Ruth invited Ben to join her when she looked at the house for sale.
“You’re a very decisive woman, Ruth,” he’d said. “I’m sure you don’t need my input.”
Of course she didn’t. But it was a great excuse to spend some time together; she’d barely seen him since the Fourth of July party last week. He took writing classes during the day and at night he was just as scarce. Her real estate opportunities might be opening, but her window to reconnect with Ben seemed to be closing quickly.
“It never hurts to have another opinion,” Ruth said. “Olivia might be able to meet me there but only if she’s back from the flats in time.”
Olivia seemed to be transforming into a full-fledged oyster farmer. Her wardrobe of trendy cutoff shorts, delicately ribbed tank tops, and strappy sandals had been replaced by utilitarian T-shirts, knee-high all-weather boots, a few pairs of rubber overalls, and an omnipresent baseball hat. She appeared at the house covered head to toe in muck.
Ruth had never seen her happier.
Ben agreed to join her, though she had to schedule the house tour within a very specific time frame.
What was he so busy doing? As the two of them walked to the West End, Ruth debated whether or not to bring up the topic of Bianca Barros. It was none of her business. But then, wasn’t it? He was living under her roof; he was supposed to be spending time with Olivia and, well, yes, maybe her. Instead, he was consorting with the enemy. Fine, maybe enemy was overstating it. But she did not like that woman—not one bit.
“So what’s with you and Bianca?” Ruth said as they passed the library. It was midway through their walk, so if she was going to initiate a conversation, there was no time to waste.
“We’re friends,” he said.
“Just friends?” she said, eyebrows raised.
“Ruth, is this an appropriate conversation?”
“We’ve known each other for forty years. We have a child together. If you can’t be frank with me, who can you be frank with?”
“Fair enough. Yes, at this point, we are just friends.”
“Well, I would keep my distance if I were you,” she said, glancing at him. “That woman can’t be trusted.” She knew him well enough to recognize the look of guilt on his face. “Ben, you didn’t trust her with anything private, did you? I don’t want her knowing my business.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t told her any of your business.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“Nothing about you,” he said defensively. “We just talked.”
“Well, I have to wonder why you picked the most unpleasant person in this entire town to become friends with.”
“She’s not unpleasant, Ruth. She’s just had a hard life. Did you know she was widowed in her thirties? She raised her daughter alone, working at the boatyard with her brothers.”
“That might be the cause of her unpleasantness. But I’d argue there are plenty of widowed single mothers who are also nice people.”
“Look, not everyone has as much good fortune and self-agency as you have.”
“Good fortune and self-agency? What does that even mean?”
“It means you had a successful company—yes, you worked hard, I know that, but you did achieve success and now you have financial security and freedom. Bianca was edged out of the business by her brothers; her father left his house to her daughter—the house you’re currently renting—and then the daughter sold the house and moved to Florida. Bianca feels she’s lost her place in the world.”
“You always did like the lost puppies. Is that what attracted you to me?”
“You’re the least lost person I’ve ever known, Ruth. Even when things were bad, you always knew how to land on your feet.”
They passed the boatyard and Provincia. Soon, they would reach the corner of Nickerson Street, where Clifford was meeting them. Now was the time to tell Ben about her feelings for him—let him know that she had not landed on her feet. That eighteen years ago, she had initiated a permanent fix to a possibly temporary problem, and now she regretted it.
“Always early! I love that about you, Ruth,” Clifford called out from across the street, waving at them. He was dressed in a baby-blue seersucker suit and a pink bow tie.
“You look very dapper today, Clifford,” she said.
“I always dress up when I show houses for sale,” he said. “Although I give myself some sartorial leeway when I’m showing rentals. Glad you could join us, Ben.” Then, to Ruth: “I asked Santiago to meet us here too in case you have questions about what can be done in terms of renovation or additions.”
“Do you think it needs renovation?” she said.
“No. I think it’s perfection. But it’s your house,” he said with a wink.
“Well, we’ll see,” Ruth said, glancing at Ben.
They followed him half a block to a three-story Greek Revival, white clapboard with green shutters. It had a front portico and another porch to the left; there was a small cupola on the roof. The brick walkway was flanked by pink and blue hydrangeas.
“The house is named Blue Stone,” Clifford said, “after the tiles that used to line the walkway. Talk about curb appeal, am I right?”
Inside, the house had been modernized; there were wide entranceways between rooms and an open kitchen with granite counters and state-of-the-art appliances, yet it still had an informal, beachy feel to it. Upstairs, the four spacious bedrooms continued the low-maintenance vibe with paneled walls and French Country furniture. Ruth was already imagining her own decorative take on the interior. She would gloss it up just a bit but keep the overall character of the home.
“And the pièce de résistance, the backyard,” Clifford said.
A red-brick patio had been added to the house, topped with a vine-laced pergola. The foliage was lush and just a little wild. Behind the plants and flowers, in the very back of the lawn, a classic white gazebo.
Ruth let out a sigh. “It’s perfection, Clifford. It really is.”
“What’s the asking price?” said Ben.
With a flourish, Clifford produced a small notepad, jotted down some numbers, and passed the page to them both. Ben let out a low whistle.
“I’ll make a cash offer,” Ruth said. Why not? The house was breathtaking. She had the money. And the sooner she could move out of Shell Haven, the better. The truth about Mira’s maternity was eating at her more and more with every passing day.
“I like your style, Ruth Cooperman,” Clifford said.
Ben reached for her elbow. “May we have a word alone for a minute?”
“Of course! Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll go call Santiago to let him know his services will not be needed today.”
Ben walked from the porch into the sunlight and crossed the lawn to the gazebo. She followed him, jarred by the intrusive fantasy that this was their home, that they were spending a leisurely afternoon together. “You don’t like the house?” she said.
“It’s a great house. But that’s a lot of money, Ruth.”
“Well, what better way to spend it than on a home?”
“So you’re really doing this? You’re moving here?”
Give me a reason not to, she thought. “Looks that way,” she said.
Ben nodded, smiled, and said, “Well, then—congratulations. I’m happy for you, Ruth.”
She should have been happy too. Overjoyed. She would finally have what she’d set out looking for last winter: her retirement beach house. She remembered the frustration of arriving on that mid-May morning, not finding the keys in the Shell Haven mailbox, running around town like a lost tourist. But now she belonged. She had friends, she had a renewed relationship with her daughter, and soon she would have a home to call her own.
That would have to be enough.
Olivia was elbow-deep in oyster cages when she remembered she was supposed to try to meet her mother on Nickerson Street. “What time is it?” she asked Marco. He consulted his waterproof watch and informed her of an hour much later than she’d thought.
“You tiring out on me already?” he said, teasing her.
She told him about her mother’s house hunt, that she was afraid she would overpay for something because she was so eager to have her own home. “I want to try to make it in time before she does something impulsive.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Marco said. “Some of the asking prices for these houses are outrageous.”
They wrapped up early, leaving a bunch of cages unchecked. To save time, Marco suggested she just shower at his parents’ house. “No one’s around. They took Jaci to visit friends in Truro.”
“I didn’t even bring a change of clothes,” she said. He told her to borrow something from Jaci.
Olivia left her muddy boots on Lidia’s porch and took the stairs to the second floor, texting her mother that she would be there soon. Are you there yet? Don’t leave before I get there. I want to see it.
She knocked on Jaci’s closed bedroom door out of habit, then opened it. The bed was made and the windows were half open, letting in the warm breeze. Olivia felt bad going through her dresser looking for a T-shirt, but Marco had assured her it was okay. She wanted to find something Jaci wouldn’t miss right away, so she passed over the top layer of crew-neck T-shirts and tanks and dug into the bottom of the pile.
She pulled out a Long Point T-shirt and in the process dislodged a notecard that had been buried underneath all of the clothes. She recognized the stationery her mother had been using for her little gift packages.
How sweet that Jaci had saved her mother’s note. She couldn’t help but wonder what her mother had written. Olivia was still trying to reconcile the selfish, absentee Ruth of her childhood with the caring, present, infinitely giving woman she had been living with all summer.
Accidentally discovering the note was one thing, but Olivia knew that reading it would be crossing the line into officially snooping. Still, she couldn’t resist seeking one more clue as she tried to put together the puzzle of who her mother actually was. Maybe she was both the woman Olivia remembered and the woman she had experienced this summer. If so, what did it mean for the future of their relationship?
She unfolded the notecard and sat on the edge of Jaci’s bed.
Dear Jaci,
I know this is a difficult time for you. I know the choice you made feels like the best choice today. But please know, mother to mother, that whoever you are today will change. You will not be the same person five years from now, ten years from now, fifteen years from now. You will change, circumstances will change, but motherhood is forever. I am here if you want to talk.
Warmly, Ruth
Olivia read the note until it was burned into her memory, and only then did she let herself acknowledge what the note meant: the mystery baby belonged to Jaci.
And her mother had known all along.