Page 64 of Summer Longing
Ruth carried her purchases to the counter—some candles, a bar of lemongrass soap, a perfume, and a few bottles of essential oil.
“That will be two hundred and twenty dollars,” the man behind the register said. She startled at the price. Even though she had not had to worry about the cost of things for a long time, she still felt a reflexive jolt when something was expensive, a sort of muscle memory from the time when every dollar counted. She had worked hard to never again be in the vulnerable position she was in when her father went bankrupt.
It had happened the first week of her senior year in college. Ruth stood in a long line to register for her classes, but when it was her turn to fill out forms, the student managing the paperwork told her, “You need to report to the bursar’s office.”
Ruth was in a sweat by the time she reached the administration building, where a secretary told her coldly that her tuition had not been paid for the semester so she was not eligible for registration.
“There must be some mistake,” Ruth said.
Ruth called her mother, who had no idea what was going on but also insisted it had to be a mistake. “I’ll take care of it,” her mother said. Ruth expected her mother to call back within the hour and tell her it had been a mix-up, a check lost in the mail. Instead, it was close to dinner when her mother called back and said, “I think you need to come home for a few days.”
Ruth never returned to Northwestern.
Later, while Ben was in med school, she considered taking the classes she needed to complete her BA. But by then she was already working at the cosmetics manufacturing company; it would have been a burden for both of them to be in school at the same time. She knew she would have to figure out an unconventional career path. And she had.
The man behind the shop counter asked if she wanted anything gift-wrapped. She told him just the candles, and he placed them in white paper bags with purple tissue paper and wrapped the twine handles together with a matching ribbon.
The candles were for Amelia. Ruth had been so caught up in trying to get settled in the house and get a foothold in her life in Provincetown, she’d not properly acknowledged the woman’s kindness to her from the very first day she arrived. Ruth felt bad about dropping out of the mosaic class, her starfish abandoned in the sketch phase.
Outside, she inhaled the fresh air. The sidewalk and streets were crowded, and a truck rumbling by halted the foot traffic while it passed. Ruth headed toward the Beach Rose Inn, thinking about the soap she’d made and considering mixing up a little something else to go along with it before giving it to Elise. She could make a protective lotion, a diaper-rash cream, with the bentonite clay. And then, she caught sight of something that made her look twice: Olivia pushing a baby carriage.
It was a scenario she had imagined at one time or another, her daughter with a baby of her own; Ruth, the doting grandmother. This reality, of course, was far from that fantasy. Still, the visual stirred her on some primal level. “Hi, hon,” Ruth said cheerily, ignoring the rush of sentimentality. “I’m surprised to see you on babysitting duty.”
Olivia’s light hair was pulled back in a messy knot. She wore a V-neck T-shirt and green cargo pants and flip-flops. Ruth never did understand this generation’s willingness to walk around in flimsy shoes.
“Yes, well, no more surprised than I am. Elise needed to unpack boxes or something. But I’m taking Mira home now.” She peeked under the car seat’s hood. “It looks like she fell asleep.”
“I’ll walk back with you,” Ruth said, figuring her gift delivery could wait one more day.
Olivia didn’t seem put out by her company, and Ruth felt encouraged by this. “Did your father confirm he’s coming?” she said.
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?“Oh, that’s soon. I didn’t realize…”
Olivia turned to Ruth. “Thanks for letting him stay at the house.”
“No problem,” Ruth said, though again she was not so sure. She didn’t mind the idea of him coming, but she anticipated some awkwardness; seeing him in the kitchen first thing in the morning, for example. Although it couldn’t be any more awkward than the last time she’d seen him, about a year ago in Philadelphia. She was having dinner at Scarpetta, on a date—maybe her second or third with a guy she could barely remember now—and Ben had walked in with an attractive woman about their own age. He spotted her at the same moment she’d noticed him, and their eye contact had been jolting in its intimacy. But the wall went back up, the polite veil; he stopped by the table to say hello, and cursory introductions were made. The brief encounter had been enough to throw off the rhythm of her entire evening.
The next afternoon, she was surprised to get a phone call from Ben.
“I was taken aback running into you last night,” he’d said. “And obviously it wasn’t the best time to talk. But I have been thinking of you, hoping you’re well.”
She couldn’t remember the rest of the conversation, but every time she recalled it, she felt the inexplicable happiness that had followed. She had thought about making a similar call over the years but she had never gone through with it. Most recently, she had wanted his counsel about the sale of the business. As per their divorce settlement, he was entitled to a percentage of the profits. He had no say in the management, but still, she would have valued his opinion. It was a huge step that had made her feel very alone.
“Is your father seeing anyone?” Ruth said.
Olivia narrowed her eyes, squinting with a distinctWhy do you care?expression. “No. Not at the moment.”
She was so protective of him! Ruth couldn’t understand why Olivia’s empathy was for her father only.
They passed the tea shop, and she looked up the stairs and saw theCLOSEDsign on the front door. She wondered if Elise and Fern were both back at the house. She was getting used to having people underfoot constantly, but she still craved privacy and didn’t want her time with Olivia to be interrupted. Ruth could see Olivia using Elise and Fern as buffers sometimes, avoiding too much conversation alone.
“I’m starving,” Olivia said, pausing outside of Spindler’s.
“Well, let’s eat. Mira’s asleep. I’ll text Elise we’re here—I doubt she’ll mind.”
The maître d’ standing sentry in front of the restaurant consulted a reservation book before seating them outside on the front patio. Olivia eased slowly into her chair, one hand on her lower back, wincing. Sitting was worse than walking.
