Quartet ~ First installment

Ruby

There I was, key in the door, knackered from a dog-eat-dog day at work with people I didn’t like, frustrated with Miami traffic, desperate to take my bra off and have an adult beverage, when my purse rang me up. It was Mum, calling from London, where she had raised me until I reached adolescence and we moved across the pond. Eventually my family went back to London. There’s a story behind that, but I sure as hell didn’t want to think about it. Ever.

When I saw the call was her, I considered not answering, analyzing my energy level and comparing it to what I knew it would take. In the end, guilt won. I was worried. What if something had happened to my father? “Hiya, Mum, how’s dad?”

While it was true that we could no longer chat about anything meaningful—either to her or to me, Dad couldn’t talk to me at all—not without crying, things being what they were. So Mum and I made small talk, something I’d rather gouge my eyes out than to do, but I couldn’t seem to find a way to wrap up another awkward half hour with the woman who gave birth to me. Which made me feel shitty. But when she started in on how sad she was about my long-dead marriage to her favorite son-in-law, I left off with the guilt and pretended I had another call.

When I pressed the end call button, I didn’t know whether to cry or curse, so I did both. And then I made a drink, got comfortable, and called my mate, Margo. “What do you think about a girl’s holiday with the Quartet?”

“What happened?”

“Why do you think something happened? It’s fucking August in Miami. It’s hot. We haven’t seen the other two for—what is it now—five years? Six? Near about that. Our forty-fifth. In New Orleans.” I paused for a beat. “And, my mum just called.”

“Ahh. There it is. Your dad okay?” Even Margo worried about him, poor dear.

“Yes.”

“Well, sure then. I’m up for a getaway with our girlfriends. Start the process.”

“Why does it always have to be me?”

“Because it does.”

~~~

World leaders can come together easier than the four of us. Seventy-four bloody emails, and at least a hundred texts later, the four of us had a date: the first week of December. Conveniently, Zan, coming from Maryland, would celebrate her fiftieth birthday then. She was the first of us. I was next in April, Margo in July, and Olivia September–next year. Looking for positives, at least the dates we picked had a few things going for it: Thanksgiving would be over, Christmas still a few weeks away, and the weather. It would be cold most places but not so much on the beach in South Carolina. We would talk most of the time anyway. “Besides,” Olivia said, “no matter where we stay, it is sure to be warmer than Chicago.”

I had my eye on Kiawah Island, and when I found us a grand four-bedroom home with the beach at our front door, it felt like a sign. Not only that, but some poor tosser had cancelled the day before I got through to the realtor. I gave her my credit card information and forwarded the “Beach Escape” address to the other three. It was all sorted. I thought so, anyway. But the gods weren’t done fuckin’ with me, were they? No, they weren’t.

First, three weeks before we were to go, Zan rang me. “Ruby, I’m sorry, but my pet sitter backed out. She’ll be out of town on those dates. I can’t leave these brutes with just anyone.”

“Work on it, please, love. Find someone else. You have time. We can’t do it without the birthday girl, can we? I won’t cancel yet.” I didn’t tell her, but if I had to cancel then, I forfeited my deposit.

I stalled before ringing up Margo and Olivia, fingers crossed that Zan would come through. Because if all of us weren’t there, it wouldn’t be the same.

And then sure enough, there was Zan with good news. “My regular sitter felt so bad she found someone—a vet tech, no less. I met her, and so did the boys.  It looks good. But, listen, Ruby—”

“Yes?”

“No announcing my age to strangers. Got it?”

Got it. We were on again.

Then just days after that, Olivia had a family emergency. It seemed her sister’s two kids had moved into Olivia’s home, which sounded bad, I’ll admit. But two days later she’d sorted it by getting her neighbor to stay with them. “Lo siento, Ruby. I am so sorry to have been bothering you with this,” Olivia said. “Not to worry, Chica. I will be there.” Olivia was Cuban-American, born and raised in Miami. She’d moved to Chicago about twenty years ago for a job, and her Papi and Abuela had moved north with her.

Olivia’s grandmother, her abuela, had never spoken more than a few words of English, which made her fit right in with much of the population in Miami. Apparently, after they moved, she’d managed just fine in Chicago, too, until her death just a couple of years ago. Olivia’s accent had softened a lot since we first met, but there was no mistaking her for a gringo.

The last thing I needed was a frantic call from Margo, just a few miles from me. She was all a-dither, which isn’t at all like her. “I’m not sure I should go right now, Ruby,” she whined, also strange for her. Margo isn’t a whiner.

“Margo, what are you going on about? You work hard. You deserve this and you know it.” I’m not above sycophantic flattery to get my way, needless to say.

“Well, I know, but—”

“Margo, love,”—I was trying not to go off the rails on her—”Olivia solved her family emergency, and Zan—her with those giant dogs, big as ponies, aren’t they? She’s sorted. You have to come.” All in my calmest voice.

“I’m worried about taking off right now. Ron’s going through a mid-life crisis. And there’s work—”

I’d had it then. “Fuck work, Margo. Don’t be daft. All those posh women needing highlights or low lights or whatever, they’ll be there when you get back. And they’ll still have hair. Fuck ‘em. And fuck Ron and his crisis. We’re talking about four days. Nothing can be so important you can’t take four days off to spend with your life-long mates. I’ve made non-refundable reservations. Think of it as my bachelorette party.”

“I thought it was for Zan’s birthday. And you. Don’t use that ploy. You haven’t even set a date yet.”

“But I’m meant to.” My fingers were crossed behind my back, as if Margo could see me. “We have the two things to celebrate. I can’t get my money back at this late date. Are you going to be the only one—”

“Okay, never mind.” I could hear her sigh. “I’ll come, okay? I’m coming, I promise. It was a moment of panic, that’s all. Something happened—it’s okay now. I’ll be there. Give me the information again.”

“For the third time, you mean? What do you do with your text messages, anyway?”

“The dog eats them?”

“You don’t have a dog, you wanker.”

“How do you know? I could have a dog. You haven’t been to my house in—”

“Margo—”

“Okay, okay. I deleted them. Happy? Just email me. I’ll print it out, again.”

“Can you not just save it on your phone?”

“Let me print it out. I have a folder. I never lose paper.”

Who was I to argue with that?

Of all the people who should be having trouble getting away, it was me. I was meant to be planning a wedding. Well, not exactly a wedding, but picking a date, choosing a venue, and gathering the nerve to get married again. Botched the first one up something fierce, didn’t I? Not keen on doing that again. Worked with blokes all day long, not many of them nice. Gave me little confidence that their gender had anything to do with evolutionary progress.

But then Alan, who all along had been content with our arrangement—the one that included lots of shagging—he had been making noises lately that we’d been dating long enough. He wanted a commitment. The shagging was quite nice, actually, and I’d been putting him off, promising we’d talk about it when my daughter became an adult, which had happened. So what was I dragging my feet about?

Eighteen-year-old Regina—she wanted to be called Reggie now—didn’t actually live at home, anyway, did she? Hadn’t done in at least five years. She visited her bedroom when she and her dad had an argument, but she spent more time with him and his second family than she has ever done with me.

“It’s not about you, Mum,” Reggie said. But we both knew it was.

I had a fierce temper. And moods. I was pretty sure her dad’s brilliant new wife wasn’t moody. Didn’t get plastered either. Cooked healthy meals. And kept a clean house. In other words, the opposite of me.

Unbeknownst to my girlfriends, I’d picked Kiawah for a reason, although no one even asked, which disappointed me a pinch, I’ll admit. Google said Joe was still living in Charleston. Yes, Joe. I know, I was supposed to be making a commitment, but first, something needed sorting.