Page 110 of The Book of Summer

The Book of Summer

Philip E. Young

August 31, 1942

Cliff House, Sconset, Nantucket

I never expected to write in this book.

It was Sarah’s from the start and it feels like an intrusion, though she would not mind at all.

But really it was my dear Sarah who shaped our family. We wouldn’t have Cliff House, the lookout from America’s edge, if not for her insistence. I’m so glad she pried the money from my miserly hands. She will live forever in this book and in this home.

I’m not much of a writer. Or a reader. But I’ve enjoyed going through this Book of Summer. Sam’s story about the golf match had me laughing for the first time in a while. My greatest wish is that my bright and sparkling Ruby will likewise find some cheer in a not so distant future. I should take her on a spin through our summertime history as memorialized in this book. We’ve had a dang great time. A shame, I’ve only just realized.

My petal is crushed by her mother’s sudden passing, which is what I feared and expected both. I can’t help but feel at fault, though Sarah would smack me at the thought. My lovely wife had breast cancer, discovered only a few months ago. That’s what happens when your mind’s on something else, like a sickly husband. You don’t have time to worry about yourself. And here I sit, alive and hacking. It’s not a bit fair, not that life ever is.

Sarah hadn’t wanted to bother Ruby with the bad news so early in her pregnancy and the doctors said sweet, strong Sarah wouldn’t leave us soon. We planned to tell the family after summer’s end. My lovely bride couldn’t fathom ruining the magic of Cliff House with news like this. Then, last Sunday, Sarah took to bed feeling poorly. She never again stepped foot on the floor.

Good-bye, dear Sarah, you will be missed more than this old scientist could rightly describe. Thank you for what you’ve built—a life, a family, and a house that will keep after the last of us is gone.

Signed,

Philip Young,

Husband of Sarah,

Also known as Dad

44

RUBY

September 1942

September 1, 1942

Dear Ruby Red,

It was darn aces to see you the other week, even if the reason was something less than keen. Mother gone. Can you believe it? I thought she was too reliable for any sort of illness or dying foolery. The best battleship ever conceived.

My Red, it’s up to you. I hate putting on the squeeze but it’s the truth. This is Very Serious Business. You’re the heart of this family now, especially with the bun in that oven. Don’t let your grief get in the way of your obligations.

Enough of that. Well. You asked me to write when I got “home.” Wherever that is. Right now I’m at the Davis-Monthan base in Tucson, AZ. Lord, I’m ready to be done with this training but we need it, and how. Flying these B-24s is like trying to fly a damned house, a pain in the rear even for yours truly, the strongest man to ever live. (Ha! Stop rolling your eyes!) And as nose gunner, I’m the guy who drops the bombs, which means a whole added level of complexity. Sorry, I’m boring you with my woes. The boys from Harvard find these stories endlessly fascinating but you’re too high-minded for such talk.

Okay Red, you keep doing your thing. Don’t worry about me, or Sam, or P.J. for that matter. I saw a poster the other day outside the local watering hole—“The U.S. Needs Us Strong” it said. It was an advertisement for cheese bobbies so not exactly the thing on which hopes, dreams, or great countries are built. But the message is right, in any case.

I love you, Ruby. I can’t wait until we blast Hitler to Kingdom come and the lot of us can get back to meeting up in Sconset every summer, like we’re meant to. Much better than time spent in a tin coffin, hurtling through the air. Sorry, sis! It’s just part of the job.

Take care of yourself.

All my love,

Your brother,

Topper

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