Page 89 of The Book of Summer

He gives her a gentle pat on the back and then walks away.

As she listens to Evan’s footsteps fall off, Bess kneels beside Ruby’s headstone. She places a sprig of zinnia, clipped from the Cliff House gardens by Evan, in the place a heart might be.

“Good thing Cissy didn’t see Evan cut this,” Bess says. “Or the Mayhew family would have a whole new set of problems. I think he even used an old steak knife. Oh, Grandma.”

Bess sighs and shakes her head.

“Okay, this whole thing is ridiculous,” she grumbles, even as tears wet her lashes. “Gram, I wish I knew how to say this.”

Bess lowers all the way onto the ground, sitting Indian-style beside Ruby’s marker. Yes, Indian-style, none of that “crisscross applesauce” garbage because that’s what it was called when she was a kid, before it was decided an entire ethnic group might be offended by what is a pretty comfy seated position.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Bess says, picking at the pebbles on the ground. “Other than things are in complete chaos. It started, well…” She stops. “God, it’s been twenty years since we last spoke. I guess it all started just after you died, when I got kicked out of Choate. Don’t get mad because, well, it was sort of on purpose.”

36

The Book of Summer

Mrs. Mary Young

June 7, 1942

Cliff House

Ruby’s hassled me about this book. I haven’t written in it for over a year, she says. A year. It seems shorter and longer both.

“We have to keep the book going,” Ruby says. “Because we’re the only ones here. They’ve left the ship for us to captain. We need to take charge. Nothing left to chance.”

Taking charge starts with this book apparently, peculiar as it’s not as though the boys spent much time jotting down entries. The book seems mostly the women’s, and these days Cliff House is, too.

Sometimes it hits me with might, the startling reality that we are alone and the men more than a workweek away. In past years we spent more time preparing for their arrival than actually enjoying the fact that they’re here. Even now I have to remind myself that come Saturday, they won’t magically appear in the drive. It will only be the three of us: me and Ruby and of course Mama Young. What a lonely crew. My dear mother-in-law’s been moony as the night sky because of it. Can’t get a smile out of her to pay the postman.

Not everything’s changed on the island. The boats still run from Woods Hole and New Bedford. The shops and restaurants have put away their “Closed for Winter” signs even though many speculated that after Pearl Harbor resort towns would close for the duration. Everyone is playing at business as usual despite the war raging overseas. In a week’s time they’ll commission the Yacht Club, and celebrate the raising of the flag.

The Grey Ladies keep up their work but is it enough? There’s talk of a man from New Bedford, rescued after thirty days on a raft. He arrived battered and damaged, in body and in mind, and at half the weight as when he left. And his story is a happy one. I think of the others who would trade their souls to be found at sea in any kind of state.

I’ll tell you this much, I don’t have the urge to hand this stranger a blanket or some woolen socks. I want to tend his wounds. I want to do more.

Best regards,

Mary Young

37

RUBY

Summer 1942

June 4, 1942

Hi-de-ho, my darling Rubes!

Thanks for the jingle-jangle of the other night. It was a kick to hear your voice. Golly, I miss Sconset. I’ll try to get out this summer, by hook or by crook. It’s the loveliest place around. The rose-covered homes and dawdling summer days in Sconset are exactly why we’re fighting this war.

As for me, I’m still in Sag Harbor batting off suitors. Don’t get the wrong idea—these courters are of the corporate type. My stint at Mademoiselle has come to an end. It was buckets of fun but you can only brood over fashion and frippery for so long before you go bonkers. The wrong colors, the right patterns, and all the hell they’ve given me for wearing slacks and not wearing a hat. I don’t quite get this “style” racket. If the getup isn’t your brainchild, then you can’t count yourself as having panache. And that’s the truth as I know it.

Now it’s off to tackle more serious endeavors. Journalistic reporting in general, foreign corresponding to be specific. A modern-day Margaret Fuller, or so I dream! Perhaps I shall pursue something more akin to Dorothy Thompson. I can’t imagine an achievement bearing greater thrill than to get booted out of Germany by Hitler for being a pest. Of course I have to nab the gig first—all in due time.

I’ll keep you posted, from the front lines here in Sag Harbor, which is itself more a sideline than anything.

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