Even if it took her forever to make it to the rocks on shore, I hoped she knew I’d be here when she got out, holding a bag of dry clothes, her blue boots maybe, or her black ones, and glasses, dark-tinted, to keep out the glaring sun. I’d help her get steady on her legs again. I’d walk her back through the trees, if she forgot the way.
Her car would be parked where she always parked it, and I’d open the passenger-side door for her and say, “Back to town, Ruby?” and she’d say, “Where else, Chloe?” And she’d take a tug on my hair and say, “I know you finally got your license and all, but are you gonna let me drive or what?” and I’d smile, because I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, not with Ruby around, and I’d hand over the keys.
That’s what would happen, when she got out.
But the reservoir was quiet and still—no splashing, not again. So I decided to wait on the rock a little longer; it wasn’t that late.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel her playing with my hair the way she used to. Her light touch at my forehead, either her light touch or the wind’s. Her fingers as she did the braids she used to put in my hair when I was a girl, working slowly, methodically, at a rate that might take a hundred nights to finish, more nights than I could guess at counting, more nights than she’d want to say.
I felt so sure of it: her fingers moving lightly through my hair, my eyes closed to the wind, the reservoir at our backs, leaving us be. So sure I’d open my eyes and find my hair in braids, and the strawberry candies all taken, and there on the rock, Ruby, my big sister, saying what should we have for dinner, pita pizzas or mashed potatoes, and what day was it anyway and were there any good movies on TV?
It sounded impossible, something no one would believe. Yet I was so sure that at any moment I’d open my eyes and see her. I’d open my eyes and see.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My brilliant agent, Michael Bourret, somehow saw the potential in my pages and supported me through every difficult and dramatic moment to reach this point. I was once advised that working with him would be the best thing to happen to my career; time and again, this has been proven true.
My phenomenal editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, pushed me to new heights I’d hardly dared imagine with this manuscript. This novel needed her to edit it. It absolutely would not be what it is without her vision, her deep understanding of its characters, and her belief that its author could actually pull through. I’m in awe of what she can do and beyond lucky for the chance to have her skill and attention shine my way.
Grateful thanks to: Lauri Hornik, Linda McCarthy, Steve Meltzer, Rosanne Lauer, Lisa Yoskowitz, Liza Kaplan, Elena Kalis for the stunning cover image, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Young Readers Group; Lauren Abramo at DGLM; the Writers Room; Think Coffee; the Corporation of Yaddo; the MacDowell Colony; Aimee Bender, and her Tin House workshop the summer of 2008; Sigrid Nunez; Molly O’Neill; Micol Ostow; Mark Rifkin; Courtney Summers; my brother, Joshua Suma; and my Woodstock friends who swam the Ashokan with me, especially Esme Breitenstein and Christine Gable, and in memory of Carlena Hahne, who was lost too soon.
Thanks for encouragement from: Kate Angelella, Jo?lle Anthony, Hilary Bachelder, Jim Berry, Bryan Bliss, Marc Breslav, Cat Clarke, Erin Downing, Annika Barranti Klein, Will Klein, Yojo Shaw, Erin Swan, Christine Lee Zilka.
My beloved mom, Arlene Seymour, has so much Ruby magic in her she’s the reason I was able to become a writer at all. And my little sister, Laurel Rose Purdy, was the best gift my mom ever gave me and the inspiration for the heart of this story. Rose: I hope this reminds you every day just how much I love you.
Regional history was altered for the purposes of this novel, but acknowledgment must go to a book of true history, The Last of the Handmade Dams: The Story of the Ashokan Reservoir by Bob Steuding.
And finally, I’m endlessly grateful to my other half and my love, Erik Ryerson, who found a way to take a couple of characters, a crazy premise, and a flimsy plot and help to magically bring it all to life one night in a back booth on Bleecker Street—and then read and edit drafts of these pages so many times I lost count. This novel simply would not exist without him.