She needn’t have worried. Ruth gets tons of attention, not from her, but from Simon; he intuits this is exactly what’s needed. Happiness wings through Gemma’s chest—he’s looking out for her. Yes, Bee is depressed, and her driveway needs resurfacing, but she’s not alone. She’s hasn’t felt this way since, well, Ash.
“So, tell me about yourself, Ruth,” says Simon. “Are you a native Californian?”
“Born and bred.”
Gemma’s heard this conversation many times over the years. She can recite Ruth’s responses by heart. Ruth never volunteers where she’s from; she wants people to work for it. Much in the same way a Harvard alum will say “Boston” when asked where they went to college, and only when pressed will they specify “Cambridge” and only when pressed again will they admit to Harvard. A false modesty, a prolonging of the big reveal.
“The Bay Area?” he asks.
Ruth nods, lifts her napkin to her lips, and daintily dabs. Simon catches Gemma’s eye, letting her know he’s onto the game.
“San Francisco?”
“No, San Mateo County.” Ruth takes a sip of water.
“Near Redwood City?”
“Mmm, bordering the Santa Cruz mountains.”
“Los Altos?”
“Close. Portola Valley.”
Simon sits back in his chair. “Portola Valley. Lovely.”
“You’ve heard of it?” asks Ruth.
“No, but it has a nice ring to it.”
In fact, Portola Valley is the eleventh most expensive zip code in the country.
“A good place to grow up?”
“Not bad.” Ruth isn’t about to go into her complicated history. Orphaned at six, sent to live with her rich grandparents, inherited millions in her mid-twenties.
“Do you have siblings?” asks Simon.
“I’m an only child.”
“I have two brothers. We fought like mad. I wished I was an only child.”
“Well, these two are so lucky,” says Ruth. “They have the best of both worlds. Mothers who are completely focused on them, and they’re like sisters. We raised them like that, didn’t we, Gemma?”
Gemma’s becoming alarmed at where the conversation is heading. She notes the panicked expressions on the girls’ faces. Is Ruth going to call them out? Make them show their devotion to each other?
“You were very close to your mother,” says Gemma, steering the conversation back to safer ground.
Ruth nods at Gemma, her eyes welling up. This is unlike Ruth. She’s not the kind of woman who cries in public.
“I adored her,” she says. “She was my biggest cheerleader.” A perfect single tear runs down Ruth’s cheek.
Gemma picks up Ruth’s hand. Across the table, Marley throws her a distressed look. Gemma smiles at Marley, transmitting to her that she has the situation under control.
“I’m sorry,” says Ruth. “I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s just—sometimes I miss her so much. Both my parents died when I was six,” Ruth says to Simon. “A car accident.”
“I’m very sorry,” he says.
Ruth exhales deeply, gives Gemma’s hand a squeeze and releases it, hurls it, actually. She picks up her knife and fork and cuts a piece of carrot. “This is good, Gemma. Delicious. Do I detect cumin?”
Gemma looks at her discarded hand on the table. She puts it in her lap. “Yes. Do you like it?”
“Marley has a great recipe for carrots. The secret is cilantro, right, Marley? And lots of butter.”
Marley looks at Ruth blankly.
“Don’t be modest, Marley. It’s not becoming. When you’re good at something you should just admit it. You, too, Bee,” says Ruth.
“Marley’s an accomplished chef,” Ruth continues. “She cooks almost all our meals now. And not just simple things. A couple of nights ago we had—what did you call it, Marley?”
“I didn’t cook a couple of nights ago. I haven’t cooked for weeks. You haven’t let me.”
Oh, the expressions on everybody’s faces! Marley, defiant. Ruth, embarrassed. Bee, curious. And Simon—amused.
Ruth gives Marley a withering glance. “We’ve been doing a cleanse, that’s right. But the last meal you made, with mashed potatoes and ground beef?”
“Shepherd’s pie.”
“No, there was another name for it. It wasn’t just shepherd’s pie. It was special.”
“Hachis Parmentier.”
“French, right?” says Ruth.
“It’s shepherd’s pie with wine.”
“Marley, that’s so impressive,” says Gemma.
“You should enter one of those cooking shows,” says Bee.
“You have to be eighteen,” says Marley.
“Isn’t there, like, an Iron Chef for kids?” asks Bee. “You’d be great at that, Marls.”
Bee’s being sincere. Marley gives her a shy smile. Gemma thinks they’ll make up, just give them time.
“It’s like eating at a restaurant. Chez Thorne,” says Ruth. “I’m a lucky mother.”
Gemma is glad for Marley. Ruth rarely compliments her in public.
“I blame you, mister. You did this to me,” says Ruth, waving her fork at Simon.
Simon cants his head at her and Gemma braces herself. What is Ruth going to say next?
Ruth puts her fork down and presses her hands against her cheeks. “You’ve made me mushy. All soft. All lovey-dovey.”
* * *
Later, Simon and Gemma walk Ruth and Marley out to their car.
“Be careful of the bump at the end of the driveway,” says Gemma. “If you back out slowly you won’t scrape the undercarriage.”
“The driveway needs to be resurfaced,” says Ruth. “It’s been over ten years, hasn’t it? I know a guy. I’ll set it up.”
Simon walks down the driveway and investigates. “I know a guy, too.” He smiles at Gemma. “I can fix that. Easy.”
As soon as Ruth and Marley drive away, another car pulls up to the curb: two girls that Gemma doesn’t recognize in the front seat, juniors or seniors, and Aditi and Coco in the backseat. Aditi sticks her head out the window.
“Hi, Gemmy. Is Bee ready?”
Who told Aditi she could call her Gemmy? It’s nearly ten. “Ready for what?” asks Gemma.
The front door opens and Bee runs down the steps, a bag slung over her shoulder. “Sleeping at Coco’s tonight,” she calls out.
“You are not to go to that party,” says Gemma. “We discussed this.”
“The party’s over,” says Bee, opening the passenger-side door. “You made me miss it, remember?”
Gemma feels helpless in front of Simon. Such a pushover.
“Say goodbye to Simon,” Gemma says.
They can hear Bee’s snort from inside the car.
“Bye, Simon Says!” she calls out as they drive away, laughing.
“They’re going to the party, you know that, right?” he says. “The party isn’t over, it’s just beginning.”
“She was rude to you, I’m sorry.”
“I expected nothing less. And don’t worry, Tom will be awesomely rude to you, too, if he ever agrees to meet you.”
He laughs and soon Gemma is laughing with him and the laughter feels so good, it feels like freedom, like she’s been waiting decades to laugh with somebody like this.
MARLEY
“Who’s that?” asks her mother, driving ten miles below the speed limit. She’s on the verge of drunk, a wet look in her eyes, her reflexes slow. She smells like applesauce.
Marley’s shocked. A text from Bee. Wanna come to the party? We can pick you up in 15!
“Kid in my bio class. Wants my notes from Friday.”
“Ohh, what’s his name?” asks her mother.
“Her. Bella Swan.”
Marley hates the Twilight books but likes the idea of messing with her mother. Ruth isn’t a reader. She takes out loads of library books and they just sit there, untouched, until she brings them back three weeks later. It
’s hard for Marley to believe she was an English major.
Marley tries to act casual, like every part of her is not bursting with excitement at Bee’s invitation. Why is she lying to her mother? Every week, Ruth asks her what her weekend plans are, if there are any parties. This is what her mother has been waiting for, what she’s been waiting for. Why then is she hesitating? Why is she overcome with dread?
Marls! Gotta know now!
“Why don’t you ask this Bella Swan to come over tomorrow?” suggests her mother.
Yes, why doesn’t she ask Bella Swan to come over? Because she glistens like diamonds in the sunlight. Because she’d tear her throat out with one bite. Because she is clearly out of Marley’s league, as are the popular kids who are going to the party of the year that Bee has just invited her to.
Marley tries to imagine herself there. Sure, she’ll walk through the door with Bee and her friends, but Bee will quickly dump her and she’ll spend the evening wandering around alone, trying to look like she has some purpose, somewhere to go.
She doesn’t doubt Bee’s good intentions. Her text is an act of goodwill, but Marley just can’t take the chance. She can’t risk going to the party and feeling more alone than ever.
Sorry I can’t. Have fun. Kick it for me
Did she just say “kick it for me”?
Ok texts Bee, no exclamation mark, no KK, no kay, just Ok.
“Bella’s in Tahoe for the weekend,” Marley says.
“Too bad! Is your phone connected? Put on Carly Simon. That song from Working Girl.”
Her mother gives a little shriek of happiness when she hears the opening bars to “Let the River Run.”
“I’m so happy for Gemma. What a lovely man, just lovely. Perfect for her, really.”
She doesn’t wait for Marley to answer. She sings loudly along with the song.
GEMMA
It’s almost noon the next day when Bee walks through the door. Black smudges under her eyes, a world-class case of bed head.
“I’ve been texting you all morning! Why haven’t you answered?”
Bee yawns. Even from ten feet away Gemma can smell the alcohol on her, oozing out of her pores.
“I was asleep until twenty minutes ago,” Bee says, dropping her bag on the floor.
“You stink,” says Gemma.
That provokes a reaction. Horrified, Bee smells her armpits, lifts her shirt to her nose. “I do not!”
“Like alcohol, not BO. You went to the party.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have any say in the matter. I was just a passenger.”
“You’re grounded.”
Bee doesn’t even bother replying. Gemma’s threatened her with grounding lots of times in the past. She carries through for a day, and then they both pretend to forget about it.
Bee sits down on the couch, pulls her legs up beneath her and gives one long shudder, her eyes filling with tears. Immediately, Gemma’s irritation is replaced with fear. This is what it’s like to be the mother of a teenage girl. The wild seesawing of emotions.
“Did something happen last night?” Gemma has to force herself not to leap out of the chair and fly across the room to her girl. Bee hates physical contact when she’s in distress. Only afterward, when the thing has been talked through, will she allow touch.
“They dumped me,” she sobs.
“They dumped you?”
“Aditi. Shanice. Coco. Frankie. They left me at the party.”
“They left you at the party?”
“Stop repeating everything I say!” cries Bee. She shakes her head in despair. “I don’t think they meant to. I fell asleep in the basement. I think—they probably couldn’t find me.”
This excuse, so pathetic, so hopeful, results in a fresh round of tears.
“Oh, Bee, I’m so sorry.” Gemma fights her urge to revert to detective mode, find out exactly what happened, because what Bee needs is commiseration. Problem-solving—and revenge—will come later. Well, maybe not revenge, how about consequences? Is that a better word? How about Gemma calling up Madison and letting her know what a little shit she has for a daughter.
“Did anything—happen?” Gemma asks carefully.
Bee stiffens. “You mean did I wake up with my pants around my ankles? No, Mom, I wasn’t raped, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“That’s not what I’m implying.” Gemma sighs; she’s fallen back into repeating Bee. “I just want to make sure you were safe.”
“I took an Uber home. It was fifteen dollars.”
“Good, that’s just what you should have done. Good thinking, Bee.”
Bee picks up a pillow and clutches it to her chest. “I’m so lonely,” she whispers, and Gemma thinks her heart will break. These are among the saddest words a mother can hear. And the most difficult thing to face? Her impotence. Bee’s fifteen. The days of playdates are long past. There’s nothing Gemma can do to fix this.
“I miss Marley,” Bee says.
Gemma flashes back on an image of Marley and Bee sitting on the couch, dressed in matching Hello Kitty pajamas, holding hands.
“Oh, Bee, I’m sure she misses you, too. Call her.”
“It’s too late. She doesn’t want to hang out with me. She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“The Marley and Bee BFF ship has sailed, Mom. You and Ruth have to face it.”
When Bee’s tears have dried up, Gemma sits beside her. Bee puts her head in Gemma’s lap and Gemma is allowed to stroke her hair.
A plane flies over the house. Off in the distance, the whir of a lawn mower. The smell of hamburgers grilling. They’re safe for the moment. They’ve pulled their boat up on the shore.
RUTH
“What do you want to do today?” asks Ruth’s stylist, Kay.
Kay’s been doing Ruth’s monthly highlights for years. She’s in her sixties and single. Even if it’s just a blow-dry, Ruth always throws in an extra $25 for Kay, on top of a 20 percent tip. Ruth takes care of her people.
“Your ends are looking a little dry. Can I take some length off?”
Ruth’s hair is well past her shoulders. It’s part of her youthful appeal. But maybe it’s too long. She doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard.
“Sure, why not. Take off a couple of inches.”
“Great. I’ll mix up your color and be back in a minute. You want coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thanks, I’m all set.”
Ruth lifts her insulated bottle to her lips and takes a sip of her homemade smoothie: banana, kale, oat milk, peanut butter, a sprinkle of cardamom, and a dash of cinnamon. Her breakfast when she’s on the go. She always books Kay’s first appointment of the day so she’ll never be kept waiting.
Her phone trills. MY MOTHER MADE ME DO IT! How quickly she’s become addicted to her pod.
HappilyEverAfter: Omg that party! The entire high school was there! DD took an Uber home around midnight. She had a blast!
TortoiseWinsTheRace: My DD slept over. A lot of the kids did. Good thing. Major booze. DD said she only had two beers hahaha right.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: I’m grounding my DD. I spent hours with her in the bathroom after she got home. Had to give her an infusion of Pedialyte this morning.
OneWayAtATime: Poor baby. My DD drank water, pretended it was beer. She’s such a nerd.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: How about your DD, PennySavedPennyEarned? Did she have fun?
The entire school went to this party except Marley? Why is Marley such a loser? Ruth’s vision blurs. She looks up from her phone and forces herself to blink. You are here in the salon. Kay is mixing your color. This isn’t the end of the world, it just feels like it. Don’t catastrophize. Don’t show weakness to the pod.
PennySavedPennyEarned: She got home around two. She wasn’t drunk, just a little high.
HappilyEverAfter: I hope she didn’t do edibles. My DD tried a sour patch edible once and hallucinated for five hours.
<
br /> OneWayAtATime: I hate pot. It’s bullshit that it’s harmless. If you’re an adult it’s harmless. If you’re a teenager and your frontal lobe hasn’t matured it can be lethal.
HappilyEverAfter: Btw, they don’t call it pot like we did when we were kids. They call it weed.
* * *
Kay returns, a bowl of hair color in her hands, and sees the agitated look on Ruth’s face. “Is everything okay?”
Ruth shuts off her phone and slides it into her purse. “Sorry, just school stuff.”
“How’s my Marley girl? Freshman year, right? That’s a big transition. How’s she handling it?”
“Brilliantly.”
“She’s a smart one. So, what have you been doing with yourself?”
What’s to tell? She drives Marley to school. She goes to the gym. She comes home and eats roasted garlic hummus and jicama for lunch. She doesn’t allow herself to watch Netflix, although she would like to, but she has strict rules for herself—no TV in the daytime. She picks up a library book and puts it down after reading ten pages. She has no attention span. Zilch. She eats seven almonds. She picks Marley up after school. They have dinner, watch Netflix, and she locks Marley into her room at eleven every night.
“Same old same old.”
But not for much longer, she thinks. It’s time to get a life of my own.
GEMMA
Walk the lake? Need some advice. I’ll bring coffee!
Ruth needs advice? This is a switch. Gemma wonders if she should fill Ruth in on Bee’s depression. Ruth’s levelheaded. She’d dispense practical, matter-of-fact advice. She’d normalize Bee’s struggles for Gemma. Oh, who’s she kidding? She’s not telling anybody. Besides, Bee has sworn her to secrecy and she asked specifically for Gemma not to tell Ruth.
Gemma senses Ruth waiting on the other side of the phone, willing her to respond. It will be good for her to listen to somebody else’s problems, not that Ruth ever has any real problems.
KK!
* * *
The plan is to meet at the pergola. Gemma gets there early and takes a seat on a bench. Ringside at the lake, a prime venue for people-watching. Here’s a moms’ group, all of the women wearing their babies on their chests, chatting sleeping schedules, debating the cry-it-out method vs. the family bed. Here’s a trio of men speaking Hindi and speed walking. And here’s a dozen high school runners, long and lean and barely perspiring. The world streams by in Technicolor. It’s impossible not to be cheered.
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