The Summer House: A gorgeous feel good romance that will have you hooked
Page 15
As lovely as it was out there, she needed to get up and make dinner—it was her night. The builders were finishing up for the day but coming again tomorrow to complete the walkway that would run from the yard to the ocean, and she still had to put in the order for landscaping with the local garden shop. She stood up, closed the journal, and folded up her chair, then headed toward the house.
“You’ll never believe this,” Gladys said over her empty dinner plate. She’d refused to let Callie cook tonight. She’d brought them a whole dinner.
By the look on Gladys’s face, she’d clearly been waiting until after the meal to tell Callie and Olivia this news so she could have their undivided attention. Wyatt was fishing on the beach while the three ladies had a glass of wine. Gladys’s face was animated as she reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out a slip of paper. “Adelaide found Frederick’s number.” She slid the paper across the table.
Callie clapped a hand over her mouth as she peered down at the handwritten phone number scrawled across the little piece of paper. “Let’s call him,” she said through her fingers.
“Right now?” Olivia asked, swirling her wine in her glass with a smile. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. I want him to have what’s rightfully his. He might not even know Alice had that lockbox. It could have valuable items in it, personal items.” She thought back to that baby boy.
Gladys nodded toward the paper. “Call him.” The way she said it, her encouragement seemed more rooted in support for Callie than in the excitement of reaching Frederick.
With an air of drama, Callie pulled her phone from her pocket and, a zinging feeling running through her fingers, she dialed the number. After two rings, there was an answer.
“Hello?”
She cleared her throat, setting down her wine and sitting up straight. “Um, my name is Callie Weaver. I’m the new owner of Alice McFarlin’s place…” The silence that followed was slightly unsettling, so she plowed on. “I’m looking for her brother, Frederick. Is this him speaking?”
“Yes,” he said kindly, causing her to exhale.
She smiled excitedly at Gladys and Olivia.
“Hi,” she said a bit too enthusiastically. “We’ve found a lockbox with your initials on it. I think it might be yours, and I’d like to return it to you.”
“Oh. That’s very kind of you.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t know if you were missing it or not.”
More silence.
“Yes, I’ve missed it,” he said softly. “I know just the box you’re talking about. I thought it was gone, but Alice must’ve kept it. I’m glad she did.”
“Can we arrange a day and time to meet so I can give it back?”
“Of course. How about tomorrow?”
“That would be perfect! Maybe around two?”
“Thank you for going out of your way.”
“You’re welcome.” She couldn’t believe it; she was going to get the lockbox back to its rightful owner. How lucky was that?
Seventeen
Callie lay in bed holding the journal in her hands, grinding her teeth, guilt washing over her for just holding it now that she could actually give it back to someone. There was no reason to read it. She’d be delivering it to Frederick tomorrow. She’d only allowed herself to read it before because she was hoping to find him and now she had.
She put it back on the dresser and tried to go to sleep. But, she wondered, who was the man she would encounter tomorrow? What might Alice have said? Callie closed her eyes and rolled over onto her side, away from the dresser. But the more she lay there in the dark, the more she stewed about how Frederick had abandoned his child. Her pulse sped up as she reached up and grabbed the journal. Hoping to understand him a little better, she opened it and read, curling up under her sheet and summer blanket, the tiny lamp by her air mattress giving her enough light to see the words.
I spoke to Frederick. We’d spent a long time talking over coffee and I had waited until just the right moment to mention the topic. See, any talk about Frederick’s son is off limits. He closes right up. But this time was different. I’d seen the boy again—I’ve seen him many times now, and it doesn’t make it any easier. He was at the intersection by the new hotel, his car packed to the brim with things, and I wondered if he was going away to college. He’d graduated high school just before the summer. I went to his graduation to watch him walk across the stage and get his diploma. Frederick didn’t tell me he was going, but I saw him hanging back behind the crowd. I asked him if he ever wished things were different. He replied, “Well they’re not, so why should we bother wishing something that won’t happen.” He got up and left the room.
Irritation burned inside her and she wanted to go to Frederick right now and shake him. What if his son wondered where he’d gotten his height from or his features? Shouldn’t he at least be allowed the choice of knowing? With a huff, she picked up the journal and decided to read on. But she wasn’t prepared for what she read next.
The boy has come home! I don’t know why I call him “the boy.” Maybe saying his name would make the situation too real, and I’d fall apart. He’s home from college and he’s back in town.
He’s flashy now, like his family.
Callie stopped, her gaze lingering on that last sentence, the wheels in her head turning. She shook it off and kept reading.
He’s at that age where he feels invincible, like he could conquer the world. And, given his upbringing and his money, he probably will.
She was unwilling to think the thought that was pushing its way through her mind, her fingers feeling unusually light as she turned the page.
But when I look at him, I still see Frederick’s face and the smile of the little boy who dropped his baseball all those years ago. I wish one day he could know that I’ve been there. I’ve watched his soccer games and been at his choir performances; I’ve walked down the beach until it becomes his family’s private property and I’ve seen him building sandcastles. I’ve watched him grow into the young man he is now, and whenever I can, I try to send him my love in little glances, smiles, whatever the moment will allow. He is my family and I’m there for my family.
When she’d first met Luke, she’d mentioned Alice McFarlin and he’d said, “I saw her everywhere.”
An icy cold slithered through her. Oh my God.
She got up and went into the kitchen, taking the journal with her. She pulled a knife from the drawer and went over to the lockbox, wedging the point of it into the lock and twisting, but it wouldn’t turn. From the look of the box, it didn’t seem terribly secure though; if she tried hard enough, she might just get it open. She grabbed a sharper knife. With a shaky hand, she jabbed it into the lock again and frantically pushed, prodded, twisted. Nothing.
“Whatcha doing?” Wyatt said with a sleepy face as he padded into the kitchen.
Callie jumped, throwing the knives back into a drawer. “Oh, just trying to see if I could open this old thing,” she said as calmly as she could, her hands still trembling, her heart pounding. With a little smile put on for Wyatt’s benefit, she slid the box back into the pantry. “What are you doing up?”
“I’m thirsty,” he said, scratching the back of his neck and yawning.
“I’ll get you some water and you can take it up to bed. How does that sound?”
He nodded, gritting his teeth to stifle another yawn.
The idea was ridiculous. She was just reading into things. But those words from the journal kept shouting at her as she lay in bed the next morning, her eyes burning from a terrible night’s sleep. She reached over and twisted her clock around—ten o’clock! She’d slept half the day! She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to clear her head, which felt like it was full of cotton, her capacity for coherent thought completely drained.
She opened the window and took in the morning air, noticing the clouds rolling in. The heat overwhelmed her enough to shut it, and she went downstairs.
“Morning.” She pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with orange juice. “I’ll help you with that as soon as I get a little food into my system.”
“No worries. You should have your breakfast outside before the storm comes. It’s hot but the ocean breeze is still nice.”
Callie nodded. “I think I will.”
“Why don’t I join you?” Gladys stood up and pressed against her lower back in a stretch. “It’ll give Olivia some peace and quiet. I’ve been rattling on to her all morning about nothing in particular. You look like you’re still tired. Let me make you an egg sandwich,” said Gladys. “Go outside and relax; the heat’ll push the exhaustion right out of you.”
“I don’t mind making myself some breakfast.” She took a sip of her juice.
“Make an old woman feel useful.” Gladys was already pulling a pan out and turning on the gas stove, the little blue flame popping and igniting under the pan.
“Okay,” she relented, heading toward the back porch. “Thank you.”
“No problem at all.”
Callie stepped onto the porch and pushed the screen door open, her juice glass already fogging up in the relentless heat. It was oppressive today, even with the thick cloud cover. She sat down on the edge of the walkway and set her orange juice on one of the boards, the new wood a yellow color. It would take some time to age it but the salt would certainly help things along. The tide pulled and pushed against the shore, the spray exploding angrily with every crash. She looked up at the clouds; thick as they were, they didn’t do much to block the brightness, and she wished she’d grabbed her sunglasses.
Gladys had been right. Out here, she felt more alive, the fresh air bringing light to her thoughts. She’d been jumping to conclusions with the journal. It didn’t make any sense at all, and she had let the late hour and her sleepy mind play tricks on her. She thought about telling Gladys about it, as she had always been the person she’d talked to over the years about things. She and Olivia were the only ones who knew Callie’s real feelings about her mother and their strained relationship after her beloved grandmother had passed.
She could ask Gladys about Frederick… But then again, she was going to see him soon so perhaps she’d have her answers then.
“Phew! The wind is pickin’ up, isn’t it?” Gladys said as she strode down the walk barefoot, holding a plate with the steaming sandwich. She set it down on Callie’s lap as Callie helped her steady it. “Got it?”
Callie nodded.
“You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”
“I think it was just the wine last night,” she said before taking a bite of her sandwich and thanking Gladys with a smile.
Gladys sat down next to her. “Could be the storm coming. The barometric pressure makes you feel different sometimes. I’m always my most creative just before a storm.” She looked out at the ocean. “I think that’s why Olivia’s inside nesting. Something about a summer thunderstorm makes a person feel like hunkering down in a cozy spot. I left her organizing a closet upstairs. She’d already finished all those dishes,” she said with a grin.
Callie smiled.
“Something’s eating at ya,” Gladys said. “What is it?”
Callie looked down at her half-eaten sandwich.
“The truth will set you free,” Gladys said with a knowing smile.
“I was just wondering about Frederick McFarlin. Did you know him very well?”
Gladys shook her head. “He spent a lot of time to himself, and then when we were young—in our early thirties—he just disappeared. I did ask Alice once, and she just said he’d moved. Alice looked so frazzled over it that I just didn’t feel it was my place to ask anything else. She seemed closed off about it.”
They sat quietly for a while, and Callie finished her sandwich.
“How’s your mama?” Gladys said as if she were changing subjects. Callie didn’t want to think about how the question tied to her last comment about being closed off, but she knew it did. Callie didn’t argue or have anything against her mother; they’d just sort of drifted apart. The more time Callie spent with Olivia and her family, the closer she got with them and the less she had to think about her mother’s unwillingness to communicate.
“She’s fine, I guess.”
“You guess?” she asked, her words gentle. “You know, I was thinking that maybe you should invite her to the opening of The Beachcomber. I’ll bet she’d be really proud of you.”
Callie nodded, unable to produce more than that. She’d had the same thought herself. She felt an overwhelming guilt that she couldn’t define. She knew she should be keenly aware of how her own mother was doing and want to invite her to things like that, but what little relationship they’d possessed had just slipped away.
Gladys put her hands on her knees, her fingers spreading over them for balance and pushed herself up. “I should probably head on,” she said. “I’m giving the house a good clean today and then I’m going to my daughter’s house just in case this storm hits worse than expected.” She was good at knowing when to stop the discussion about Callie’s mother, and that was what she was doing now, Callie was nearly sure of it.
Callie followed suit, grabbing her empty orange juice glass in one hand, her plate in the other. “I know. It’s getting late and I’d like to plant the bushes before it rains. I only have until afternoon and then I’m going to take that lockbox back to Frederick.”
Wyatt smiled, pride filling his face as he came outside. Callie had picked up the bushes she’d called in this morning and now, on her knees, wrist deep in soil, she was nearly done. She looked up from her planting. She’d gotten the whole row of bushes done along the new walkway and the sky had been grumbling the last few minutes.
“Guess what I did,” he said. “I got the lock open on the lockbox for you. There’s stuff inside.”
Callie stared at him, her hands still, all her questions from last night slamming back into the front of her mind. She was suddenly unsure of how she wanted to proceed. She wasn’t certain she wanted to pry into Frederick’s life now. She knew why: She was really afraid to find out any more about that baby boy. Callie swallowed her worry, took off her gardening gloves, and slowly stood up.
“Come on!” Wyatt grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up the walk.
When she got inside, Callie protectively looked in on the contents of the box, not wanting to disturb anything. Olivia came over and peered down at it curiously before congratulating Wyatt on getting it open. Carefully, Callie pulled out a small sketchpad, setting it delicately on the table. There was a local high school graduation program… She reached into the box again, taking out a stack of newspaper and magazine clippings, and—she stopped breathing—all of them were about the Sullivan family.
Confusion swam across Olivia’s face. “That’s weird,” she said, but her attention was pulled away when Wyatt asked a question. Callie wasn’t listening. Slowly, her breath shallow, she set them down and retrieved the sketchpad. She swallowed and opened it. Her heart rose into her throat as she saw drawings. One was of a dog on a street. She turned the page: an ocean landscape. They were so good. “He’s an artist,” she whispered to herself, still trying to find her breath.
Wyatt wanted to show Olivia something that he’d made. “I’ll be right back,” she said as he pulled her away.
Callie turned the page and had to hold on to the chair for support. It was a pencil sketch of the wild horses and a woman looking out at the ocean, only her back visible, with a small boy by her side. Callie could still hear Luke’s voice when he’d told her about the beach with the horses: My mom used to bring m
e here when I was a kid.
She shut the sketchpad, needing a moment to process all this, her skin cold.
She shoved everything back into the lockbox, and shut it, wriggling the latch until it had closed. She inspected it to make sure it didn’t look like anyone had pried into it, and it looked fine. Her heart raced in her chest, her fingertips like ice despite the heat, her mouth dry. She pushed the lockbox back into the pantry and shut the door. Her hands lingered on the knob as if she had to keep the box from escaping. A loud clap of thunder boomed, shaking her to the core.
Eighteen
Callie’s hands were sweaty as she drove the hour-long drive, the lockbox and Alice’s journal on her passenger seat. She hadn’t told Olivia what she suspected about Luke or what was drawn in the sketchpad.
She’d asked Frederick to come to The Beachcomber, but he’d said he didn’t feel like he could. He just wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t face the house and all its memories. Now she understood why—it was more than just losing Alice. Callie wrestled with whether or not to mention her suspicions about Luke to Frederick. How would she bring something like that up? Her stomach churned. She could just give him the box and be on her way. But didn’t Gladys always say that the truth would set you free? Yet what good could come of this truth?
As Callie drove, the sky was a threatening shade of gray, lightning flashes radiating through the clouds. The forecasters were watching a fast-moving category four hurricane off the coast of Kingston, Jamaica. It was headed for the East Coast, but they weren’t sure if it would move off to sea. She didn’t want to worry unnecessarily—storms like this were more common in autumn and residents knew how to prepare for them, but it wasn’t losing strength as it moved, and being late summer, it was very early in the season to have this type of storm. It was projected that if it made landfall in the US, it could hit the Outer Banks directly. While The Beachcomber’s porches wouldn’t be finished before the hurricane hit, the walls would be completed out back and they’d installed the latest hurricane window shutters throughout to protect the house. It had stood strong in storms for decades.