On the opposite wall, she’d installed a long pipe on which she could hang her clothes. She’d worked hard on developing her own particular style when she lived in New York. It helped her chase away the feeling of being invisible that had always haunted her. As a kid, she’d dressed to hide more than anything else. She’d always felt lumpy and bumpy.
But in New York she’d discovered that instead of wearing baggy clothes, she could layer more figure-hugging pieces that she’d found at a thrift shop, one on top of the other. That way she felt just as protected without feeling as if she were hiding inside a laundry bag. On her pipe-of-outfits hung pieces like her bombshell bronze bustier, which she’d never dared to wear in public, a purple-striped bolero angora sweater, a spangled black mini-skirt, many pairs of thick leggings in all the colors of the rainbow, and a vintage Edwardian smoking jacket that one of her elder care clients back in New York had given her.
In New York, to pay her way through school, she’d worked as a home healthcare aide for homebound seniors. She’d loved the work because her elderly clients were always uncritically happy to see her. Their memories were soothingly flexible, too. If she screwed up something—forgot to put the right jam on a sandwich or to bring in the mail—no one ever held it against her. They didn’t even mind if she occasionally talked to herself. She adored older people, which was one reason why she was so excited about her oral history project.
She dropped onto her back on the queen-size mattress that she’d positioned under the gabled window, which offered a view of spruce treetops and stars. Above her, she could see bits of pink insulation behind the plastic vapor barrier between the ceiling joists.
This was the time of day—before she went to sleep—when she checked in with herself. She’d learned that it was important to monitor her own emotional state, especially after a big event like a dinner with Ralphie.
Surprisingly, considering what a bust it had been, she felt pretty grounded.
“You’re doing okay, Ruthie. You really are. So what if you’re living at home again? You have a real job that’s actually related to your field.” She ticked off more items on her fingers. “There’s Alastair. He’s a fantastic friend. And you had maybe one-tenth of a date with Ralphie Reed. That’s better than no date with Ralphie.”
Frowning, she tried to remember the highlights of the evening, but the only thing that kept surfacing was the bombshell news from Alastair. Her closest friend was now a millionaire and she didn’t know what to do with that information. Would he leave and go back to New York now? Why would a millionaire stay in tiny Lost Harbor, Alaska, when he could go anywhere in the world?
She hoped he didn’t go. One of the reasons she felt so comfortable with Alastair was that he wasn’t a Lost Harborite and had no memories of nerdy little Ruthie. He accepted her as she was—the good and the bad. They’d started off as bickering coworkers and gradually turned into bantering friends. Without Alastair, her existence would be pretty lonely here.
No, it wouldn’t! Because Ralphie was here, and he was her childhood best friend. She couldn’t give up on him just because that birthday dinner had been a disappointment. She just had to stick with it. That was what she’d done when it came to her shyness. She’d worked at it, bit by bit, day by day. Persistence went a long way. Just like with research. You had to keep going despite the difficulty and setbacks.
She drifted into a fantasy in which Ralphie was wowed by her skill and professionalism as she interviewed Greta Desroches.
Then again, her bronze bustier might be more helpful. Did she dare?
Six
Mrs. Desroches still lived in the tiny log cabin that her parents had built before she was born. She was nearly ninety and her eyesight was failing, but she refused to leave the place. Friends and neighbors helped her out, and recently her granddaughter, Natalie Desroches, had come back to help take care of her.
Natalie greeted Ruthie at the door, which creaked on its rusty hinges as she opened it. Natalie was a few years older than Ruthie and had moved away to become a TV weatherperson. But she’d quit that job to come live with her Granny and do some research on how climate change was affecting Alaska. Lots of material there.
“I have to ask, are you the one who talked her into doing this interview?” Ruthie asked after they exchanged greetings.
“I am.” Natalie gave her a rueful smile. She was so pretty with her black hair and photogenic features. Ruthie fought back a flash of grade-school-era insecurity. “Us researchers have to stick together, right?”
“I appreciate it. I’ve been having trouble getting people to talk on tape. I’ve considered just sneaking my recorder into the Olde Salt and leaving it there. But Sally Buchanan actually banned me. I think she’s afraid I’ll ask about her husband.”
“That would be interesting. ‘Sally, is it true you left your husband in a blizzard to die?’” Natalie mimicked holding up a microphone.
Ruthie pulled a face. “I told her I wouldn’t mention that old rumor, but it didn’t help. I’m banned. Which means I can’t interview Old Crow, because that’s where he always hangs out, and he knows everything.”
“I’ve honestly never heard of anyone getting banned from the Olde Salt, not even the guy who drove his motorcycle through the front door and asked for a beer and a shot.”
“I believe I’m the first. Making history, that’s me.” Ruthie shouldered her bag as she stepped into the cabin. It was small enough to fit into her attic loft, although the ceiling was much higher. A fire crackled in an ancient woodstove and a weaving loom sat in a corner surrounded by piles of colorful wool, some spun into yarn, some in fluffy shanks. Somewhere amid all that yarn sat a tiny white-haired woman. Like a yarn fairy, thought Ruthie.
She walked toward Mrs. Desroches and offered her hand. Her bag slid down her arm as she did so, nearly unbalancing her. Kindly, Natalie grabbed the bag before it knocked anything over. Especially her grandmother.
“Hi, I’m Ruthie Malone. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“I remember everyone,” Mrs. Desroches said proudly. “You’re Angelica Malone’s daughter. You’re the one with the bright-orange hair.”
“Her hair is a very different color now, Granny,” said Natalie with an apologetic glance at Ruthie. “It’s more like Cabernet now. Like the wine.”
“Oh. Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll stick with the orange. I always liked your hair. I can’t drink wine anymore. It knocks me off my feet and I have far too much to do.”
The ultra-childish part of Ruthie wished she could do something as absurd as request that Mrs. Desroches update her memory of her hair. “That’s perfectly fine, ma’am. You can remember me however you like. Though if you don’t mind erasing the braces…”
The old woman laughed. “Already forgot ’em. We didn’t have those when I was growing up. Your teeth just did what they wanted. Want to hear about the time old Deke Armstrong got his teeth pulled out during a gale?”
“You bet I do. Do you mind if I record this?”
Mrs. Desroches glanced toward Natalie, though not exactly at her.