Page 6 of The Runaway

Upstairs, Ruby switches on the lamp that sits on the corner of her desk and sits at her computer. The room is like a tiny attic hideaway with a sloped ceiling, and her desk sits facing a window made of blue and white stained glass in a fleur-de-lis pattern. She types in the password and brings up her email. The last one from Dexter is the one where he proposed a trip to New York in October so that they could cover a few things over the course of three long days, rather than chopped up into Zoom calls late in the evenings, as they normally do.

So far, she hasn't replied to his invitation, though the minute she read it she started having visions of herself in a chunky sweater and boots, drinking a coffee by the window of a chic cafe as crisp leaves blow by under a blue sky. Autumn in New York is magical, and the invitation had tempted her immediately, but the deeper implications of it had held her back from responding.

She re-reads the email now, parsing it for meaning:

Ruby--

I hope this isn't too much of an ask, but I'd love it if we could do a long weekend in NYC. Hear me out: you could stay anywhere that suits you and I would come to you. We can enjoy the city and the restaurants as we go over some of the topics we've set aside for a time when we have longer to talk. No pressure, and I'd work around your schedule, but I'm thinking early October. I have a draft of the first four chapters I'd love to share with you as well--but in person, so we can talk about them and consider any changes together. Thoughts?

--Dexter

Surely there isn't any deeper meaning--he's just asking her to come up to New York and sit down with him so they can cover the timeline of Jack's death, more of what she knows of his relationship with Etienne, and probably how she really felt the first time she met Jack and Etienne's son, Julien. None of these are wounds that she's dying to pour salt into, but she knows that it will be necessary to address these topics at some point, and possibly the sooner the better.

With a sigh, Ruby pulls out her Day Planner (she still prefers writing things down by hand, no matter how many times her daughters or her assistant beg her to put everything into her phone calendar), and flips through the next few weeks. She picks up a pen and taps the end of it on the first week of October. It's wide open at the moment.

Ruby sets the pen down and puts her fingers on the keyboard.

Dexter--

Apologies for my delay in responding, but I needed to check my schedule. Would the first week of October work for you? I would fly into the city and stay at the Conrad Downtown. I can get a suite that would provide us with a sitting area to talk if necessary, but I think I'd really love to combine the heaviness of our discussions with some more fun activities. It's going to be hard to talk about some of this, but I think I'm ready. It's time.

--Ruby

She hits send and then puts her pen inside the Day Planner between the pages for the first and second week of October, closing the black leather book and setting it on the desk blotter. Every day feels like an exercise in picking up the pieces and moving forward; every day is another opportunity to grow into the new version of Ruby Hudson that she wants to be.

In fact, she's begun to think of herself as Ruby Dallarosa again more often--this is her maiden name, and one she hasn't used in nearly twenty-five years--and she finds that, at least in her mind, it suits her. She may never be able to leave Ruby Hudson behind completely, nor does she want to, but Ruby can begin to move more in the direction of her old self so that she can find the sweet spot between who she is, who she was, and who she wants to be.

Sunday

"So, we just finished readingPark Avenue Summer," Ruby says to the book club, holding her own hardcover copy in her hands. Little flags and post-it notes stick out from every angle. "I have to say, I loved this look back at Manhattan in the mid-sixties, and I thought the whole culture of working at a women's magazine was fascinating."

Joining Ruby's book club had been a no-brainer for Sunday: she loves to read, she loves to chat with other women, and so far, she deeply loves Shipwreck Key and wants to be a part of everything that goes on there.

Marigold Pim, former supermodel, current spokeswoman of all things pertaining to aging gracefully and without judgment, stands up and walks over to the table at the side of the room where they always set up their snacks and drinks on book club night.

"Helen Gurley Brown had balls the size of cantaloupes," Marigold says, picking up a napkin and filling it with herb and cheese baked crackers. "She brought the sexual revolution into women's homes by writing boldly about sex and empowerment. I know this book is technically historical fiction, but I felt inspired reading about a real-life figure who did so much for the women's movement. It made me want to go out and conquer a man--any man--and plant my flag on him." She pops a cracker into her mouth and crunches it happily.

"Some of it was pretty over-the-top for me," Molly, the owner of The Scuttlebutt, Shipwreck Key's coffee shop/unofficial water cooler, says with a dubious look in Marigold's direction. Molly is in her sixties, wears no makeup, and believes in living her life without frills or artifice. She's been a widow for forty years, her heart is as big as the wide open sea, and she’s quickly become an integral part of the book club. “I mean, did women really need to start wearing skirts so short that they flashed their business at everyone?”

Athena, Ruby’s older daughter, clears her throat. “I would argue that women should havealwaysbeen able to wear whatever they wanted to wear. This idea that we’re opening ourselves up to sexual advances from men when we’re not dressing to please them in the first place just feeds into toxic rape culture.”

Molly rears back in shock. “Now, I know I’ve been living on a rock in the sea for my whole life here, but ‘toxic rape culture’? Honey, this is a fact as old as time and it will never change, whether you young women like it or not: you have to dress the way you want to be treated. It’s the same as dressing for success in the workplace—you do that because you want to be taken seriously in a man’s world, right? Well, I say the same thing applies in every aspect of your life: if you dress like you’ve got something for sale, you’re going to be treated that way.”

Tilly’s eyebrows are nearly in her hairline, and Vanessa, who is Ruby’s more sweet and innocent bookstore employee, looks like a fish gasping for air on dry land.

“Are you saying that we all dress like hoes?” Harlow, Ruby’s younger daughter, asks. Her nostrils are slightly flared.

“No,” Molly says firmly, shaking her head. “I’m saying that you can’t change human nature. If you put your goods in front of a man, he’s going to see you a certain way even if you’ve been bestowed with the biggest brain on the planet. Men are simple that way, honey--if you show them boobs, they think 'boobs.' I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but facts are facts.”

After nibbling quietly on a plate of crackers and spinach dip while she nurses a glass of Chardonnay, Sunday finally speaks up.

“Ladies,” she says, looking as laid-back as if someone has just roused her from a relaxing bubble bath, “you can do everything right—you can dress the way they want you to, say the right things, and act like a perfect lady—but you’re still going to have people wiping their feet on your back. So while I’m old enough to agree whole-heartedly with Molly, I’m also of the mind that our younger women are getting it right by giving the middle finger to the patriarchy.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her wine. “I just don’t think I care anymore what anybody believes about me.” Ruby is shooting her a pointed look, but Sunday doesn’t even register the arched eyebrow. “I’m the perfect example: I did it all the way everyone wanted and expected me to, and I still spent three decades married to a man who couldn't keep it zipped.”

Athena chokes on the sip of Diet Coke that she’s just taken and Harlow leans over and whacks her on the back unceremoniously.

“But Aunt Sun,” Athena says again when she’s cleared her airway. “Nothing your husband did had anything to do with howyouacted. You have to know that, right?”

Sunday waves a hand through the air lazily and stands up, wandering to the front window with her wine glass in hand. For this evening, she’s dressed in a pair of black leggings, a black bodysuit, and a long, flowing chiffon vest in a swirl of pinks and blues that reaches her calves and floats on the air as she walks. She’s wearing black platform sandals with an ankle strap, and a huge pair of pink amethyst stud earrings. So far, Ruby’s book club meetings have been the only thing that gets Sunday to take off her running shorts and flip-flops, and she actually enjoys digging through her closet to find something fun to wear to these evenings of wine and book talk.

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