Page 123 of The Book of Summer

“Well, Sam,” Ruby said, and cleared her throat.

She kissed him gently on the forehead and felt herself fortifying.The U.S. Needs Us Strong.

“If you truly want to stay in the navy,” she said, “then do what you need to. Just remember who’s waiting for you. Remember that together we still have a home.”

***

A heavy mist fell on Ruby as she booked it across Baxter Road. Once her feet hit the white-shelled drive, she turned and waved at Miss Mayhew. So nice of the girl to fetch her from the ferry landing. Miss Mayhew was a kind soul, not to mention sharp enough to understand that Ruby didn’t have options beyond the generosity of her former hired help.

Weekender bag dangling from her left arm, Ruby struggled to unlock the front door. It always jammed in this weather, dammit. Meanwhile, Ruby’s hair began to flatten as the rouge slid straight off her face. Not that her ’do and makeup weren’t already in a state. She’d been traveling for eons.

Once inside, Ruby tossed her bag onto the hall table and walked to the back of the home. She’d never fully closed it up last September. Good thing, too, as she spent four weeks of winter there, trying to survive her grief. Cliff House. It would save her every time.

In the kitchen, Ruby glanced outside to where the patio furniture was strewn about, looking sad and abandoned against the brightness of the flowers blooming in the yard. Mother had planted her garden with purpose: decking it out with bright pink clematis, plus rambler, portulaca, zinnias, and their island’s famous roses. In the old days, children cut flowers from their gardens and brought them to the flower stalls on Main Street to sell for ten cents a bunch. Ruby wondered if the tradition would ever resume, or if she and Topper would end up being the last children in that home.

How long did she plan to stay, precisely? An hour? A day? Ruby had her luggage, sure, but had worn most of her duds down south. To answer “how long,” Ruby needed to figure out what she was doing there in the first place.

Ruby canvassed the kitchen and its pantries. Everything was bare. She’d need food if she stayed on. As she pondered what she might pick up, Ruby’s eyes drifted toward the butler’s pantry. Something triggered inside of her.

With a turn in her stomach and a kick to the side, Ruby beelined it toward the famous Cliff House spiral stairs and took them two at a time, straight up into Topper’s bedroom. She launched the door open, heart thrashing in her chest. The room was untouched since his death, because of course it was. His death! Topper was dead! The sorrow clobbered Ruby all over again.

“Damn you, Topper,” she muttered, wiping her eyes. “You were supposed to be my brother forever.”

Would it always stay like this? Topper’s room? With its flags and trophies of boys waiting to make that play? Mother had boxed up Walter’s room lickety-split after he died, but who was going to deal with Topper? Ruby would never be fit for the task.

With a quick show of spit-shining a football trophy, not that there was a soul around to see, Ruby dropped to her knees and opened the bottom drawer of his desk.

The photographs were, no surprise, exactly where she’d left them. Ruby removed the stack and flicked past the ones of Hattie, two of Mother unawares, and on down to the bottom of the pile. And there they were, same as before. All those pretty boys.

This one, with eyelashes longer than the Nile, staring coyly at the lens.

That one, who Ruby suddenly realized was Nick Cabot himself. He was naked, or so it appeared as the frame showed only his bare torso, down to his hips, where his muscles were taut and defined and angled to some unspeakable place below.

There were others, too. One man’s behind. Two male bodies, entwined, their connection unmistakable, their faces obscured. All of them godlike creatures, perfect in body and in form. Maybe that’s all it was, an appreciation of art, courtesy of God.

Or was it the alternative, something Ruby never would’ve considered if not for Sam? It seemed preposterous what with the ladies and the swagger and the dash. Why, Ruby had seen Topper taking it to Hattie right downstairs. There was no definitive evidence formulating one conclusion or another. But there was a body of work, which sketched a certain picture.

The same picture, as it happened, the navy accused Sam of drawing. That of being queer. A sodomite.

“You’re fortunate there are family members in high places,” the doctor had said on Ruby’s way out the door.

“My father?” Ruby asked, confused.

Daddy knew about the hospital stay, but not the nitty-gritty. Her stomach went wonky at the thought.

“No. The other offender is the son of a vaunted southern senator. He wants the whole thing swept under the rug. Count yourself lucky.”

Counting luck hadn’t been in Ruby’s cards these days, so she hadn’t been sure what to make of the so-called advice.

Photos in hand, Ruby scrambled downstairs. She scrounged up a piece of stationery, plus one large envelope, and jotted out a note.

Hattie-

Sorry I couldn’t make a stop in New York. I stayed longer in Virginia than originally planned. Sam needed me. Anyhow, I found some beautiful photos of you—and a few others, too. Any idea what they mean? Give it to me straight.

Write soon.

Yours,

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