It was long after dinner and Fern had still not returned from her visit with Amelia. Elise began to wonder if she planned to come back to the house at all.
Maybe she’d gone too far last night in bringing up Fern’s refusal to try to carry a child of their own. But how could Fern look at her and say she’d wanted a child as much as Elise? It simply wasn’t true and Elise needed Fern to acknowledge it. She needed her wife to acknowledge her pain—a pain that was not equal between them. But now was not the time to press this fine emotional point. It was not worth pushing their relationship to the brink.
Was Fern truly moving back to living above the tea shop, as she’d said last night? Or was that just the heat of anger talking?
Elise wasn’t willing to leave it to chance.
She fed Mira one last bottle for the night, burped her, and dressed her in a fresh onesie. She checked her own limp hair in the mirror and decided she didn’t want to waste time doing anything with it. Now all she needed was someone to watch Mira for half an hour. Really, she could just bring her along in the stroller. But she felt, given the current tension between them, convincing Fern to come home tonight would be best accomplished without a baby in tow.
The last she’d seen Ruth, she was messing around with those concoctions of hers in the kitchen. Maybe Olivia was free?
She carried Mira down to the living room and found Olivia on the couch staring into space. “Hey, how’s it going?” Elise said.
Olivia smiled dreamily but said nothing. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask her to watch Mira.
“Are you okay?” Elise said.
“What? Oh, yeah. I’m just tired. I went oyster picking today.”
“I was going to ask if you could watch Mira for a few minutes while I run to Amelia’s, but it seems like you’re ready for bed…”
“No, my dad and I are going out to get ice cream. I can take her with us.”
“Really? That would be great. I’ll be back soon. She’ll probably fall asleep in the stroller.”
“No problem,” Olivia said.
Elise smiled at her gratefully. She could only hope the rest of the night would go as smoothly.
Work had always been Ruth’s escape.
Her escape from the fear of being broke, the fear of ending up unhappy like her mother. Her escape from her deteriorating marriage. And now, though it was technically not work, whipping up batches of moisturizers and soaps was once again her outlet.
This summer was supposed to have been the simplest, most uncomplicated time of her life. Now she had her grown daughter and ex-husband under her roof, and it wasn’t even her roof.
It was no wonder she couldn’t sleep at night.
Her new products—the facial cleanser with white tea and evening primrose, the body lotion with argan and coconut oil, and the oatmeal/calendula soap—had overtaken the kitchen counter. No one in the house had mentioned the rows and rows of Glasslock containers; everyone was either too busy to use the kitchen or too polite to make a fuss. But truly, it was getting out of control.
She wanted to start giving away the products, but she couldn’t bring herself to hand them out in those plain, utilitarian containers. She’d have to order some pretty jars from one of her old packagers. Maybe something in pale blue, like the hydrangeas blooming in the front and backyards.
But even as she considered how to distribute the products, she sat at the table breaking up stalks of lavender flowers and stuffing them in a mason jar to make lavender oil, her project for the next day or two.
This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands. The biting scent of the lavender—more camphor than floral—would cling to her. She hoped Tito Barros didn’t mind the smell. They were set for a dinner date the following night.
“I see old habits die hard,” Ben said from behind her.
She was getting used to hearing the sound of his voice in the house, and it dawned on her that in all these years, she had never quite gotten used to not hearing it.
She turned around. “I thought you and Olivia were going for ice cream.”
“She’s bringing the baby, so I’m waiting for them,” Ben said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her pile of flowers. “It didn’t take you long to get back to business,” he said.
“This isn’t business. This is relaxation. A hobby.”
“Come on, Ruth. It’s me you’re talking to.”
She smiled. “And this is the new me you’re talking to. I’m retired.”
He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “So I heard. You’re young for retirement.”
“I’m not young for anything anymore.”
“Well, for the record, you look great.”
She felt, in that moment, like a schoolgirl. “It’s just the Provincetown light,” she said quietly.
“I was surprised you sold.”
“Oh, come on, Ben. You’re retired now too. It’s not a big deal.”
He shook his head. “It’s different. We both know that. I imagine it was a difficult decision.”
She nodded. “It was. Very. But it was the right thing to do at the time.”
“At the time?”
She shrugged.
“Don’t tell me you have seller’s remorse,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, pushing away the thought of the discontinued Cherry Hill.
“Is that why you moved out here? So you wouldn’t be tempted to jump back in the game?”
“No, that had nothing to do with it,” she said quickly. “I moved out here because it’s one of my favorite places. I’ve wanted to come back for years, but you never wanted to vacation here, and life got so busy…”
“It seems an odd choice,” he said.
“Well…” She wondered if it was worth it to say what was on her mind, then decided why not? She had never held back and there was no point starting now. “It seems odd to me that you refused, for our entire marriage, to come out here.”
“We had the Jersey Shore.”
“Ben, let’s be real. Geography had nothing to do with it.”
When it became clear he was not going to respond, she turned her attention back to her stalks. Ben continued to sit there. His presence was a bit disconcerting, but, well, she’d welcomed him as a guest.
She was acutely aware of him watching her work.
“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll admit it would have been difficult for me to come out here.”
“Because you stopped writing.”
“Yes,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Because I stopped writing.”
She knew it. “So why did you just walk away from writing? I never asked you to give it up.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “It was one thing to spend my time trying to become a playwright when it was just me…out here…living on the arts council’s grant. Or even when I was at school, where it seemed a noble pursuit compared to my friends getting wasted at parties. But once I was about to head out into the real world and try to make a life with you, it stopped making sense.”
“There was room for both.”
“Was there? Ruth, I was with you when your father lost all his money. I saw what it did to you and your mother. I had no desire to spend years, maybe decades, as a starving artist. And I certainly had no intention of asking you to marry one.”
The weight of his words felt crushing to her. She shook her head, wanting to go back in time, to have this conversation thirty-five years earlier. “You never said any of this to me. If you’d said this at the time—”
“You would have panicked.”
“That’s not true!”
“Ruth, it’s easy for you to say that now; you’re a woman with total financial security. But think back to where we were. You didn’t even have a college degree.”
It was true.
“No wonder you resented me,” she said quietly.
He shook his head. “I never blamed you. But yes, it was hard at times to see you living your dream when I’d given up my own.”
“I encouraged you to go back to writing! Olivia couldn’t have been older than eight or nine when I suggested that to you. There was plenty of time.”
“Ruth, I devoted years and years and spent a small fortune on medical school to establish myself as a physician. You don’t just walk away from that to chase a dream you had when you were a teenager.”
She didn’t agree. But what was the point of debating it now? Still, she felt a terrible, creeping sense of regret. Yes, she’d always known he’d resented her career. But she’d blamed him for his own circumstances, figuring he hadn’t had the nerve to go for it as a writer. Now, hearing him articulate exactly why he’d given it up and realizing that so much of it had been because of her, she felt as if someone had just given her the news of a death.
“I wish…” She wished what? What would she have done differently?
“Ruth,” he said. “It’s not worth getting into all this. I’ve been very blessed in life. I have no complaints.”
He’s letting me off the hook, she thought. Ben, who still, after all this time, knew her as well as anyone, must have read the distress on her face.
“And again, I appreciate you letting me stay here. But I’ll be out of your way by Friday.”
Friday? That was only two days away. “Is Olivia leaving too?”
“That’s the plan.”
“It seems so sudden. You don’t have to rush off.”
“Rush off? I’ve been out here almost a week.”
“So? What’s the point of being retired if you can’t spend time at the beach?”
He smiled. “Ruth. You can visit her in New York. I’m sure that window is a little more open now.”
Ruth sighed. “I’m just afraid it won’t be the same. I shouldn’t fuss—I’ve had some time with her. But of course, it’s never enough.” And I won’t see you.
“Come to dinner with us tomorrow night,” he said.
Surprised, she looked at him. Somewhere in the back of her mind hummed the understanding that she had other plans. But it was distant, background noise. It was easily ignored.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”
At nine that night, the porch of the Beach Rose Inn was filled with guests lounging on deck chairs, plastic cups of wine in hand. Elise, coming to see Fern, patted Molly’s head on her way up the front steps, trying not to feel very much like a contrite dog herself, arriving with her tail between her legs.
The lobby was empty except for Rachel behind the front desk. Next to her, a mahogany English serving buffet held half a dozen open bottles of sauvignon blanc and rosé. Around the room, tables were littered with empty or nearly empty plastic cups.
“They’re compostable,” Rachel said.
“Oh,” said Elise. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Most people don’t, but I still feel defensive. You looking for Fern? She’s out back.” Rachel handed her a plastic cup.
“Oh—thanks.” Elise poured herself half a cup of rosé, tossed it back for fortification, and made her way to the rear of the house just as Fern and Amelia were walking inside.
“I know, I know—I promised she’d be home for dinner and now look at the time. It’s entirely my fault,” Amelia said, linking one arm through Fern’s and another through Elise’s. “But some conversations just take on a life of their own, don’t they?”
“They certainly do,” Fern said.
“No problem,” Elise said. “I was just thinking I could walk Fern home. I missed her.”
“So sweet! Who says marriage kills romance?” Amelia said. Elise looked over and found Fern smiling at her. She felt such a wave of relief it was almost embarrassing. So Amelia had done it—she’d talked Fern into a truce.
Amelia bade them good night at the foot of the stairs, then said to Fern, “Call me if you need anything.”
Elise couldn’t help but wonder what Fern could need. Help with the shop? With their relationship? What had they been discussing for so many hours? But then, what did it matter? Amelia could only be trying to make things better.
And yet, once they got outside, the warmth between them dissipated in the night air.
“I’m going to Boston for a few days,” Fern said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Hoping to make some inroads with the farmers’ markets and explore the possibility of getting our tea into a few restaurants.”
Elise stopped walking. “But…what about the shop?”
“I’m confident you can manage with Cynthia.”
Elise just nodded, unable to look at her, certain this trip had nothing to do with farmers’ markets and everything to do with Fern putting more distance between them.