So here she is, not exactly where she thought she’d be, but all in all, it feels right. Ruby makes a deal with Ravi to stay on at a greatly reduced cost. He’s pretty excited that the slacker clients of Robert W. Atkins seem to have a genuine interest in the place. What’s even better, they seem to have a genuine interest in him and his ideas for upgrades. “Deep pockets, Ruby, deep pockets.” He grins and hands the dog a cookie. “Can you imagine a saltwater pool and a hot tub? They’re even talking about a tiki bar.”
Ruby agrees that she can. “Just don’t lose the charm.” She isn’t quite sure if she means the crooked little motel’s charm or his.
Next stop the Country Market where Ruby runs into both Polly and Bull. It is so good to see Bull back at his post, leaning against the meat counter, jawing with the boys. He’s a little thinner, but otherwise seems none the worse for his illness. Outside, Boy and the Hitchhiker wait patiently for their people, keeping each other company. Polly is in the canned vegetables aisle, contemplating brands and prices on stewed tomatoes. She looks up as Ruby approaches. “Thought you’d gone.”
“I did, but plans got changed.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry. I could use a little of your help with a guest of the town.”
“Sure. I’ll stop by on my way back to the motel.”
“Motel?”
“Yes, the motel.” Ruby baits Polly’s curiosity. “Why?”
“Oh, you know.” The look on Polly’s face is the sheer dying to ask look of a curious but constrained friend.
“I do.” She gives Polly nothing. Doesn’t mention the weekend in Sandwich, or the dinner at Sabine’s. It’s not necessarily a desire for privacy, it’s more that Ruby is loath to give this thing a definition.
Ruby has just unhitched the Hitchhiker from her station in front of the Country Market. Boy is wagging himself into a frenzy as Bull has followed Ruby out of the market. As Ruby works at untangling the crossed leashes, she hears her name being called. It’s Emily from the Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire.
“Ruby, I’m so glad I ran into you. Will you be signing up for Columbus Day weekend? We hold the Faire all three days.”
“Three days? I hope that it’s not triple the price.”
“It’s the last event of the season, so all three days are included in the regular fee.”
“Sign me up, Emily, sign me up.” Yet another excuse to stick around. Ruby prefers to think that she’s being held against her will, but that way of thinking is growing a bit thin, almost like the fabric of her tent. Which makes Ruby think that she should pop into the Fabric Cottage and see about something to make a better patch. Her emergency sutures are barely holding together. Doug has offered her his old Boy Scout pup tent, but she’s pretty sure he’s kidding.
Their dinner last Saturday with Sabine and the family was very nice, and Ruby looks back on it with a certain satisfaction. Sabine played respectful daughter very well, and Doug stayed in his lane as unofficial boyfriend. Plus, the cake was outstanding, and the kids took to Doug immediately. Finding out that he had a history as a ball player, the two kids and Dan coerced Doug out into the backyard, leaving Sabine and Ruby to have a proper catch up as they did the dishes. Altogether, an ordinary family gathering. And perfectly ordinary for Ruby to spend the rest of the night at Doug’s.
Ruby sets up her tent, careful to respect the silky patch she’s hot glued to the split in the side. She’s got the same location she started with back in the early days of the summer. It still seems impossible that she’s lingered here in Harmony Farms for as long as she has. Except for the years she needed to spend the winter in one place so that Sabine could attend school, Ruby has limited her roosting to a few weeks at most, and only as long as the work was profitable. Lingering too long eventually means that the stream of clients is tapped out. This time, though, there seems to be an endless supply of clients, her favorite kind: the four-legged variety. Even as she sets up her mise-en-scène—the table, the chairs, the sandwich board, placing the thrift store teapot on a plinth—she’s been approached by early birds with their doggies, all asking if she’ll be doing animal communication. In the back of her mind, Ruby thinks that she’ll squirrel away all the animal reading fees toward pulling up stakes here. And in the next moment she realizes that she’s looking forward to that high school football game Doug wants to take her to next weekend. Homecoming.
Clients are thick on the ground on this beautiful Saturday of a three-day holiday weekend. Leaf peepers abound, and most of them are incapable of resisting a craft fair. Ruby highlights the animal communication line item on her sandwich board and sets a fishbowl of dog treats on her table beside the box of tarot cards. For her part, the Hitchhiker speaks nicely to each visitor and then leaves Ruby to do her job after receiving one of those treats as a reward for good behavior.
About lunchtime, Doug shows up and offers to fetch whatever Ruby wants from one of the six food trucks arrayed around the perimeter of the park. The breeze has come up, her shabby pennant snaps with a new vigor. Ruby closes her tent flaps and they retire to her van to pop up the table and enjoy their falafel wraps in comfort.
Having Doug in it makes her van seem a lot smaller than usual. The Hitchhiker moves to the front seat in protest of being squeezed off the bench seat. Ruby has long since removed the two jump seats that would allow face-to-face dining over the table, as it has been years since she was face-to-face with anyone in her mobile tiny house. So, it is side by side that Doug Cross and Ruby Heartwood have lunch. With the slider open, it’s a bit like sitting on a porch. The Westfalia attracts a lot of attention from passersby and from acquaintances. Bull sticks his head in to say hi, and then Polly, who looks pleased with this couple-like scene. Ruby would like to shut the slider, but that seems wrong.
As they finish their lunch, passing a container of wet wipes back and forth, Cynthia Mann strolls by. At first it looks like she’s going to pretend that she doesn’t recognize the utterly recognizable van but then pauses. Raises a hand in greeting, a slight smile breaking free of her lip filler. Keeps moving.
“I think you may have tamed her.”
“It’s an improvement, for sure.”
Sunday isn’t quite as pleasant as Saturday, but still a lovely fall day, if overcast. The shabby pennant on the top of Ruby’s tent is limp, the fresh breeze from yesterday gone. The crowd is thin at first but then builds as the day progresses. All in all, not a bad day. The cigar box is respectably full. Ruby thinks that she’ll make an ATM run after the Faire closes and put that cash in her account. Doug, being Doug, thinks that her security system, or lack thereof, is a problem. Part of her thinks that’s kind of sweet, but a larger part of her screams that this is why being unattached is preferable. No one to criticize a lifelong habit. In all the years she’s traveled alone, she’s managed to stay safe. Well, mostly.
The air is so still that Ruby decides it’s safe to leave her tent up. Tomorrow is the last day of the event and it would be nice not to have to spend time setting up again, just get down to business. As she ties the tent flaps closed, Ruby’s phone chirps with an incoming call. Sarah Grace.
“How was the trip?”
Sarah Grace effuses the glories of Alaska and insists that Ruby find a way to take a cruise. Ruby doesn’t mention that doing so is hardly in her budget and gives Sarah a solid “maybe someday” response. Ruby and the Hitchhiker listen to Sarah Grace as they walk back to the van, climb in, and shut the door. She’s going to have to guide Sarah back to the actual reason for her call. “So, have you had time since your return to do a little family exploration?”
“A bit. I’ve gotten emails from two of the second cousins from your branch. Nothing particularly revealing, but I’ll send them on to you.”
“That would be great. When you say my branch, what do you mean?”
“My great-grandmother’s sister’s daughters’ daughters.”
Ruby feels her mind close down. “Any names to go with those?”
“Smith, Green, Watson, Felton, Barr. Common names. It’s all on the maternal line, so each name pops up only once or twice.”
“It’s a jumping-off place.” But to where, Ruby can’t imagine. “Send me the emails, if you will. Talk soon.”
It has been a long day of reading and Ruby feels the tiredness descend. It seems less important to have this sketchy information now than it did even a few weeks ago. What does it all mean? she thinks. A random suggestion that someone who resembled her once worked this town? The idea that she shares blood with people who are strangers and thus might trace herself backward has become a quixotic desire. The list of names are so common as to feel familiar; indeed she can probably come up with people she already knows by those names. Green, Barr, Smith. A client, a teacher, the dentist she went to last year. For goodness sake, her own daughter’s married name is Smith. Felton. And yet, there is something niggling at the back of her mind, some pestering idea that won’t come clear.
The weather on Monday has turned nasty; rain threatens, and the sweet coolness of fall feels a whole lot more like the rawness of early winter. Ruby zips a fleece vest underneath her caftan and pulls on her Uggs. She doesn’t hold out much hope for a good day and promises herself that she only needs to stick it out till noon. The wind, which was dormant yesterday, has picked up and the first thing Ruby notices when she arrives at her tent is that her poor bedraggled pennant has finally given up the ghost and sheared off its pole. She finds it trampled in the grass. She tucks it into the deep pocket of her caftan.
The Hitchhiker ducks into the tent and right into her little bed. This is not her kind of weather, she says. She will selfishly spend the hours Ruby insists on working not being of any help. If there was a bully stick to chew on, that might improve things. Ruby fishes one of the natural chews out of her bag and gives the Hitchhiker a pat on the head. “Stay in bed; it’s what an intelligent being would do.” If an intelligent human was capable of forfeiting a potential payday just because the weather is sour. Looking around the grounds, Ruby can see that a number of the regulars have indeed forfeited their paydays. She’s alone in her assigned row, the lavender lady and the hat seller have literally folded up their tents and booked it.
Even with the fleece vest and Uggs, Ruby is quickly chilled despite sitting inside the conical tent. She pulls out her long-neglected knitting, mostly for the warmth afforded by the wool. The sandwich sign keeps blowing over. Despite all that, there are people strolling, stalwarts in search of the last of the growing season’s fresh vegetables, flowers, pies. Fall flowers in bunches, decorative cornstalks and cattails clutched against the wind.
Ruby closes her eyes and lets a curious sensation trickle through her. It is as if the wind itself is speaking through her. It is a sensation similar to that when she speaks to the dogs. Not words so much as images, visions, tastes. She wonders if she’s dozed off. She glances down at the sleeping spaniel. There is no other dog in sight. Felton. Why is that word—name—buzzing through her mind? It’s slipping in like a musical phrase, over and over, without resolution. Felton.
A gust of wind tears through Ruby’s tent, splitting the mended side, tossing the little tent over, spilling the contents out of it. The table, the other chair, and the sandwich sign are all knocked over. The wooden box of tarot cards hits the ground and bursts open. Cards fly off in every direction as if stirred by a mighty hand. The dog leaps up and bolts. Ruby loses her grip on her knitting needles and pushes out of her chair to try to grasp the tent before it flies away. The chair flies away. Feltonfeltonfelton.
As violent as the gust was, it passes and there is a sudden lull. The only thing left standing where the tent had been is the plinth with the little thrift store teapot sitting exactly as she had placed it an hour ago.
Annie Felton. That’s who took Ruby’s spot at the Renaissance Faire. The sudden recollection of where she’d heard the name, why that word has been teasing at her memory, jolts Ruby. Felton in her ancestry. Felton in Plymouth. Ruby scrambles to gather her tent and belongings as quickly as she can. If the weather here is awful, what’s to say that the Renaissance Faire hasn’t already broken camp? It’s the last day of their run. She’s got to get there as fast as she can. She’s got to get to Annie Felton before she disappears.
“Whoa, Ruby, let me help.” Doug gathers the remnants of Ruby’s tent into his arms, grabs the folding chairs. “What happened?”
“I have to go. Now. Will you go find the dog? She ran off.”
Doug throws everything into the van while Ruby picks up what she can. The cards are a loss. She doesn’t care. The knitting is a mess. She doesn’t care. She carefully puts the unbroken, unscathed teapot back in the Bubble Wrap and carries it like a holy relic to the van. Doug has the Hitchhiker and all three jump into the van and Ruby slams the gearshift into reverse. “Buckle up.”
As they lurch toward the highway, Doug reaches over and pats Ruby’s hand on the stick shift. “Will you tell me what’s going on? Where are we going?”
“To find my mother.”