read them. After all, Cissy spent Easter weekend tacking one onto every door on the island.
“My assistant!” Cissy booms, and gives Bess a look.
“Oh, me?”
Bess pats her stomach as if the information might be on her.
“In my knapsack, dear.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Bess retrieves the flyers—which are meat-sauce-free, thank God—and stands to pass them out. Suddenly a body materializes beside her. Without asking, Evan Mayhew takes half the papers from her hand.
“Thanks,” Bess mutters.
“And what do we have here?” Cissy warbles. “Even Chappy Mayhew’s son is on my side!”
“Uh, I’m only helping Bess.”
“Oh I’ll bet you’re helping her all right. Where’s your girl—?”
“Cis!” Bess warns, and then waggles her fingers. “Get on with it. We’ll pass out the sheets.”
“Fine.” Cissy exhales as Bess and Evan make their way around the room. “The other members of the Preservation Fund and I truly believe that the historical and natural beauty of the bluff can and should be protected to benefit future generations. Our mission is to do this in a scientifically sound and financially viable way.”
“Hi Bess,” people whisper as she wends her way through old classmates and teachers and Yacht Club pals.
“You look great.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Baxter Road is the very soul of the bluff,” Cissy goes on. “And it’s also the road that leads to the iconic Sankaty Head Lighthouse. The street is lined with historic homes and is a crucial part of the island’s identity.”
The Book of Summer Page 10
