I wanted to somehow bring Ruby into the discussion, but instead, I felt like she was already there. She’d been Sunday’s best friend—and vice versa—for so long that almost anything we talked about could somehow be traced back to Ruby. The stories were infinite, the memories priceless. Instead of talking about her, I just wanted to bask in the familiarity of the people who’d known her best.
We spent the rest of the weekend together, wandering the charming, gentrified streets of the city’s suburbs, sipping coffee from to-go cups, taking photos together in front of landmarks like we’d never been to D.C., and watching Aiden and his friends hit a hockey puck around at practice.
We ate dinner, shared a couple of bottles of wine, and laughed until Sunday said she was going to pee her pants if we didn’t stop.
“And she actually means that,” Banks confirmed.
We played cards, drank coffee after brunch at a small bistro, and in the early evening, I sat on the balcony that jutted off the back of their townhouse to get some writing time in.
"Knock, knock," Banks said on Saturday night, tapping lightly on the screen door that led out to the balcony.
I looked up from my laptop. "Come out," I said with a grin. "It's your house, Banks. I'm the invader here."
Banks had a bottle of beer in each hand. "Brought you one," he said. "I didn't know if you were in a flow state here, or if you could be bothered to share a cold one."
"I can always be bothered for that, buddy," I said to him, accepting the beer after he popped the lid off.
"Cheers," Banks said, knocking his bottle against mine as he sat in one of the four chairs that surrounded the glass table. Beyond the second-story balcony were the backyards of the other townhomes, filled with basketball hoops, small clothing lines, bird baths, cats splayed out on concrete pads the size of postage stamps, and miniature patches of grass.
"You two seem so happy here," I said, lifting my chin at the neighborhood. I think I'd always known that they'd end up back in Washington at some point.
"We are." Banks sipped his beer. "We belong in D.C. The boys have had more opportunity here than they would have on Shipwreck--no offense."
I laughed. "None taken. I can't imagine being a young person on an island like that, though it is a gorgeous place full of amazing people. It's a bit isolated, though."
Banks leaned back in his chair and looked out at the horizon. It was spring, and the buds were beginning to sprout on branches, though the evening air still had a slight nip to it. In the distance, the streetlights sprung on, indicating the onslaught of dusk.
"You know," Banks said casually, tugging at the knee of his jeans. "I miss her a lot."
He wasn't looking at me, but I could see on his face that he meant Ruby. "I miss her, too."
"Of course," he said, glancing right at me. "That's a given. But she meant a lot to me. It was my honor to serve her, and then it was an even bigger honor to consider her a friend."
This made me smile. I set my beer bottle on the glass table and just listened.
"We went to France that time so that she could meet up with Etienne, and I think that's when I really got to know her--as a person."
I remembered the trip; it was early on in our journey to writing the book together that ultimately became a best-seller--the book about Jack Hudson. I nodded, encouraging him to go on.
"In the Secret Service, there's a veil between you and anyone official--particularly if you're working to protect them," Banks explained. "It's strange, because even though you have to be prepared to die to save this person or these people, you don't truly get to know them. They might learn your name--or just as often, they might not--but there's no letting your guard down. Because once you do, there's danger." He took another swig of his beer. "But Ruby saw me. She took me to lunch on that trip and made me sit with her. Eat with her. Share my life with her." Banks squinted. "And that was hard, but it changed me."
"How so?"
Banks thought about this. "By letting me be myself. She asked me questions that no one else had ever asked me. I learned some things about myself, and I got to share with someone who was genuinely interested. I think it let me process some stuff that I'd just balled up and kept inside of me for a long time," Banks said, holding a clenched fist to his chest. "You know?"
"I do know. I think a lot of men know that feeling, don't we? We're expected to be stoic and silent about so many things, and when a woman comes along and unlocks us, even a little bit, it can really release that pressure."
"Yes!" Banks said, looking at me with awe because I so obviously understood him. "The pressure. My first marriage didn't end well, and it left me feeling pretty alone in the world. I wasn't sure I was even capable of opening up to a woman, and then Ruby talked to me and showed me that I had it in me to unfold myself a little bit, so I did. And I kept unfolding. By the time I met Sunday, I had better ways of coping, of sharing, and of letting people in. It really helped me to be a better man. I give Ruby credit for that."
"Wow, Banks. I had no idea."
"It's true. I'm not sure that I would have been emotionally available to Sunday at that point in my life without Ruby's friendship."
"That's big, man."
"It is. I've always been grateful." Banks was quiet again for a moment and he looked almost misty-eyed. "When you're supposed to blend in and observe everything, you become the keenest observer of humanity there is," he explained. "And I got to observe a lot during my years with Ruby. But the one thing I think I saw most with her was the way she was utterly and completely human. There was no artifice. Sure, there was the public façade that anyone puts on to salvage their private selves in the face of that much scrutiny, but I never saw Ruby pretend--not even once--to be someone she wasn't. She was the same patient, kind, funny woman with her friends and family as she was with a roomful of bigwigs or politicians. I loved that about her."
Now it was my turn to get teary. I leaned forward in my chair and stretched my arm out, putting one hand on top of Banks's sun-spotted hand. He'd come to Shipwreck Key in his late forties, and now here he was, seventy and looking back at the majority of his life behind him.