To Ruth’s great surprise, Olivia agreed to go to the party with her.
Olivia had spent the entire day alone, hobbling around the house, which must have made her mother’s company a bit more palatable. Still, Olivia was quiet as they walked west on Commercial to Rachel and Luke’s house, not speaking until they reached Big Vin’s Liquor, where Ruth bought a few bottles of wine.
“Who are these people again?” Olivia asked.
“Amelia and her granddaughter Rachel run a bed-and-breakfast in town. I met Amelia my first day here—long story. At any rate, she teaches the mosaic class. The house we’re going to is Rachel and her husband’s. I’m sure the food will be delicious. Rachel is quite the cook, from what I’ve heard. Amelia taught her everything she knows.”
“Must be nice,” Olivia said pointedly. Ruth ignored the dig. Fine, so she had never so much as cracked an egg in Olivia’s presence. Sue me, Ruth thought.
The sidewalk crowds thinned as they reached the far West End. It quieted enough to hear the call of birds. A fox dashed under a parked car.
The air was heavy with water and salt, and Ruth inhaled it, breathing in the heady scent of freedom, youth, possibility. The beach was her reset button, always had been. When she was a child, that beach had been the Jersey Shore, the miles of boardwalk and the casinos glittering like jewels at the tip of Atlantic City. As an adult, she’d spent some time in the Hamptons as a guest at some very memorable homes, all glass and sharp edges with expertly designed infinity pools that suggested the ocean was not enough. But the beach closest to her heart was this three-mile stretch of fantasy that declared, with every breathtaking sunset and every art studio and novelty shop and waterfront café, that she was home.
Ruth glanced over at her daughter, resisting the urge to reach for her hand, to look at her and say, There’s so much I want to tell you if you’d just give me a chance.
When they reached the address, Ruth realized she had noticed the house—a white-shingled cottage with turquoise shutters—several times before. Like Shell Haven’s, the front lawn bloomed with hydrangeas in violet and white and pale pink. On the front porch, a rocking chair painted the same bright blue as the shutters.
On the front door was a pink Post-it note that read Door is open. We’re out back.
“Can you imagine that in New York?” Olivia said, referring, Ruth assumed, to Provincetown’s very literal open-door policy that had so surprised her when Fern offered to leave her house key in the mailbox.
“I think it’s nice,” Ruth said, turning the doorknob. “People trusting others. Too bad we can’t all live that way.”
Inside, the décor was spare but elegant with lots of pale wood and splashes of color everywhere. The living room had a skylight and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They walked through, traversing a narrow foyer to a bright kitchen with a white marble island, hardwood floors, and a farmhouse sink. Here, too, the bright accents—lime-green Shaker cabinets, a mosaic fruit bowl made of green glass.
Rachel stood at the island tossing a giant salad of yellow and ruby heirloom tomatoes with feta. “So glad you could make it,” she said. Ruth handed her the wine, and Rachel said she shouldn’t have.
“This is my daughter, Olivia,” Ruth said. It struck her for the first time that Rachel and Olivia were around the same age. She still had a strange mental tic of thinking of Olivia as being younger than she actually was, perpetually just out of college. It was some kind of subconscious denial about the passage of time.
“What a lovely house,” Olivia said.
“Thank you—I love it, but I can’t take any credit. It’s Luke’s father’s; he gave it to us when he moved west. We did make a small addition to the back, sort of a guest suite. In fact, our contractor Santiago is here tonight. You’ll meet him outside.”
“Meet who outside?” a familiar voice sang from the French doors at the far end of the room. Clifford Henry.
“I was just telling my friend Ruth here about Santiago’s work on the house. Ruth, this is—”
“We know each other!” Clifford said with a clap of delight. He air-kissed Ruth on each cheek, then turned to Olivia. “Who is this gorgeous creature?”
“Clifford, this is my daughter, Olivia. She’s visiting from New York. Olivia, this is my real estate agent.”
“I promised Rachel no shop talk tonight,” he said. “But the hors d’oeuvres have not been served yet, so I consider this a grace period.”
“Make it quick, Clifford,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes.
“I have my nose to the ground like a bloodhound for you, but nothing solid yet,” he said, linking his arm through Ruth’s. “Do you have any leads?”
Ruth shook her head. “I’m coming to accept the idea that I won’t find something like Shell Haven any time soon.”
“Never say never,” he declared. “The summer rental is always a gateway drug. You’re in love with the house.” Ruth nodded. He squeezed her arm and added, “Maybe we can work on Fern. Money talks, nobody walks. I’ll speak to her.”
“Not tonight you won’t,” Rachel said. “Now, outside, all of you. Before I put you to work.”
The French doors opened onto a porch framed by a flower garden. Beyond that, a lush green lawn with a long picnic table dressed in white linen. To the right, a swimming pool. Rachel’s husband, Luke, and Clifford’s husband, Santiago, were seated at the picnic table along with Amelia and two men and two women whom Ruth didn’t recognize at first. And then she realized she did recognize one of them; it was the man from the boat-rental office. Oh, good Lord. Recalling her shark-phobic questions, she was embarrassed.
“Ruth and Olivia, this is Lidia and Manny Barros—you’ve met their son, Marco.”
Lidia Barros looked to be about Ruth’s age, maybe a few years younger. She had thick dark hair threaded with silver, slightly sun-weathered skin, big brown eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a cleft in her chin. Manny, with his wide nose, dark eyes, and olive complexion, reminded her of Pablo Picasso. “And this is Manny’s sister, Bianca.”
Ruth recognized the woman with the distinctive white stripe in her hair; she had been in the tea shop the day Ruth spoke to Fern about Shell Haven. She started to say hello, but the woman narrowed her eyes at her in a decidedly unfriendly way. Odd.
“Last, but certainly not least, Manny’s brother, Tito,” Rachel said.
The man from the boat-rental place shook Ruth’s hand. “We’ve actually met,” he told Rachel. “We just haven’t been formally introduced.”
Barros Boatyard. Ruth hadn’t made the connection that it was Marco’s family. She looked around the table, putting it all together: There were the three siblings, Manny and Tito and Bianca. Manny and his wife, Lidia, were the parents of Marco. Tito and Manny ran the boatyard. The town instantly became more tightly knit to her, and Ruth had the pleasant realization that she was now a small part of it.
Ruth took the seat next to Bianca, and Olivia slid into the one next to Ruth.
“Nice to see you again.” Tito smiled, holding up a wine bottle. “Red or white?”
“White, please,” said Ruth. He poured her a glass.
“How rude, Tito,” said Bianca. “Don’t just reach over me. I’m sure she’s capable of handling a bottle of wine.”
“If you don’t want me to reach over you, then why don’t you switch seats? Isn’t the whole point of these things to talk to new people? I don’t need to listen to you yak all night long.”
“I’m not moving,” Bianca said.
Rachel appeared with the salad and placed it in the center of the table. Amelia excused herself, retreated to the kitchen, and returned with two dishes. “Codfish cakes and roasted sweet peppers,” she announced.
“Avó, sit. I can take care of everything,” Rachel said. Amelia rubbed her hands, and Ruth wondered if she suffered from arthritis. How old was she? It was easy to forget Amelia was up there in years; she was so active and seemed to have boundless energy.
“Let me help you,” Ruth said, following Rachel back into the house.
“Sometimes I wish she’d just take it easy,” Rachel said, peeking into a large pot on the stove. She picked up a plate of cooked shrimp and tossed them into the pot, then added peas, lobster meat, and mushrooms.
“What are you making?”
“Seafood rice.”
“Smells delicious,” Ruth said. “Yes, your grandmother is a dynamo. She’s inspiring.”
Rachel nodded. She pulled a glass baking dish from the drying rack, wiped it down, then greased it with butter. “She’s resilient. She lost her wife, Kelly, three years ago.”
“She mentioned her to me at the mosaic class.”
“Yeah, it was rough. That’s why she teaches the class. Kelly was a great mosaic artist—that’s one of her pieces right there—and I think working in the studio, carrying on the tradition by teaching new people, makes her feel connected to Kelly.” Rachel smiled and handed Ruth a wicker basket filled with warm rolls. “If you can take this outside, that would be great. I’m just going to get this rice into the casserole dish. I’ll meet you out there.”
Ruth held the basket against her midsection as she closed the patio doors behind her. The sun was just starting to set; the sky was streaked a dusty pink and gold. Ruth inhaled deeply, feeling blessed in the moment, having the sense that she was in the exact right place at the exact right time in her life.
When she reached the table, she saw that Tito and Bianca had, in fact, exchanged seats. When she sat next to him, he leaned over and said, “No shark sightings yet this season. Just in case you were wondering.”
She shook her head but couldn’t resist smiling. “I guess I deserved that.”
“I’m just teasing. But I hope you change your mind and come out on the water one day. It would be a shame for you to spend time in this town and not experience the best part of it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ruth felt fluttery with happiness. She didn’t know if it was the attention from Tito or the homemade food; most likely, it was the fact that, seated at a table full of other people’s family, she had her own by her side.
Amelia stood. “Now that everyone’s here, I’d like to make a toast,” she said. “To the start of another beautiful summer.”
“To the summer,” the guests echoed, raising their glasses.
Ruth smiled at Olivia, but her daughter looked away.
How ironic that Olivia had had to travel to Provincetown to find the two best-looking straight guys she’d ever met.
She’d started the evening sitting between Rachel’s husband, Luke, and Amelia. Luke was friendly and talkative; he’d asked a lot of questions about her life in New York. “How long are you staying in town?” he said.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. No matter what. “So you and Rachel live here year-round?” It was inconceivable. What on earth could you possibly do with your time during the cold in a place like this? She could barely imagine staying here more than a few weeks even during the peak beach season.
“Yes. During the school year I teach at the University of Rhode Island.”
“Oh? What do you teach?”
“Urban planning.”
She nodded, not exactly sure what that entailed. “This is a great house.”
“Thanks. It’s my father’s. His health isn’t great, so he moved out west for the dry climate.”
A few more guests arrived, and everyone shifted around the table to accommodate them. Marco ended up on Olivia’s other side. He made no acknowledgment of the fact that they’d met the other day at the house. Was it possible he didn’t recognize her? Or did he simply not care? It struck her, as she pondered these two options, that she cared. That, to be honest, she had agreed to come to the party just in hopes of seeing him again.
It was ridiculous.
Trying to get her head right, she focused on the food in front of her. She clicked back into professional mode and, recognizing the social media moment, snapped a photo of the charred roasted red peppers and posted it.
Marco turned to her with an odd look.
“It’s for Instagram,” she said.
He shook his head. “I thought that stuff was for teenagers.”
Olivia crossed her arms. “My whole job is based on social media. It’s an enormous industry.”
“Oh, well—that’s interesting,” he said, though she could tell he thought just the opposite.
It grew dark; candles were lit. The food kept coming: rice baked with lobster and shrimp; stewed green beans; a roasted chicken; shrimp grilled with garlic and cilantro. The wine flowed, but she abstained. She was taking enough ibuprofen to kill a horse, and still her back seized every time she stood up and throbbed when she was sitting down. How was she going to drive in the morning? Twenty-four hours hadn’t given her one bit of improvement.
Rachel, her hosting duties on hold during the main course, sat next to Luke. He put his arm around her. While the table buzzed with chatter, they bent their heads together and talked mostly to each other. It was their own private party.
The sight of their easy, profound intimacy in the center of that joyous, crowded table made Olivia feel very, very alone.