Page 89 of Summer Longing
Ruth made a stop before meeting Olivia and Ben at the restaurant. It took longer than anticipated, so she was running late by the time she turned off Commercial onto Kiley Court.
Ciro and Sal’s was nestled in the middle of a red-brick courtyard bordered by a vine-covered white trellis and marked with a chalkboard sign on the ground readingWELCOME TO CIRO & SAL’S—PROVINCETOWN’S HIDDEN GEM. The building was surrounded by plants, flowers, and trees, some with low-hanging branches strewn with tiny lights.
She walked through the shingled front doorway, and as soon as she stepped inside, the vibe changed from enchanted garden to hidden speakeasy. The restaurant was dark and cave-like with low ceilings, brick walls with built-in wine racks, and Chianti bottles hanging everywhere.
A hostess led her to the table where Olivia and Ben were already seated.
“Interesting choice, Mom,” Olivia said when Ruth slid into the seat next to her, across from Ben.
“Sorry I’m late,” Ruth said. “How’s the menu look?”
“Northern Italian,” Ben said. “How could it be bad?”
“Did you order anything yet?”
“Just the wine,” Olivia said. Ben picked up the bottle of red and filled Ruth’s glass.
Dean Martin played over the sound system. The place smelled woodsy and musty, and Ruth could feel the decades that had passed within the walls. She knew exactly what Clifford meant when he had said that history was in the air.
Ben raised his glass. “To Olivia, who has rebounded after a tough start to the summer. Onward and upward.”
“Onward and upward,” Ruth repeated. All she could think was how strange and yet familiar it was to be sitting at a table with Ben and their daughter. When was the last time they’d done this? Maybe a college-graduation celebration dinner, but there had been other couples then, Olivia’s friend’s parents. And then she remembered that the day after her sister had had surgery, Ben and Olivia stopped by the hospital. At some point, the three of them had gone to the cafeteria for lunch or coffee. Still, nothing like this. Something about being around Ben and Olivia together made her feel whole. There was an ineffable rightness about it, and it warmed her more intensely than the wine that was already lighting up her bloodstream.
“And to our last night in Provincetown,” Ben said.
Olivia lowered her glass. “We’re leaving tomorrow?”
“We discussed this,” Ben said.
“I thought you meantnextFriday,” Olivia said.
Was Ruth imagining the note of distress in her voice?
“Olivia, I said I’d come out for a night or two. It’s been a week. Besides, I know you’ve been dying to get back to the city.”
“I never said that.”
Ben looked at Ruth.
“Why don’t you stay a bit longer,” Ruth said, never one to miss an opening. “Maybe through the Fourth of July? The Barroses are having a party, and the Fourth is always a great weekend in town.” She could not bring herself to meet Ben’s eyes as she said this. For years, even after they were married, they had informally celebrated the Fourth of July as their anniversary.
“Perfect!” Olivia said.
Ben shook his head. “Thanks, Ruth. That’s very generous of you. But I really should get home. Olivia, if you want to stay and feel you can travel back on your own, that’s up to you.”
Ruth opened her bag and dug around for the papers that she had picked up on her way to the restaurant. “Well, if you don’t want to stay until the Fourth, you might want to consider coming back for that week. There’s a lot of stuff going on in town.” She slid a brochure from the Fine Arts Work Center across the table, opened to the page of July workshops. She’d circled the five days of playwriting intensives.
Ben picked it up and held it close to the candle in the center of the table, then, still unable to read it, he pulled his glasses out of his jacket pocket. When he finally realized what he was looking at, he placed the brochure on the table, removed his glasses, and folded his arms. “Ruth,” he said, shaking his head.
“I just thought it might be fun.”
“What is it? What’s going on?” Olivia said.
“Nothing,” Ben said. He reached for his wine.
The waiter appeared and took their orders, but after that, the conversation that had flowed so easily over the wine somehow dried up. The Fine Arts Work Center brochure sat in the middle of the table like untended baggage at an airport terminal—glaring and potentially dangerous.
“So, Dad, what do you say? We’ll stay until the Fourth?” Olivia said. “What’s the point in being retired if you can’t be spontaneous?”
