Page 55 of Summer Longing
“Okay, tell her I’m very angry.” He winked at Ruth and left.
Lidia shook her head. “Thirty years old and he’s still this big, unwieldy puppy.” The adoration in her voice was unmistakable. “I just hope you’re not put out.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine,” Ruth said.
“That house was in the Barros family for generations and for a while after the Douglases moved in, we forgot we couldn’t just drop in. My sister-in-law Bianca—you met her the other night at the party—is still furious about her daughter selling it. She didn’t learn about the sale until it was too late for her to stop it.”
“Well, as we’ve been saying, there’s not much we can do about the attitudes or decisions of our adult children.”
“Oh, she’s not angry at her daughter. She’s angry at Fern and Elise for buying it. It’s completely irrational.” Lidia sighed. “Enough about my crazy family. How are you adjusting to life here full-time?”
“I love it,” Ruth said. “I have to admit, there was something slightly impulsive about my move. But I needed a change, and this was it.”
“Had you spent a lot of time here before your move?”
“Just one summer. Years ago.” A lifetime ago.
“Sometimes, with P’town, that’s all it takes. At least, from what I’ve heard. I’ve never had the chance to experience this place as a newcomer, and as much as I love being a townie, a part of me would love to see it through fresh eyes.”
Ruth nodded. “When I came here last year, exploring the idea of the move, I wondered if I would still feel as strongly about it or if I’d show up and realize it was just the rosy glow of nostalgia that drew me back. But as soon as I stepped foot on Commercial, I felt happy.”
“I do think that for many people, this place is a cure-all.”
Ruth nodded, but the truth was, as much happiness as she experienced waking up in Provincetown every morning, she still missed the sense of purpose she’d felt running her own company. She hated the idea of being irrelevant, and more than that, she had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought that her legacy was being erased. Two days earlier she’d read in theWall Street Journalthat the conglomerate that had bought her out was consolidating some of their holdings, folding major brands into one another. Her company wasn’t mentioned specifically, but if that happened, the discontinuation of Cherry Hill nail polish would be just the beginning.
“Do you want to sit outside?” Lidia said. “Manny was working on a boat earlier and it was loud, but it sounds like he’s finished.”
Ruth grabbed her mug and followed Lidia onto the deck, where two wooden chairs on either side of a small round table offered an expansive view of Provincetown Harbor.
The ground below was a flurry of activity. To their right, Manny stood talking animatedly to a man next to a motorboat elevated on a metal rack. Ahead, half a dozen people were lined up at the office waiting for tours or rentals, and men on the dock were busy launching boats into the water or assisting with arrivals.
“I guess it’s never a dull moment around here,” Ruth said.
“Yes, this boatyard is quite an operation. It’s changed over the years. It started with my father-in-law with boat repair, and he also built fishing boats. Then Manny began renting out moorings to people, and the mooring field has been a big part of the business. And, of course, the boat rentals—kayaks, pontoons. Last year we started seal-watching tours.”
She wondered if Lidia ever felt a lack of privacy, but before she could ask, Lidia said, “It can be challenging to live in such a public space, but at the same time, we have parties and it feels like the whole town is sharing in the fun. My favorite day of the year is the Fourth of July. Oh, you should plan on coming, and bring your daughter. You’ve celebrated the Fourth of July here before, right?”
Ruth nodded. “Just once. A very long time ago.”
In her mind, that first summer was divided into a distinct before and after. Before the night at the Fine Arts Work Center, she had been satisfied with the simple delights of walking on the pier or eating an ice cream cone to the sound of a street musician. But after the play at the Fine Arts Work Center, all Ruth thought about was Ben Cooperman.
She thought about him during her morning beach walks with her mother. She thought about him while she was standing in line for a lobster roll at lunch. But mostly, she thought about him when she was tucked into her twin bed under the sloped ceiling of her second-floor bedroom at the rental house. Staring into the darkness, she replayed over and over the moment when he shook her hand. Then she took it further. In her fantasy, everyone had cleared out of the building. The room with the makeshift bar was dark. He didn’t stop at holding her hand.
It was the vividness and repetition of this reverie that made her blush when she ran into him the morning of the Fourth of July on Commercial Street, just a few feet from the bookstore. He spotted her first, initiated the conversation. She’d been fantasizing about him so much, she had almost forgotten he was a real person. In just a few days he had taken on a mythical quality. It hadn’t crossed her mind that she might run into him again or that she could have sought him out if she’d chosen. Looking back on it now, she decided that that more than anything showed how young and innocent she had been.
He’d called her by name, and when she remarked on his remembering it, he said, “Hard to forget. Old Testament. Your parents weren’t messing around with that name.”
“Neither were yours,” she told him. “Benjamin?”
“Please—just Ben.”
He was on his way to the pier. A bunch of people were sailing to Long Point to see the lighthouse. “You should come,” he said.
There were two problems with this: one, Ruth was nervous out on the water because of her fear of sharks. Two, Ruth was supposed to meet her parents back at the house by six for dinner and then fireworks. Would a boat trip fit into that time frame? Looking at Ben, she decided it was worth risking being late for dinner. And death by shark.
During the short walk to the wharf, she learned he was from Cherry Hill, New Jersey, not even an hour from where she lived back in Philly. That they should have spent their entire lives so close to each other only to meet on the tip of Cape Cod, seven hours from home, made their connection seem all the more magical to her. In the fall, he would begin his sophomore year at Penn. She told him she was starting Northwestern at the end of August.
She didn’t want to think about all of that. She wanted only that day, with the cloudless sky and the temperature hovering somewhere in the high seventies and the harbor filled with boats, one of which—a sailboat that could fit half a dozen people—was waiting to transport their group across the harbor. Ben Cooperman held out his hand to help her climb aboard.
