“That doesn’t count. Nice try. Come on. Give me something good, something you’ve never told anyone.” His smile was like a schoolboy’s, earnest and mischievous.
The first thing that came to her mind was the time Chase had brought her to Sunset. It had been her first trip back since she was sixteen, and she’d been determined to get back into Time in a Bottle to find the guest book. But she hadn’t wanted to explain to Chase what she was doing, and she had no way to get into the house since they weren’t staying there. So she’d waited for Chase to pass out after a long day of drinking beer in the sun and crept out of their rented room, walking the few blocks to the beach house, looking back over her shoulder as if someone was following her.
There’d been no one at Time in a Bottle, and—just as she’d hoped —the backdoor was left unlocked. She’d slipped into the coolness of the house, the sweat on her skin chilling in the air conditioning, and walked through the den, trying not to let the memories assault her as she made her way to the room she’d always thought of as hers, the second one on the left. The door was closed. But just as she’d been about to put her hand on the knob, she’d heard music coming from behind the door. Then she’d heard a voice ask, “Is someone there?” and the music had gone quiet. Her heart in her throat, Macy had run from the house, not stopping until she got back to the hotel and Chase, still asleep. As she lay awake that night, watching shadows dance on the ceiling, she’d let the tears fall, fearing she’d never know if the mystery artist had left her a final picture, her heart racing at the thought of how close she’d come to getting caught. Crazy indeed.
But she couldn’t tell Nate that story.
Instead she told him about the day she found out she was pregnant with Emma. How she’d eaten an entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts by herself, figuring it didn’t matter — she was going to get fat anyway. Nate seemed satisfied with that story, and she told herself it was okay that she hadn’t told him the story that had come to mind first. She’d never told anyone about eating all those donuts either. And it was a pretty crazy thing to do. When she knew who Nate was, then she would tell him the other story. She would tell him that story, and so many more.
twenty-three
On the other side of Time in a Bottle was a house that had gone unrented the first week. Every day since they’d arrived, Emma had asked to go swing on one of the two swings that hung outside the house. And every day Macy had told her no, the swings didn’t belong to their house, and they weren’t allowed to be on someone else’s property. But as she returned from an evening walk on the beach, she saw the swings hanging forlornly, the ocean breeze rocking them back and forth. She climbed the steps of their house and called for her daughter.
Emma was watching TV, the colors dancing in front of her heavy eyes. Macy stooped down beside her and pulled her hair out of the way of her ear. “Wanna go swing on those swings next door?” she whispered.
Emma sat up and smiled. “You mean it?” She clapped her hands together.
“Would I kid you?” Macy accepted her grateful hug but grimaced when Emma squealed in her ear before jumping up to get her flip-flops. Then she followed her daughter out of the house and down the front stairs, smiling as she thought about how much fun they were having at Sunset and how glad she was that they had come on the trip. She tried not to think about the future of her job or who the artist might be or if Hank would call. Instead, she focused on Emma, who had run ahead of her, her glossy black ponytail flying behind her.
Emma jumped into the black rubber swing and pushed off with her feet to start the swing rocking. She tilted her head back and pointed her toes to the sky. “Push me, Mommy!” she commanded.
Macy gave her a good push that sent her soaring toward the blue sky, her toes appearing to touch the clouds as she giggled. “Look at me, Mommy!” she yelled. “Look how high I am!”
“I see!” Macy responded. She did see. She saw tiny feet pointed skyward, half the toenails missing their pink polish. She saw the puffy clouds dotting a blue Carolina sky that was streaked with the pink hues of the setting sun. She saw the tendrils of hair that had escaped Emma’s ponytail, hair the exact color of Chase’s, forever a reminder of this man no matter what happened between them. She saw the chain links holding the swing in place, the bolts weathered by the salty air. She saw the tip of her daughter’s chin and the smile that filled her face.
As a single mom, she couldn’t give her daughter everything other kids had. But she could—she had—given her this picture-perfect moment.
She thought about her own mother snapping pictures of her when she was a child. Pictures of Macy at the beach filled albums at home, the same shots repeated, just a year older on each page: Macy holding a pint-sized fishing rod on the Sunset Beach pier, displaying a broad grin but no fish; Macy wearing a bikini that changed colors each year holding a beach ball that stayed the same, primary stripes radiating from its center; Macy with a miniature-golf club in her hand, moments after scoring a hole in one; Macy picnicking on the beach.
When Macy was eight, her mother had convinced her to slip the picture of her feeding the birds into the pages of the guest book, leaving it in hopes that her mystery artist would leave a new picture of himself. Brenda had been curious about who he was as well and helped Macy come up with more and more outrageous theories as to why he never signed his name to his work: he was the son of a government official whose identity could never be revealed; he was a movie star, a spy, a fugitive. No matter who he was, Macy had just wanted to know him. Of course, when she finally got the chance, she’d run away—her greatest regret.
She wished she’d brought the photo he’d left that first year so she could try to figure out if the little boy in the picture looked anything like Nate, Wyatt, or Dockery. But somehow that felt like cheating. In time, hopefully, she would discover who he was —and the answer wasn’t in an old photograph. She wondered if he had kept the photo of her feeding the birds. After she’d left it, he’d drawn it in the guest book. She’d yelled for her mom when she saw it, and Brenda had come running, thinking the mystery artist had finally revealed his identity. But of course he hadn’t. As the years had gone by, Macy had begun to wonder if it wasn’t a bit of a game for him.
“He’s quite talented,” Brenda had said, peering over her shoulder at the drawing of Macy. “Are you sure he’s your age?”
“I think so,” she’d said.
“What are you ladies doing out here?” Max’s voice behind her startled Macy, snapping her out of her daydream.
“Mommy said I could swing. Finally.” Emma already had a head start on sounding like a teenager. Macy blamed it on the Disney Channel.
Max stood behind them. “Trespassing is setting a very good example for the child,” he teased.
She looked at him over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t talk about breaking laws if I were you. When you start being a good example for the child, you can start throwing stones.” She pushed Emma with another good, hard shove, sending her giggling and soaring all over again. “Besides, the swings looked lonely.”
“Oh, they did, did they?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
“Unlike you,” he said, moving her out of the way so he could have a turn pushing Emma.
With Max taking over, Macy was able to move to the plastic chair nearby that might’ve once been white but was now a dingy beige. Gingerly she perched on the edge. “What?”
“Just observing that you don’t look very lonely these days. Got men lining up around the block,” he teased.
“And what of it? After years of being alone, I’m having fun.”
“Just be careful.” His tone was more serious.
“Don’t you worry, Uncle Max.”
Max’s laugh was a sputter. “I’m not worrying about you. I’m worrying about them. Be careful with them. My boy Nate is pretty keen on you, in case you haven’t noticed, and the way I see it, someone’s going to get hurt here. There’s no way around it.”
; She sighed and put her face in her hands, muffling her voice as she spoke. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I’m hoping the truth comes out soon.”
“So why don’t you just ask them?” Max was always one for being direct.
“That would be the simple answer, right?” She leaned back in the chair, forgetting how dirty it was. “I just don’t know how to ask without sounding totally crazy. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can easily work into a conversation, much as I’ve thought about how I could. Plus …” A few moments of silence passed as Macy tried to put words to what she was feeling. “What if none of them are him?”
“You go on with your life. And you’re no worse off than you were before.” Max stilled the swing and Emma hopped off.
“Uncle Max pushes higher than you do,” Emma told Macy matter-of-factly.
“Well, Uncle Max is stronger than me,” she replied.
“Don’t be so sure,” Max said.
Macy looked at him with wrinkled brows.
“Can I go back inside and watch TV?” Emma asked.
“Sure,” Macy and Max responded in unison. They both watched as she skipped across the two backyards, dashed up the porch stairs, and disappeared through the sliding glass door.
“What did you mean, ‘Don’t be so sure’?” Macy asked.
“I’m not as strong as you think,” he answered. “I’m just good at hiding stuff. Always have been. That’s why drinking had such a hold on me. I loved how it made me feel less. If I had enough to drink, I didn’t feel anything at all. A strong person doesn’t do that.” He raised his eyebrows at her and sat down on the swing Emma had vacated, ignoring the creak of protest from the chains as he did.
“I guess his death is still affecting all of us. No matter how much time goes by,” she said. She thought of her dad’s funeral, how the three of them had stood in a row and received guests like robots: extend hand, receive hug, thank numerous people as they offered inane comments about loss and grief one after another after another. Finally, Macy had bolted from the room and run out to the parking lot, unable to hold back the tears that had been threatening all evening. She’d sunk down onto the curb and buried her face in her hands, crying for all she’d lost and in fear that the loss was just going to keep coming. She’d wondered if she’d ever get to the end of it.
From her hiding place behind a silver station wagon, she’d watched as Brenda’s best friend, Nancy, and Nancy’s annoying daughter, Leslie, made their way to their car, walking close together, their identical blonde heads bent toward each other, thankful—she knew—that it wasn’t them in that tiny room with their lifeless husband or dad in the casket. Macy had heard the way their heels click-clacked across the pavement so quickly. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
As always, as she’d sat on the curb, her thoughts had gone to the guest book. Just thinking about it made her feel less alone. Perhaps, she’d thought, this will be the summer I finally find out who the artist is. Perhaps he’d sense—like he’d always sensed what to draw next for her —that she needed him more than ever. If she wanted anyone’s arms around her, anyone’s comfort right then, it was his. Strange how she felt such a connection to someone she’d never talked to, never seen. And yet, through their shared art, they had communicated. They had seen each other. Just not the way people expected.
“Mom sent me out here to look for you,” Max had said as he stood in front of her, blocking the setting sun. When she’d looked up at him, she’d wondered if the look she saw on his face was sympathy or strain.
“I’d ask if you’re okay, but I already know the answer,” he’d said in that dry way of his that never changed much.
Macy had pulled her legs to her and wrapped her arms around her knees like a little girl. She was getting her nice clothes dirty sitting on the curb. Once upon a time, her mother would’ve scolded her for it, complained about the dry-cleaning bill. But not today, Macy was sure. She’d rested her chin on her knees, making herself as compact a little ball as she could. Her dad was dead, and God didn’t seem to be listening. Sitting there in the funeral home parking lot watching the day come to an end, Macy realized she would need to start rescuing herself from now on.
Max had shuffled his feet, reminding her he was there. “They want us back inside.” He’d paused. “I mean, Mom, you know, needs us there. With her.”
She’d looked at Max, so handsome, so remote from her for most of her life due to their age difference. Her parents, the story went, had given up on ever having another child. “And then God surprised us with you,” they used to croon in unison, making Macy feel like the most special child on earth, a true gift. She’d always ignored the look that crossed Max’s face when they said that. It was the look of someone who’d been unmoored, untethered, set adrift. Sitting on the curb, for the first time in her life, Macy had known exactly what that felt like. The two of them looked at each other, their eyes the same shade of blue, the sadness that passed between them carrying the same weight. For the first time, she understood her brother. Max had held out his hand.
“I really don’t think I can go back in there,” she’d said.
He’d taken a step closer to her and leaned forward. “You can. I’ll be with you. We’ll do it together.”
She’d accepted his hand then and allowed him to haul her to her feet. He’d held her hand as they walked back up the sidewalk, only letting go when he had to once they were back in the receiving line so someone else could take it, another mourner offering piteous condolences. Macy’s and Max’s eyes had met over the woman’s head and a sad smile passed between them. Macy had lost a father but gained a brother. She’d wanted that to somehow be enough.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you like I should’ve been,” Max said, bringing her back to the swing set, the setting sun, and the cracked and dingy chair.
“You had your own stuff to deal with. You weren’t meant to handle mine too.”
“But I promised myself I would be there.” He pushed off and the swing moved forward. “I let my guilt over Dad’s death push me away from the people I should’ve been there for. And push me deeper and deeper into whatever bottle I could find to numb me.”
“Guilt?” Macy asked. She thought about the secret guilt she’d carried all these years — the way she’d treated her dad that last summer, how it still stung when she thought of all the missed opportunities to hug him or speak kindly to him. She remembered pulling away from him when he’d teased her about drinking coffee. She’d been convinced the extra burden she’d been had brought on his heart attack.
“Yeah. It’s no secret that I caused Dad a lot of stress for a long time. He was always worrying about me.” Max looked at her, his gaze penetrating and frightening. “It’s my fault he died.”
“Max, no. It’s not. It’s no one’s fault. Dad just … died. It was … his time.”
“Yeah, that’s what Nate and I’ve been talking a lot about … my feelings about Dad dying, my need to take responsibility for things that weren’t my responsibility.”
“Like me?” She smiled at him. Emma came back out on the deck of Time in a Bottle and called for her. She gave Emma a thumbs-up to let her know they were coming, but she was hesitant to end their conversation.
He grinned back at Macy. “Still figuring all that out,” he confessed.
“I’m honored you would feel responsible for me, Max, but you don’t need to. I can take care of myself. And if I can’t, then God will take care of me.”
Max stopped the swing. “You really believe that?”
She nodded, pulling her feet up and resting her chin on her knees. “I’m getting there.”
“Me too. Funny how in coming here we found not just memories of Dad, but what he believed too. Something tells me that’s no accident.” Max chuckled. “I can’t help but think that he’s behind it.”
Macy nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past him. I imagine he’s been waiting for us to get a clue.”
>
“He always did love to be right.”
“So that’s where you get it from,” she teased.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Emma yelled for her again, more insistently. “Mommy! Grandma needs you!”
Macy pointed in the direction of the porch. “Guess that’s my cue.”
He stood up. “I’ll go with you,” he said, just as he had all those years ago in that funeral home parking lot. He put his arm around her, and together, they ventured back to Time in a Bottle. She could almost hear her dad singing the words to the song like he always did, words about treasuring the time you had with the people you loved.
twenty-four
They were finishing a late dinner when Avis called Wednesday night. Their long vacation was going by so quickly. Buzz was over again, a familiar fixture at Time in a Bottle. Brenda had made more cranberry spritzer, which they were planning to take up to the roof deck. It was almost like old times. Macy answered the phone without saying hello. “Avis, I’m usually glad to hear from you, but this time I have to say I’m not.” Avis had said she’d call if Hank started making trouble.
“I’m just calling to give you a heads-up. Heard Hank grumbling this morning to Starla about you being gone. Said you weren’t appreciative of your job, that you think you’re too good for him, taking off for your fancy vacation. Said he’s going to get you to come back for the Saturday morning shift. He says he can’t get anyone to take your shift, but I think he’s doing it for pure meanness. Just to show he can.”
Macy exhaled loudly. “Thanks for warning me, I guess.”
“Honey, you know I’d take your shift if I could, but I’m already working that morning.”
“I know you would. I guess we just have to come back Friday.” She shot her mother a panicked look. With only one car between them, her early departure would force everyone to leave early.
Her mother stood up from the table and picked up her plate. “Is Hank causing trouble? Don’t you worry about him. I’ll just make a phone call and fix that situation right up,” she said, loud enough for Avis to hear from her end.
The Guest Book Page 18
