Page 12 of The Book of Summer

The party line was that Cissy should’ve been a Kennedy. Never mind her penchant for rabble-rousing; she actually looked like one, with the hair and the smile and, yes, all those teeth. The “Cissy Kennedy” quip was never quite a commendation, though, coming from Grandma. Ruby appreciated their grit, but was largely “not a fan.” Their patriarchal nature needled her. The men in that family called the shots.

“This is a house of women,” she used to say. “Cliff House is ours.”

Ruby Packard, an early feminist in her quiet, iron-walled way.

“Here’s one of my favorites,” Bess says, turning to an entry from the summer of 1939.

She clears her throat, trying to dislodge Grandma Ruby’s Boston Brahmin, Thurston Howell the Third, delightfully snooty Katharine Hepburn inflection.

“‘Lahstnight,’” Bess reads, giving it a try, “‘when Sam and I were on thebeach.’”

“What is that voice?” Cissy narrows her eyes. “Are you mocking your grandmother?”

“No, it’s just…”

Bess shakes her head. She’s never had a flair for accents. At Choate they gave her a dialect coach for the one line she had in the spring production ofPride and Prejudice.She truly was that wretched. So instead of trying to re-create Ruby’s cadence, Bess reads on in her ordinary, unremarkable, untrainable voice.

6

The Book of Summer

Ruby Genevieve Young

August 10, 1939

Cliff House, Sconset, Nantucket Island

Last night, when Sam and I were on the beach, I was sure he was going to ask for my hand. Absolutely positive! A million butterflies strummed against my chest as we strolled along.

I did recognize the possibility that he might bungle the situation, or have a hard time getting round to it. Sam can be timid, downright shy at times, which is but one reason I love him so—that faint blush and stammer are wildly endearing! When a gal has brothers forever knocking her upside the head, she comes to appreciate those with a more delicate disposition.

So back to last night. We were partway down Sconset Beach. The sun had set but our path was well lit thanks to the golden misty moon and Mom’s soirée on the bluff above. She’d strung five hundred lights between the trees. A veritable star-shine heaven over the back lawn. The noise and mirth from the guests shone even brighter.

“What a night,” I said to Sam, trying to sound encouraging. “It’s like anything could happen, as though there’s no limit to what’s possible.”

I squeezed his hand extra hard.

“Ruby,” he responded at last.

I beamed with gusto, stretching my face to near-collapse. Then I braced myself, waiting for the knee and the ring. It promised to be a good hunk of ice, too. The Packards have quite a lot of money and wouldn’t mind me saying so.

“Sam…?” I said, blinking.

Get on with it already!

“This world is changing,” he said.

“Yes! Yes, it is, my love!”

“I have no doubt,” he went on. “The problems in Europe will become ours.”

Europe? What the dickens did Europe have to do with us?

“The entire world will soon be embroiled in this fight,” he continued.

I started to speak, intent on pointing out that talk of war was just about the least appropriate topic to broach on a romantic walk, when, all of a sudden, a man came sprinting down the beach, screaming like an Apache.

While Sam was startled, I remained unplucked. It was my brother. He had on Daddy’s clothes and a fake beard.

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