Page 4 of Summer Longing
Ruth, completely worn out, let go of her suitcase and sank onto a cushioned ottoman. The lobby was warm and welcoming, with white walls and woodwork, framed black-and-white prints of historical Provincetown, pale gray couches flanking a white wicker table. Ruth appreciated the decorative accents of antique copper candlesticks, glass bowls filled with seashells, a wide bookshelf with well-worn hardcovers and warped paperbacks. But the most arresting aspect of the space were the mosaics, some made of tile, others made of stone and shells. One wall featured a large stained-glass starfish. Spectacular. “I was told to ask for Amelia,” she said.
The woman and man exchanged a look.
“I’m Rachel Duncan,” the woman said. “Amelia’s granddaughter. She didn’t tell me we had a guest checking in today, but come on in. This is my husband, Luke.”
The man had taken her place hanging the mosaic. He climbed down, smiling warmly at Ruth. He looked to be in his midthirties and had sandy-brown hair and bright green-blue eyes.
“Luke Duncan,” he said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yes, well, I’m not staying here,” Ruth said. “There was just a misunderstanding at my house.”
Again, the woman and her husband exchanged a look.
“You should probably talk to—” Rachel said.
“I’m here, I’m here,” a voice called from somewhere. And then an old woman entered—a very old woman. She walked briskly toward Ruth. She had long white hair and creased skin and wore a green-and-purple-batik sundress. She smiled at Ruth; her eyes were dark with a twinkle of mischief. “You must be Ruth. I’m Amelia.”
“I was just explaining this is a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, yes, it will all be straightened out,” Amelia said. “In the meantime, I was just putting out a bite to eat.”
Ruth, accepting the fact that she had completely lost control of the day, followed Amelia to the backyard. Really, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the odd turn of events. Provincetown was nothing if not quirky. Yes, it was the place where the Pilgrims had first landed. But it was also a haven for the artistic and the downright eccentric. Over the decades, Provincetown had developed its own unique rhythm, its own code. It was peaceful and welcoming, and at the same time, there was always the sense that anything could happen.
The bay stretched out before them, sun-dappled, dotted with distant sailboats. The backyard, with a long wooden table in the center, extended to the edge of the beach. The table was set with a pitcher of iced tea, a coffeepot, several small tins, a few coffee mugs, an assortment of glasses in pale translucent colors, and a bread basket.
Ruth, too hungry to politely hesitate, sat facing the water and poured herself coffee. Amelia passed her the bread basket, its contents enclosed in a folded cloth napkin. Ruth unwrapped it to find a round yellow loaf, half of it sliced into thick pieces.
“Broa,”Amelia said. “Portuguese corn bread. There’s butter and jam in those tins but I honestly don’t think it needs a thing.”
Ruth reached for the bread and took a bite. It was rich and buttery but not too sweet. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I’m not staying,” Ruth said. “I’m supposed to move into my summer rental today. Well, technically I already moved in. I sent my things and I was going to get the keys this morning, but there was a delay. I’m just waiting for my real estate agent to sort it out.”
“Fern and Elise’s place. I heard. It’s a lovely home.”
“There you are,” a man called from the back porch. He walked toward them holding a large blue cooler. Ruth found herself straightening in her seat. He had thick dark hair, chiseled features, and dramatic dark eyes. He looked to be about thirty. “As requested, two dozen oysters fresh off the water.”
“Marco, you’re a lifesaver,” Amelia said.
“Anytime.” The man kissed Amelia on the cheek and set down the cooler. “Marco Barros,” he said, holding out his hand.
Ruth shook it, trying not to beam like a teenager. “Ruth Cooperman.”
“She’s renting Fern and Elise’s place for the summer,” Amelia said.
“Nice to meet you. I have to run, Amelia. My father just helped me pull a bunch of cages and you wouldn’t believe the condition they’re in.”
“Rough spring?”
“Not ideal. But I’m managing.”
“I’m sure you’re more than managing. Tell your mother I said hi.”
When he was gone, Amelia said, “Marco’s family runs the boatyard. A few years ago he started an oyster farm. His sister just finished her first year at Princeton. Good kids.”
Ruth nodded.
“Do you have children?”
Momentarily thrown by the question, Ruth looked down at her coffee mug, turned it in her hands. “I do. A daughter. Olivia.”
