Though drink orders were a good source of income, Ann Manchester had a tendency each year to drink too much. There’d been no trouble so far, but Edna wanted to stay ahead of the problems.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN RUTH

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RUTH

Sunday, June 18, 1950, 3:00 p.m.

Ruth had never been so glad to see the dining tables clear and the overfed guests wandering back to their rooms. These quiet afternoon hours, the lull between the meals, were the best of the day. The guests retired for a shower and nap, then reappeared around five for drinks, dinner, and the show.

She stared at the tray of luncheon meats ready for repackaging, trying to decide what Carlotta liked. Ham or chicken? The cheese choices were Swiss and American. Mayo was a given, but some folks liked mustard. Lettuce, tomato, onion. In the end she put a selection of everything on a single plate, along with a couple of slices of white bread.

“Where you headed?” Daddy asked.

“Taking Carlotta a plate.”

“Again?”

“She’s gotta eat every day, Daddy.”

He sighed like he did when he was worried about something. He’d been doing a lot of that the last few weeks. “Well, don’t linger too long.”

“I won’t take long.”

Mama came into the kitchen carrying a tray of half-empty salt- and pepper shakers. “Hurry back as soon as you can, Ruth.”

Daddy shook his head. “And put your hat on, Ruth. Don’t be fooled by the winds. The sun’s fierce today.”

“Are we getting weather, Mama?” Ruth asked. “Feels like a storm.”

“We are. But it won’t be until later tonight.”

“Okay.” Ruth snatched a floppy straw hat from the peg by the back door and, guarding her covered plate, nudged the back door open with her rump. As she turned, pots and pans clanged in the sink, and her father said to her mother, “This isn’t a good idea.”

“It’ll be fine,” Mama said.

“I know you want to do what’s right . . .”

Ruth’s curiosity gave her pause, but as the seconds stretched and her parents didn’t speak, she knew they wouldn’t talk again until they heard the sound of her feet crossing the deck. Lately, they’d had a lot of hushed conversations that ended abruptly around her.

As she hurried across the hot sand to her cottage, she was grateful for the ocean brushing the heat from her skin. Clouds huddled close to the north, but to the south it was all blue sky. Mama was right. It was going to storm.

She dashed inside her house, grabbed the sketchbook that she’d picked this morning, and hurried toward Carlotta’s cottage. As she climbed the stairs, she heard humming and could see that Carlotta had opened all the windows, allowing a cross breeze through the house. Whiskey slept on a pillow, unmindful of her mistress swaying to a silent song.