The Longest Ride

sadness and anxiety over the fact that she hadn’t become a grandmother. Ruth gently revealed that we couldn’t have children, careful not to place the blame entirely on me, though she could easily have done so. Another of her kindnesses, for which I’ve always been thankful.

“She didn’t say much at dinner, but afterwards, I was relieved that she smiled at me.”

“She appreciated the fact that you offered to do the dishes.”

“It was the least I could do. To this day, that was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“It was good, yes?” Ruth reminisces. “Earlier, my mother had found a roadside stand with fresh vegetables, and she had baked bread. My father turned out to be a natural with the grill.”

“And after we finished the dishes, we went for a walk.”

“Yes,” she says. “You were very bold that night.”

“I wasn’t acting bold. I simply asked for a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.”

“Yes, but this was new for you. My mother had never seen that side of you. It made her nervous.”

“But we were adults.”

“That was the problem. You were a man and she knew that men have urges.”

“And women don’t?”

“Yes, of course. But unlike men, women are not controlled by their urges. Women are civilized.”

“Did your mother tell you that?” My voice is skeptical.

“I did not need my mother to tell me. It was clear to me what you wanted. Your eyes were full of lust.”

“If I recall correctly,” I say with crisp propriety, “I was a perfect gentleman that night.”

“Yes, but it was still exciting for me, watching you try to control your urges. Especially when you spread your jacket and we sat in the sand and drank the wine. The ocean seemed to absorb the moonlight and I could feel that you wanted me, even if you were trying not to show it. You put your arm around me and we talked and kissed and talked some more and I was a little tipsy…”

“And it was perfect,” I finally offer.

“Yes,” she agrees. “It was perfect.” Her expression is nostalgic and a little sad. “I knew I wanted to marry you and I knew for certain we would always be happy together.”

I pause, fully aware of what she was thinking, even then. “You were still hopeful that the doctor might be wrong.”

“I think that I said that whatever happened would be in God’s hands.”

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she answers, then shakes her head. “What I do know is that when I was sitting with you that night, I felt like God was telling me that I was doing the right thing.”

“And then we saw the shooting star.”

“It blazed all the way across the sky,” she says. Her voice, even now, is filled with wonder. “It was the first time I had ever seen one like that.”

“I told you to make a wish,” I said.

“I did,” she says, meeting my eyes. “And my wish came true only a few hours later.”
     

     
    Though it was late by the time Ruth and I got back to the house, her mother was still awake. She sat reading near the window, and as soon as we walked in the door, I felt her eyes sweep over us, looking for an untucked or improperly buttoned shirt, sand in our hair. Her relief was apparent as she rose to greet us, though she did her best to disguise it.

She chatted with Ruth while I went back to the car to retrieve my suitcase. Like many of the cottages along this stretch of the beach, the house had two floors. Ruth and her parents had rooms on the lower level, while the room Ruth’s mother showed me to was directly off the kitchen on the main floor. The three of us spent a few minutes visiting in the kitchen before Ruth began to yawn. Her mother began to yawn as well, signaling the end of the evening. Ruth did not kiss me in front of her mother – at that point, it wasn’t something we’d yet done – and after Ruth wandered off, her mother soon followed.

I turned out the lights and retreated to the back porch, soothed by the moonlit water and the breeze in my hair. I sat outside for a long time as the temperature cooled, my thoughts wandering from Ruth and me, to Joe Torrey, to my parents.

I tried to imagine my father and mother in a place like this, but I couldn’t. Never once had we gone on vacation – the shop had always anchored us in place – but even if it had been possible, it wouldn’t have been a holiday like this. I could no more imagine my father grilling with a glass of wine in hand than I could imagine him atop Mt.