The High Season(15)

    “Good luck, sweetie,” Ruthie said, giving her shoulder a pat.

“If you’re thinking salad, the red leaf is awesome,” Jem said as she walked up.

“I just saw Lucas Clay,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m happy he bought actual food,” Jem said. “We helped Adeline unpack, and Dad totally mocked her groceries. It was hilarious, like, just…berries. Celery and radishes. He said she needed butter for the radishes. She said she hadn’t eaten butter in twenty years. I actually think she was serious. Dad was like, oh boy, you need to live.”

“Oh, God. He didn’t give her his ‘live while you’re alive’ speech, did he?”

“Yeah, well, a version. You know what I found out? She knows Roberta Verona! My favorite chef ever? She’s, like, her best friend. Adeline said maybe I could meet her sometime, which would be amazing. She brought her own sheets and towels, by the way. Adeline, I mean. And she brought an espresso maker—one of the fancy ones—and a Vitamix. And cashmere throws, like, six of them in different colors. Dad said her car was like ‘Bed Bath and Beyond Imagining.’?”

Ruthie pictured six cashmere throws, flung on her couches, on her beds, ready for evening chill. Powder blue, sea green, seashell pink, lilac…did she need a Vitamix?

“I just have to prep the CSAs for tomorrow, then I can go,” Jem said.

“I’ll pick out some stuff for dinner. Carole said the kitchen was stocked.”

“I put aside some beets. I can roast them.”

Ruthie clasped her hands together. “My kid likes beets. I did something right!”

“Mom.” Jem made a shooing motion with her hands.

Ruthie cruised the aisles, choosing lettuce and scallions and lemons and basil. Nonlocal blueberries. Maybe that was Adeline’s secret, antioxidants?

A pickup truck barreled into the parking lot and her best friend, Penny, raced out, her wife, Elena, following more slowly. “Hello, summer!” Penny cried, and waved at Jem. “Dude, please have garlic left!”

    “On the left, dude,” Jem called. Out of all Ruthie’s friends, Jem was closest to Penny. They had bonded over pizza and The Big Lebowski and never looked back. Penny was a chef, and it was her extended tutorial on scrambled eggs—Low heat! Tablespoon of butter per egg! Yes, I said American cheese!—that had first sparked Jem’s interest in cooking. It was a small, deep pleasure in Ruthie’s life that her child and her best friend had a relationship outside of her.

“What are you cooking?” Penny asked as she peeked at Ruthie’s basket.

“I don’t know, maybe just a salad?”

“Why are you so boring?”

“I’m roasting beets!” Jem called. “And I have some fresh ricotta! And an orange!”

“Thank fucking God!” Penny yelled. She leaned over to fondle Ruthie’s herbs. “That parsley is gorgeous. That reminds me, you need to come over soon. You can work for your supper and go clamming with us. We need to eat linguine and celebrate the beginning of traffic.”

“So many needs with you,” Ruthie said, handing her cash to Annie.

“All my wants are needs,” Penny said. “Is this garlic from the farm or Stop and Shop?” she asked Jem.

“Farm,” Jem said. “Promise.”

“In that case, I will pay you. Linguine soon!”

“With lots of crushed red pepper.” Jem and Penny fist-bumped, then waggled their fingers at each other.

“So how’s your glamorous tenant?” Elena asked as they headed to their cars.

“Well tended,” Ruthie said. “She’s dazzling, if you stare too long you’ll burn out your retinas. And she’s got this gorgeous satellite stepson, who just saw me and didn’t remember me, even though we had a conversation this morning.”

    Penny opened a bag of pistachios and offered them around. With tattoos and a CURSE YOUR SUDDEN AND INEVITABLE BETRAYAL T-shirt and not an ounce of fat, she almost looked like a teenager if you squinted. She cracked open a nut with her thumbs and put the shell in the pocket of her jeans. “Middle-aged-lady syndrome,” Penny said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m already used to it,” Ruthie said. “Grocery clerks and waiters, sure. But we had a conversation!”

Penny shrugged. “Happens every day.”

“That reminds me. How would you describe my style?”

“You have a style?” Penny asked. At Ruthie’s look, she squinted amiably as she chewed. “I mean, okay, downtown slouch?”

“Downtown slouch?”

“Comfy stretchy things in mostly black? Like, today. You’re wearing beige, and I’m like, whoa, she’s breaking out.”

“You’re lovely,” Elena said. “I always liked those beige pants.”

“Just hearing the words ‘beige pants’ has cast me into despair,” Ruthie said.

“Have a nut. Who cares, anyway?” Penny said. “You’re presentable and dependable.”

“At long last I’ve found my epitaph.” Ruthie looked at her hands, with veins and freckles and one torn cuticle. She saw her mother’s hands, and felt cast adrift toward a future wrinkled with sadness. “We’re all dying, every day.”