Page 25 of Summer Longing
As if she would be able to think about anything else.
She kept her eyes down, scanning the beach for appealing shells. Something lavender poked out of the wet sand, and she reached for it.
“I used to have a bowl of those in the bedroom at Shell Haven,” said a voice behind her.
Ruth straightened and turned to find Elise Douglas. “I’m surprised to see you here,” Ruth said, dropping the shell in her mesh bag, “given the situation. I guess you and Fern worked everything out. That’s great.”
Elise bit her lip. “Well, noteverythingis worked out. I was going to talk to you later, but since you’re here…”
Whatever calm and relaxation had settled over Ruth while she walked in the sand and breathed in the ocean air instantly dissipated. Elise was clearly gearing up to say something Ruth didn’t want to hear.
Elise stepped closer to her. “We need to move back into the house for a few weeks.”
Surely the breeze had kept her from hearing that correctly. “I’m sorry—for a second it sounded like you’d said you need to move back into the house.”
“We need the extra space. There’s no room above the tea shop.”
Behind them, Amelia directed the class to keep walking. Elise and Ruth didn’t move, allowing the group to pass them.
“Elise, I am trying to be empathetic, I am. But this is going too far. I paid for this house. We have a contract.”
“We’ll reimburse you for the few weeks we’re there.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Oh no—you’ve misunderstood. You can stay. It’s just…we need to be there too.”
This was unbelievable. “No,youmisunderstand. I am here to start a new chapter. A chapter that does not include roommates and a crying baby!”
Elise nodded. “I get it. I do. But can the new chapter start in July?”
Of course Olivia would tell her father about the conversation. Her mother’s words needed to be parsed, examined, turned inside out. The only question was whether Olivia should call him or drive out to New Jersey to talk to him in person.
Getting my affairs in order.
She’d talk to him in person.
Six months ago, after three decades at Penn Medicine, the University of Pennsylvania’s medical center, her father had retired. Olivia had been relieved to see him slow down. Unlike her mother, her father had worked to live, not the other way around. It was nice that he’d finally have time to enjoy himself, though he hadn’t made any dramatic changes to his life yet. No big trips, no plans to move. He seemed content just to wake up every morning and read the paper at the local diner, play cards with friends, and spend way too much time worrying about her.
As for her own schedule, it was not an ideal time to miss work, not after losing a huge client. Olivia’s boss, Peter Asgaard, who’d spent twenty years at a big Hollywood talent agency before launching HotFeed, had not been happy. Still, he conceded, “Mistakes happen. This was not good, Olivia, but it was your first mistake in eight years of solid work.” Just thinking about the conversation in his office made her stomach churn.
When she finally turned into the driveway of the red-brick Colonial of her childhood, a calm came over her.
The Cherry Hill house never changed. It was a time capsule from the mid-1990s. After her mother left, her father hadn’t bothered to redecorate or even change the family photographs on the fireplace mantel. Yes, the old TVs had been replaced with flat-screens, the ficus plant hadn’t made it into the new millennium, and the clunky stereo system in the living room had given way to a sleek digital setup. But it felt exactly the way it had growing up. As much as Olivia prided herself on her independent life, on moving on, there was undeniable comfort in this.
And yet, every time she visited, she said, “Maybe if you sold this house, you could move closer to the city. Or even move into the city. And then maybe you would meet someone…”
Her father always gave the same response: “When your mother and I bought this place thirty years ago, I knew I’d never want to leave.”
Olivia was thankful her father was so steady, but sometimes, for his own sake, she wished he’d be a little less so.
“I brought your favorite bagels,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and handing him the bag from H & H.
“Coffee’s on,” he said.
Above the stove, there was a crudely carved wooden sign she’d made in camp arts and crafts when she was twelve that readRUTH’S KITCHEN.Why she’d felt compelled to make that, considering her mother never cooked, was beyond her. Why her father still kept it hanging was even more baffling.
“Why do you keep that thing?” she’d asked years ago.
