When she heard the tap on the door, she almost thought she’d imagined it. But when she sat up and looked back, Rawlins stood just outside her open door, his eyes lit with the glow from the single lamp on inside. She stood and they stared at each other for a long moment, the scent of salt and comfort mingling in the air.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it tonight.”
“I didn’t think I would either.”
She hesitated, unsure of what to say. “How did it go?” she finally asked.
“I turned around at the Louisiana line.”
“You . . . what?”
“I canceled the interview.” He held up his arms, then let them drop. “I realized I had what I wanted back at home. My family. Hazel finally with me. I’d be an idiot to uproot her again. She loves it here.” He took a step forward. “And then there’s you. I’ve only just found you. I don’t want to be the one to walk away.”
“But . . . what about your dad? And the business?”
He chuckled, rubbed a hand over his cheek. “He called me on the road. I’d almost made it back to Mobile. He said he wants to talk about my ideas. That I have some good ones, and that we’re long overdue for making decisions together.”
Lily opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She smiled and bit her lip.
“Lily, I . . . ,” he began. “I don’t know where things stand with you and Worth. I would never want to get in the way of something that still had a chance at life. At giving you life. But I also . . .” His brow furrowed and he paused. “I just want to make you happy. Whatever that looks like. And I want to be here for you, however much you need—or want—me to be.”
He stopped when she crossed the room toward him—two feet away, one, now only inches. She took his hand and wrapped her fingers around his. She looked up at him, and her heart felt light, freer than it had in months, years. A lifetime.
She gave his hand a gentle tug and led him outside. Music from the party floated down Port Place from the grass to the porch swing where she and Rawlins sat, side by side, legs pressed against each other. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.
After a moment she lifted her head and laced her fingers through the back of his hair. “My offer for a haircut still stands, you know.”
He grinned and pulled her close again. “I think I’m just about ready.”
Thirty
Dear Stella,
Do you think it’s ever too late to change? To be someone new? Or maybe not someone entirely new, but a new version of yourself? Can you shed the old version like skin that’s grown too tight?
I certainly hope the answer is yes, because it feels like that’s what’s happening to me—the old me is falling away, and in her place is this new woman. I barely recognize her, but at the same time, I feel like I’m saying hello to an old friend who’s been away for a very long time. I’m learning to like the feeling a lot.
Do you remember that young lady I mentioned a while back? The hairdresser? It turns out she has captured your son’s heart. And he just may have captured hers as well. Don’t you worry—I’ve already done all the checking and sniffing out. She’s a good one.
And it appears we’re all going to be sticking around here for a while longer. I called Terry tonight and told him I was staying put. That the village is staying just as it is. After all, we have Jimmy Buffett’s blessing. Can’t argue with that.
And, Stella, Jim and I are okay. Not perfect, not like it once was, but it’s good. And I have to think that somehow, now that my flawed but steadfast heart and my intentions all those years ago have been laid bare, you’d be okay with me too.
You used to love to say, “Life is beautiful.” I always thought it was just you spilling spoonfuls of sugar and sunshine everywhere you went. But, my dear friend, I think you were right. This life is a beautiful thing—it’s precious and fleeting, and we’d all be crazy not to reach out and grab it with both hands and hang on tight.
Thank you for showing me that. It took me a while, but I see it now. And I intend to do it.
All my love, as always,
Rose
Discussion Questions
Do you have any knowledge of or connection to the Alabama Gulf Coast? If so, did this story and its setting in the area around Bon Secour, Alabama, stir any memories for you?
Is there a particular character you identify with? What about one you didn’t understand or whose choices you disagreed with? Was there a character who had any trait you admired?
Lily Bishop finds a kind of fresh start in the shady streets and welcoming neighbors of Safe Harbor Village. Have you ever experienced a season of life when you had to start over from scratch? If so, what or who helped you through it?
What defines home for you? Has it ever been something other than the place where your family resides? Discuss the idea of finding home in a person or people instead of in a physical place.
Coach tells Rose that all the villagers at Safe Harbor have struggles they keep inside. Could you identify with any of the villagers’ struggles? Have you ever been in a situation where you had to cover up your pain in order to move forward with your life?
Rawlins tells Lily that being out on the water is the best way to forget your troubles. Similarly, former psychiatrist Kitty mentions water’s healing properties. How do you see characters in the story coming to the water to relieve their hurt? Do you feel like being near the water does something similar for you?
Lily tells Rose her life feels unraveled, as if the death of her mother pulled a string, and each painful event after has yanked the string a little bit more. Can you relate to the idea of painful events or struggles seeming to come in waves?
Rose is surprised to find that her brother, Jim, is willing to “forgive and forget.” How do you think he was able to do that? Should he have required more from her before he asked her to sit at his kitchen table? Have you ever had an old wound you chose to forgive because you missed the person more than you were angry at him or her?
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone at Thomas Nelson, especially my editor, Kim Carlton. Thank you, Kim, for encouraging me to dig deeper to make this story and these characters shine as much as they do. You’re a whiz and I’m thankful you’re my editor! Thank you to Amanda Bostic for your continued faith in me as an author. I may have written this book, but there are so many smart, enthusiastic people who had a hand in bringing The Summer House to life and helping it find its audience, especially Paul Fisher, Jodi Hughes, Matt Bray, Becky Monds, Savannah Summers, Kerri Potts, and Julie Breihan. (Thank you, Julie, for saving readers from all that brightness!) Thank you to the sales team for your dedication to getting my books into the hands of readers. Thank you also to the creative cover designers—I’m batting a thousand on covers. Thank you for another stunner.
Thank you to my agent, Karen Solem. I always come away from our conversations feeling stronger and ready to go out and write the book that needs to be written.
Thank you to my sweet family—Matt, Kate, and Sela—especially toward the end of writing this book when I spent a lot of time holed up in that back bedroom. I love you and thank you for being excited for me and for supporting this “job” of mine. And, Matt, keep the ideas coming. One day I’ll write one of those books! To my bigger family, including all the Kofflers and Dentons, thank you for your love, guidance, and support for oh-so-many years.
The further I get in this journey, the more writer friends I meet along the way who help in so many ways—from listening to me gripe or vent, to offering much-needed advice, to commiserating about the ups and downs. Thank you especially to my dear friends Anna Gresham and Holly Mackle for being on the receiving end of many of those gripes and venting sessions and for cheering me on, especially when this particular book hit bumps in the road. Thank you also to Holly for the eagle-eye edits and for keeping my characters from bumping into each other so much! Thank you, Anna, for letting me b
orrow the phrase on Canaan’s hat! Thank you to the ladies of Tea and Empathy, and to author Rachel Linden for creating such a warm and inviting space to ask questions, receive feedback, and learn and laugh together. Maybe one day we can all get together IRL!
Thank you to my dear friend Amanda Lane for many years of solving problems one afternoon at a time. I’m thankful for our friendship, forged over Halloween traditions and backyard popsicles.
Thank you to Jaye and Doug Plash and Molly Stone for helpful tidbits of information on the shrimping industry. Thank you to my friend Nancy Meigs Mills, who should win an award for buying the most books from an author. I will always sign another copy for you, Nancy! Thank you to the delightful followers of my Facebook page (Lauren K. Denton, Author) who helped me figure out what those stand-up hair dryers are actually called!
As always, thank you to the Bookstagrammers and book bloggers—where would we authors be without you? You are a creative and inspiring force in the world of books.
Lastly, thank you to my readers. Musician and author Andrew Peterson wrote in his book Adorning the Dark about how surprising it is—whether you’re a writer of books or a singer of songs—that an audience will give you not only their money but their attention. He says the act of giving that attention is a “profound generosity in a culture that clamors for every second of our attention already.” So, thank you, dear readers, for making space for my books, both on your bookshelves and in your hearts. I treasure every message and email you send me, and it’s truly the highest honor to write books for you. My prayer is that they continue to bring you hope and beauty, humor and encouragement.
An Excerpt from The Hideaway by Lauren K. Denton
Chapter 1
Mags
March
Sunsets in Sweet Bay have always made me feel a little like a child. I think it’s all that vast, open water. I expect something to come rising out of the deep at the last minute, something huge and unexpected. I’m always waiting, anticipating. But each night is like the one before—a frenzy of color, the disappearance of the sun, the dusk settling in like an old friend getting comfortable.
Earlier this evening, when I left the house to come out here to the garden, Dot was standing by the microwave waiting for her popcorn while Bert washed his cast-iron skillet with just the right amount of gentleness. Business as usual. We’d had a pleasant dinner—good food, lively conversation—but everyone knows after dinner is my time in the garden. They stopped asking me long ago to join them in their nightly routines—a television drama, a jigsaw puzzle, Glory laying out her quilt squares. Late evenings belong to me and my memories.
I sit here on my old bench, made by hands that once held mine. The bench isn’t much, just cedar planks and peeling paint, but it’s been a friend, a companion, for almost as long as I’ve lived in this house. My fingers curl under the edge of the bench, a habit formed over the years. I close my eyes and breathe in deep. So much has happened. Sometimes it hurts to think on it all. Other nights, like this one, the memories are sweet.
Next to me is the latest issue of Southern Living that came in the mail today. Sara and her shop are featured on page 50. I like having her photo close. This way, I can pretend she’s sitting here next to me. Just as I’m about to open the magazine, I get that hitch in my chest again. A tightness, like a little fist squeezing closed, then a fluttering. Then it’s gone.
I reach down and pull off my shoes so I can feel the dirt under my toes. That always makes me feel better. My doctor suggested I wear these ridiculous white orthopedic walkers even though I much prefer my old rubber boots. Good Lord, I loved those things. They were practical, hardworking. Same with the waders and hats. You can’t fix a busted boat motor or change the oil in a truck wearing a fussy dress and teetering heels. My Jenny never seemed to mind my getups—she felt right at home in our unconventional life—but Sara was a different story. I saw how she looked at me, like she wondered how in the world her grandmother, not to mention a house as grand as The Hideaway, could have turned out so strange.
I’ve wondered from time to time whether I should sit Sara down and tell her my story. By the time she moved in with me, she was already at that tender point in every young girl’s life where friends’ opinions mean more than anything else, and I knew my existence in her life didn’t help her climb the ladder of popularity. But I always wished I could find a way to help her see The Hideaway, and me, in a different light.
Truth be told, I think she’s a stronger woman now because of who I turned out to be. If I’d remained under my parents’ thumbs, always worrying about how others perceived me, I would have been a wispy shadow of a real woman. And I have to think that somehow my refusal to bow to the norms helped shape Sara—even if she hasn’t consciously realized it.
Maybe the time is now. She’s no longer a fickle teenager but a grown woman. And a smart one too. She’d do well to know my story, know how it changed me from quiet to bold. Weak to strong. I’ll tell her. I’ll sit her down and tell her everything. One of these days.
Chapter 2
Sara
April
I love the smell of New Orleans in the morning. Even now. The city’s detractors say it smells like last night’s trash or the murky water dripping into the sewer drains, but I know better. It’s the smell of fish straight from the Gulf—not stinky, but briny and fresh. It’s the aroma of just-baked French bread wafting through the Quarter from Frenchmen Street. It’s the powdered sugar riding the breeze from Café du Monde. Sure, there’s the tang of beer and smoke and all the sin of Bourbon Street, but when you mix it up together, the scent is exhilarating.
I walked out the front door of my loft at nine fifteen and inhaled the crisp air. It was April, which in New Orleans—and anywhere else in the Deep South—could mean anything from eighty degrees to forty, depending on the whims of God and the Gulf jet stream. This day had dawned cool and bright.
Instead of slipping into my Audi, I walked to the corner of Canal and Magazine to catch the bus to my shop. It was more of a walk than I preferred to do in wedge heels, but Allyn was always telling me I needed to break out of my routine and “do something unexpected.” I smiled. He’d be proud of me for ignoring the time—and my feet—and enjoying the morning. After all, no one would mind if we opened up a little later than usual.
In the Big Easy, businesses were always opening late or closing early for one reason or another. It wasn’t the way I preferred to operate, but it was the way of life here, and I’d gotten used to it.
“Hey there, pretty lady,” a deep tenor voice called out from the shady depths of Three Georges Jewelers. This George was always trying to hawk CZ jewels and faux baubles to unwitting tourists. I never bought into George’s ploys, but I couldn’t avoid him. He was too charming.
“Hi, George. Planning to cheat anyone out of their hard-earned dollars today?”
“All day long, my dear. One of these days, you’ll have one of my beauties shining on your finger. Send your beaux my way and I’ll set them up with something perfect.”
“I’m sure you would, but there is no beau for me today.”
“A pretty lady like you? I’m shocked!”
He called everyone a pretty lady. Even some of the men.
I wound my way through the Quarter to where the bus picked up shoppers and business owners and shuttled us to the middle of Magazine Street. Everyone I encountered was in a jovial mood, and I remembered why I fell in love with New Orleans.
* * *
As I twisted the key in the lock at Bits and Pieces, balancing a tall to-go cup of coffee in the crook of my elbow, Allyn roared into the driveway on his Harley.
“You’re late.” He gracefully dismounted the bike. “Pull an all-nighter like me?” His Hollywood starlet shades covered half his face. His hair was orange today.
“No, I didn’t, thank you. You’re one to talk—you’re late too.”
“Can’t make an entrance if I’m always on time.” He hopped up the fron
t steps and grabbed my cup of coffee just before it slipped from my arm.
I pushed the door open and the welcome scent of gardenias drifted past us. We carried a line of hand-poured soy candles in the shop with such pleasing fragrances. Light, not overpowering. I designed Bits and Pieces to make people want to stay for a while. We even kept a Keurig in the back and pralines in a dish by the cash register.
I was in love with everything I’d tucked into the old shotgun house—from restored furniture to antique silver to vintage linen pillows embroidered with the ever-present fleur-de-lis. I’d found much of it at antique markets and estate sales. Even a few garage sales. I didn’t limit myself to specializing in one particular type of item—that’s why I named it Bits and Pieces. A little bit of everything.
Invigorated by the sunshine and the freshness of the spring air, I propped open the front door and we began the day. I set the music to Madeleine Peyroux while Allyn tinkered with one of the vignettes he’d set up in a side room. In deference to his constant harping that I needed to allow a bit of Southern Goth into the shop—to appeal to the legions of Anne Rice and voodoo fans in the city—I gave him some leeway.
I figured New Orleans had enough mix of high and low, uptown and downtown, that I needed to relax my rules a bit. However, I did draw the line at voodoo dolls. Instead, he scattered tiny white porcelain skulls throughout the shop. Several of my customers bought them to use as unconventional hostess gifts.
The Summer House Page 30
