It was a busy day at work, and then I had to hurry home to make dinner for most of the lacrosse team and their parents. It had been just a meeting where John would hand out schedules and call lists until I suggested making it a dinner. I’d been so distracted lately that it felt like an opportunity for me to make things up to him and Landon. And then I’d gotten the call from Ruby.
Nothing helped keep my mind busy like twenty-five extra people in my backyard, though, and John and Landon were both grateful about all my efforts. Keisha was at work during the whole thing, but I managed to fall asleep before she got off her shift thanks to a busy day and a busy evening and a busy mind. Though I fell asleep easily, I woke up, restless, around five o’clock in the morning, and finally got out of bed at six.
I was working in Long Beach from ten until three so I headed to Aunt Ruby’s house early, desperately wanting to make things okay. Keisha had left fifty dollars from her tip money on the front seat of my car—it was how she paid me back without John asking questions. She was trying so hard to do the right thing, and I felt awful for thinking the worst of her in regard to Ruby’s missing laptop.
Aunt Ruby was an early riser, and though I worried the jet lag might have her sleeping in, the drapes on the front window were open when I pulled up a little after eight o’clock. She’d always said the day didn’t start until she could see the sky. She seemed happy to see me and immediately updated me on the theft—nothing else was missing, as far as she could tell. The security company was coming over later to make sure everything was okay with her system.
She poured me some juice and then listened to my version of events. I kind of glossed over the exact dates of when I came over and hoped she wouldn’t ask pointed questions. I didn’t know how to handle this, and being vague seemed to be the best choice. I worried she’d ask for specifics, but other than asking if I had noticed anything out of the ordinary during any of my visits—which I hadn’t—she didn’t ask me any questions I couldn’t answer.
Once we finished, she insisted on making muffins, and even though I worried they wouldn’t be ready before I had to leave, she started putting them together anyway. I sat down at the counter and updated her on our family and how Landon’s basketball season had gone, glad to feel that even amid my worries and the theft of her laptop, we were okay with each other.
I finished telling her about the team party last night and then noticed a book on her counter. Uncle Phillip had been a buyer and seller for antiques—international, hard-to-find antiques—and Aunt Ruby’s home was filled with beautiful pieces from all over the world and dating back hundreds of years in some instances. And yet, despite the aged furniture and décor, nothing ever looked used. Except this book. It had a ratty cover, and the pages were expanded as though it had been around too much moisture. It seemed completely out of place. I picked it up and read the title: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
Motorcycle maintenance? I glanced at Ruby and imagined her in coveralls with grease smudges on her face while she took apart the transmission of a cherry-red Harley Softail. The idea made me smile.
“What’s this book?”
She turned around too quickly, and a momentary expression of shock crossed her face as she looked at me holding the book. I pulled my eyebrows together. Aunt Ruby was rarely ruffled, but she was suddenly very ruffled . . . much like the pages of this book.
She explained that it was from the tour guide—Gabriel—and he’d snuck it into her bag, but she said it with a forced giggle that caught my attention even more.
“Have you ever heard of such a strange title?” she continued. Were her cheeks turning pink?
“Gabriel’s the tour guide?”
“Well, he’s part-owner with his sister, Maria, but he also works as a guide on a lot of the Greece tours.”
Her cheeks were definitely pink, and I couldn’t hold back my own curiosity any longer. “Aunt Ruby, I think you’re blushing.”
She stammered and turned back to the counter, focusing on the muffins.
“Do you have a picture of him on your phone?” I asked. I eyed her cell phone, which was within reach of me, though I’d never be so forward as to grab it on my own.
She didn’t answer, and I looked at her, assuming her silence meant that she did have a photo of this mystery man who had her so uncharacteristically flustered. “Can I see the pictures?”
She paused but then reached for the phone and started scrolling while explaining that her friend had taken most of the pictures and she didn’t have copies yet. She settled on a picture and then handed the phone to me, explaining where I could find Gabriel in the group.
“Oh, wow. He’s good looking. And look at that smile.”
She said nothing as I enlarged the photo to see his face better. He wasn’t looking into the camera like everyone else in the photo. He was looking at Ruby, who stood on the opposite side of the group. I wondered what other photos might be on this phone that Ruby didn’t want me to see. She was obviously uncomfortable with something, but I didn’t want to make her any more uncomfortable. I couldn’t resist teasing her a little, though, so I shared my observation about Gabriel’s focus with her, and she flipped out, reaching for the phone and acting shocked. I pulled the phone away so she couldn’t take it from me while she insisted he was looking into the camera.
“I don’t think so . . . He’s definitely smiling at you.”
She came around the counter and looked over my shoulder at the enlarged image on her phone. Then she snatched it away and slipped the phone into the pocket of her housedress. She attempted to pacify me by talking about putting together a photo album of her trip that she’d bring to book group.
I looked at the book again—the one Gabriel had given to her—and picked it up while Ruby returned to her muffins. I flipped through the pages, then back to the inside front cover where handwriting in blue ink on the title page caught my eye. I lifted my eyebrows and read it out loud.
“‘To Ruby. All my love, G.’”
Aunt Ruby whipped around so fast that I pulled back slightly. “What did you say?” she asked quickly.
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “All his love,” I said, wagging my eyebrows and showing her the book. “Tell me more about Gabriel.”
Aunt Ruby’s cheeks turned pink . . . again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s an inscription.” I held up the book, opened to the front page. “Didn’t you see it?”
She didn’t answer me but watched closely as I showed her the note. Her cheeks got even redder. “Like I said, he was very thoughtful—to everyone.”
I wasn’t buying it. This Gabriel guy was important to her somehow, which made me think of Uncle Phillip—the only man I knew of that she’d ever loved. She deserved better than Uncle Phillip—was Gabriel better? It made my heart ache a little to know the truth of what she hadn’t had with her husband, and I decided to see where this conversation might lead us. Since her reaction at book group a few weeks ago, I’d wondered about how much she knew and had considered talking to her about it. Maybe now was a good time.
She opened a cupboard, removed some muffin liners from a basket and started putting them in the muffin tin she’d already set out.
“Have you ever thought about dating again, Aunt Ruby?”
She didn’t say anything, but I waited her out in hopes of forcing her to answer me—due to good manners, if nothing else. It took her a bit of time to construct an answer she was happy with, and by then the muffins were in the oven. “I was married for thirty years, dear. I consider myself retired.”
“Why is that?” I asked, resting my arms on the counter and giving her a strong look. “You’ve taken excellent care of yourself, you’ve got more energy than some women half your age, and you’ve got a lot of years left. Why not see if there’s someone you could share those years with?”
She glanced at me, then wiped down the counters. My attention was making her nervous. “Thank you for your kind comments, but I guess I just had my fill of it.”
I could almost hear her sorting through topics she could turn the conversation toward, and I felt now was as good a time as any to get to the heart of it. “Is this about Uncle Phillip’s . . . ?” I was at the crossroads, and I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t spit it out. What if she didn’t know? What if I inflicted a wound I could not heal? In the next instant I realized I had already started. I couldn’t back out now.
She held my eyes for the count of three, and I saw within her the same battle I’d been waging—to speak or not to speak of hard things, painful things, things we wished weren’t true. “Phillip’s what?” she asked, the hint of a challenge in her voice. We both knew she could have ignored me, let me look at the pictures again, or told me something else about her cruise. But she didn’t. Then again, she wasn’t really asking either. It was an odd kind of stand off. “What are you talking about?”
“You know . . .” Again I couldn’t say it out loud. Apparently, after two years of protecting her, I couldn’t stop protecting her so quickly.
“Know what?” she said, then almost imperceptibly straightened and pulled her shoulders down. Her tone changed to light and casual—an attempt to pretend this conversation was light and casual too, perhaps? “What are you talking about, Shannon? This has nothing to do with my husband. A lot of widows remarry. It’s just not for me.”
I leaned back, folded my arms over my chest, and stared at her, trying to work out the equation of her words and her movements in my head because they didn’t match the answer she was trying to convince me of. She scrubbed at something on the counter, but despite her pretended indifference there was fear and sorrow radiating from her. I bet she was regretting having invited me to stay for muffins.
“Ruby,” I said softly, hoping she could hear the love in my voice, the understanding and compassion of it. She must know about the affair; why else would she be acting like this? I came around the counter; she pretended not to notice. I finally stopped next to her and took a breath before I spoke.
“Did you know Uncle Phillip had an affair?” I couldn’t believe I actually said the words out loud, and I felt a little dizzy with the word “affair” echoing through the kitchen.
Aunt Ruby froze. I watched her stare at the stovetop she’d been wiping down, not moving at all—not even breathing. I reached out and touched her arm after a few seconds. She opened her mouth as though to say something, ward off my pronouncement, convince me I was wrong.
“No . . .” she said, but it was a broken attempt to deflect the conversation, not necessarily an answer to the question. I wasn’t sure how I could tell, but I could. She knew. I was overcome with sadness for her. She swallowed, took a breath and looked up at me, giving up the pretense. “How did you know?”
I told her about my father catching Uncle Phillip out with another woman and watched Aunt Ruby crumble at the realization that her secret wasn’t really a “secret” at all. I pulled her into a hug. She allowed it for several seconds; I could feel tears on my shoulder and glanced at the clock on the microwave, hoping the rest of the staff would forgive me if I was late to work—this wasn’t the kind of conversation you cut off.
After some time, she pulled away and walked out of the room without a word. I followed her into the living room, where she sat down on the couch with enough room for me to sit beside her. She wanted to know details, so I told her about how my dad—her brother—had seen Phillip with a woman in San Diego and how I’d overheard my parents talking about it after Uncle Phillip died. I wanted to cushion each word so the impact wouldn’t be too bruising, but there really were no words soft enough, and searching for them threatened my already-weakened resolve.
“When did your dad see my husband in San Diego?” she asked when I finished explaining how Uncle Phillip had begged Dad not to tear the family apart. It was a selfish request—a cruel thing to force between a brother and a sister—but my dad would never hurt Ruby. And so he kept Uncle Phillip’s secret.
“It was about three years before he died,” I said.
“Then that was Evelyn.”
I felt my eyes go wide. “You know her name?”
She took a deep breath and looked up at me with a sad yet relieved expression on her face. “I knew all of their names, honey.”