Home. I hadn’t thought of Sweet Bay as home in over a decade. The word unsettled me a little.
“I can get Rick to come and take over if my services are needed,” he continued. Allyn’s friend Rick annoyed me—constantly misting his face with lavender water (to keep his complexion young) and boasting about his ability to fit into women’s skinny jeans—but he had a killer eye for what customers liked.
I took Allyn’s advice and was now zipping across Lake Pontchartrain headed toward Alabama. I rolled down the windows and let the breeze play with my hair and soothe my frantic mind until the car got too warm and my hair began to frizz.
On the way, I mulled over what Allyn had said about burying my emotions. My first reaction was to blow it off and blame it on his constant attempts to psychoanalyze me. But he wasn’t the first person to tell me I had a tough exterior. When I’d called Mitch to cancel our date on Saturday night, he called me unreadable.
“You break our date to one of the biggest events I have to go to all year, and you don’t even seem sorry about it.”
“I told you, my grandmother died. I’ll be wearing my black dress for a much more somber occasion than a fund-raising gala at Galatoire’s.”
“I don’t mean to slight your grandmother’s death, but you’ve hardly mentioned her to me. We’ve been going out for—I don’t know, a little while—and I still can’t read you. I don’t know what makes you tick or what’s important to you.”
Maybe Mitch and Bernard were right. Maybe I was too private. But it didn’t bother me. Allyn was one of the few people—okay, the only person—who knew what I was really like on the inside. And that wasn’t even by my choice. Early in our friendship, he more or less kidnapped me one night after work and whisked me away to a party in a courtyard much like the one behind my loft. We hung out with his friends for hours, talking and laughing. I was more comfortable in the company of his strange, colorful friends than I had been with any other group of people I could remember.
Around midnight, someone popped in an old VHS tape of Xanadu, and most everyone flocked to the TV inside. Allyn and I stayed outside and talked. Actually, I did most of the talking, answering every one of his myriad questions about my life and childhood as honestly as I ever had.
The next morning, nursing a grating headache, I opened Bits and Pieces an hour late, much to a snickering Allyn’s delight. He admitted there had been a boatload of vodka—cleverly disguised as pineapple juice—in the punch he’d been handing me all night.
“How else was I going to get you talking? I had almost no idea who you were until last night. I never would have pegged you as a former Bourbon Street bartender in hot pants.”
I smacked him on the arm and pretended to be put off all day, but he knew better. “You had fun and you know it. You should let your hair down more often. You’re much more fun to be around when you’re not working so hard to keep all those balls up in the air. Let one fall now and then.”
The rest of Louisiana and all of Mississippi passed in a blur of concrete, casino billboards, and occasional lingering hurricane damage. When I crossed the state line into Alabama, something clenched in my stomach. I had no idea what the next few days would hold. Being twelve years old when my parents died, I didn’t have to take care of anything related to the business of death. Mags had been there to talk to the doctors, the lawyer, the funeral home. I was insulated from the ugliness of it all, except for the savage hole in my heart. When Mags took to her bed after the funeral, Dot stepped in as my surrogate mother. She sent thank-you notes to those who had sent food, returned casserole dishes, delivered the funeral bouquets to the hospital, and packed lunches for me when I went back to school.
As the only surviving member of our tiny family, I’d likely be responsible for all those particulars. But this time, there wasn’t a twelve-year-old child in the mix. She had grown into a thirty-year-old woman more than capable of taking care of the details.
I arrived at Mr. Bains’s office ten minutes before our scheduled meeting. I approached the door to his office on the sixth floor with a mix of nerves and determination, certain I’d be walking away with nothing more than a few dusty boxes of old clothes and maybe some items belonging to my parents.
“Excuse me. It’s time to . . . um . . . ahem.” Mr. Bains cleared his throat to get our attention. Dot, Bert, Glory, and Major had spent the last ten minutes oohing and aahing over me.
“Your hair is so pretty. It’s longer since we saw you last.” Glory examined a dark lock between her fingers. Her short dreadlocks stood up at jaunty angles. “I just got a new shade of red in last week. Maybe you’ll let me try it out on you? Fix you up nice for the funeral.”
Glory Gregg was the hairdresser at The Hideaway. At one time she kept the residents’ hair in the latest dos deemed acceptable for senior citizens, and a few that would look better on skateboarding teens. Did Ms. Mary Lou ever forgive Glory for the bad dye job that left her hair eggplant purple instead of dusky midnight? Major was Glory’s army veteran husband. I never knew if Major was his given name or just his title.
“I’m making Mags’s favorite chicken à la king tonight in her honor,” Bert, the chief culinary officer, said. All the residents knew they needed permission before entering the kitchen. Bert was soft-spoken and gentle, but the kitchen was his domain and he’d let you know if you overstayed your welcome when he needed to start a meal. “You’ll be at the house for dinner, right?”
“Sure she will,” Dot said. “I’ve already gotten the blue room ready for you, dear.”
Before I could speak, Mr. Bains stood up behind his desk. “If I could have everyone’s attention, we’ll get started. This shouldn’t take long, but I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” He looked down at his watch before he sat and opened a slim folder.
“As you all know, I’ve gathered you here for the reading of the will of Mrs. Margaret Van Buren, better known as Mags. In typical cases, as the estate attorney, I would mail a copy of the will to beneficiaries. However, Mrs. Van Buren specifically requested I gather the five of you to hear the will together. Being a longtime friend of hers, I intend to follow her wishes to the letter.”
Instead of speaking of the house itself, Mr. Bains began with a list of mundane items. When he started outlining which kitchen items would go to Bert and which quilts Glory could have, I tuned out. My mind drifted back to the day I became a permanent resident of The Hideaway. My parents had dropped me off so they could do some Christmas shopping. It was only September, but they liked to spread the expenses over a few months rather than end the year in the red. As owners of the only diner in town—famous for their loaded cheeseburger and a darn good catfish pie—they made enough money to pay the bills and keep me in My Little Ponys and then Converse sneakers, but not much extra rattled in their pockets.
It was raining that day. I had curled up in the window seat in the downstairs den, tracing raindrops trailing down the window with my finger, when someone knocked on the door. I paused, waiting to hear movement in the house. No one came, so I rose and peered out the window next to the door.
Sergeant Burnside, the chief of police in Sweet Bay—and a frequent Jenny’s Diner customer—stood on the porch shaking water off his cap. As he settled the cap back on his head, he noticed me standing in the window. His eyebrows crunched together and the worry lines on his forehead deepened.
When Mags appeared behind me and opened the door, Sergeant Burnside asked if he could talk to Mags in private. I knew it was something terrible.
A little while later, Dot found me in my room and gave me the details: the rain, my parents’ 1975 Volvo, a huge water oak, slick roads, and flashing lights. The police found a toy store shopping bag a hundred feet away, sitting in a horse pasture like someone had set it down and left it for a child to find, like a present.
I hadn’t noticed the quiet in the small office overlooking downtown Mobile until Mr. Bains said my name. Now everyone was looking at me.
“I’m
sorry. What did you say?” I asked.
He looked down at the paper in front of him and read.
“‘To my granddaughter, Sara Margaret Jenkins, I bequeath The Hideaway and all its contents, save for those already specified for other people. She is to take possession of the house effective immediately. I request that she use her talents and skills to renovate the house and property to its fullest potential, hiring help as necessary, and live in the house during renovations to keep a close eye on the work. Don’t let anyone bungle this job.’ Her words, not mine.” Mr. Bains looked up at us.
“‘My friends can stay in the house as long as Sara owns it,’” he continued. “‘After renovations are complete, she may do with the house what is in its and her best interest.’”
Mr. Bains rummaged in a desk drawer, then handed me a manila envelope closed with a metal clasp. “Enclosed is a letter she said will explain things in more detail. There’s also a copy of the will for your records. I trust any questions you have will be answered fully by the contents therein.”
We sat in silence as he gathered his things. “If no one has any questions, I have a four o’clock meeting I need to get to. I’m only a phone call away if you think of anything later.”
“Wait, wait.” I held my hand up, unable to grasp what he had just unloaded and not ready to be alone with the others and their questions. “That’s it? That’s all it says?”
“Well, there’s the letter . . .” He motioned to the envelope in my still-outstretched hand.
“But I don’t understand. I only planned to be in Sweet Bay a week. I can’t . . . She’s giving me the house?” I looked around at the familiar faces next to me. “Did any of you know about this?”
“Know she’d leave you the house, you mean?” Dot asked. “No. Although I suppose it’s silly to think she would have left it to anyone else—especially us.”
Bert cleared his throat and Major shifted in his chair. “Silly? What’s so silly about it?” Major asked.
“We’re old!” Dot said. “Why would Mags leave it to us when we’re probably not far behind her? It belongs to Sara, as it should.”
“Maybe, but we’ve all lived there for decades.” Major’s voice grew louder. “She could have at least given us a say in what happened to the house.”
Glory rested her small dark hand on Major’s beefy one. “We’re lucky Mags made any plans at all. She loved us, so of course she wants to take care of us. She would never want us turned out on the street.” She glanced at me as if looking for confirmation.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. My mind was a chalkboard wiped clean. My fingers found the edges of the folded letter inside the envelope.
“Thank you, Vernon.” Dot stood. “It’s time for us all to go home. We’ll eat, then we can talk about everything.” She looked at me. “We’ll see you at the house.”
I pried open the manila envelope before I even closed my car door. Aside from the copy of the will Mr. Bains mentioned, there were two sheets of paper. The first sheet was letterhead from First Coastal Bank with an account number stamped at the bottom. The other was Mags’s letter. I peered inside the envelope, expecting it to be empty, but it wasn’t. I turned the envelope upside down and a key slid into my open hand. It was small, the color of an old penny, and almost weightless.
Dot and the others were still moseying across the parking lot toward their cars. I pulled the letter out and started reading.
Dear Sara,
You’re probably wondering why in the world I decided to leave you the bed-and-breakfast—my refuge, my own hideaway for fifty years—when you’ve spent years building your own life in New Orleans. But aside from my dear roommates, you are my entire family. Who else could I give the house to? I’m sure at least one of them (probably Major) will disagree, but it’s my house, my choice.
As Mr. Bains read in the will, my hope is that you will do what you must to make The Hideaway beautiful. It was once, long before I stumbled on it, and it’s high time someone restored it to what it should have been all along. I let it go to make a point, but my anger has long since dried up. The place deserves to shine again and you, my dear, are the person to tackle the job. I don’t care how you do it, just give the house back its glory. After that, you can do whatever you want with it. If you decide to sell it, please give my friends enough time to make alternate plans.
Don’t worry about money. I have an account at First Coastal with your name on it. Use the money to do whatever you need.
To say The Hideaway is important to me is an understatement. I’ll go to my grave carrying memories of both sweet, miraculous love and deep, aching loss in my heart, and the house has been a witness to it all. My highest hope is that somehow, it can give you the love and strength it’s given me over the years.
I trust your vision for the house and for your future. Just remember the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.
Love,
Mags
7
MAGS
JANUARY 1960
His name was William. He told me a little about himself on our walk: woodworker. Had some pieces in local shops and galleries. Good at it, but didn’t make much money. Never married.
I gave him similarly scant details about my own life. Society life in Mobile. Balls and parties. Married. Husband huddled up in a chalet with his lover.
“Puts you in a bit of an awkward position, now, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Awkward?” I laughed. “Of all the positions it puts me in, awkward doesn’t come to mind.”
He just smiled.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “At The Hideaway, I mean. You don’t live here, do you?”
“I do. For the moment, at least. I’ve moved around with buddies the last few years. We were up in Asheville for a while, then down to Florida. I landed in Sweet Bay last year but just moved in with the charming Mrs. DeBerry a couple of weeks ago.”
We walked on. Down the path in front of us, a family piled into a motorboat, arms overflowing with jackets, blankets, and fishing poles.
“And you? What brings you here?”
“I told you. My husband left. So I did too.”
“There’s more to it than that. There always is.”
“You want to hear the whole sad story?”
“I don’t have anything else to do or anywhere else to be.” He smiled, then his brow creased. “But if it’s not something you want to talk about, I understand.”
I took a deep breath of the damp, cool air and blew it out. “I think it’s okay. Being here makes everything that’s happened seem . . . well, a little less crushing. It started before we were even engaged, so I guess you could say we got off on the wrong foot. Robert and I had been going steady for a while when he asked me to be his date to the biggest Mardi Gras ball in Mobile. A mutual friend had seen him downtown weeks earlier outside Zieman’s Jewelers, shaking hands with Mr. Zieman himself. Naturally, I expected a ring to come soon, maybe even the night of the ball.”
Just then, the boat with the little family roared to life. We paused and watched the man back the boat out of its spot alongside a covered pier, then zoom off toward deeper waters.
“Let me guess—the ring didn’t come,” William said, resuming our walk.
“Not exactly. I knew Robert was very popular—especially with the girls—but I chose to ignore the rumors. I was content knowing he’d asked me to be his date when he could have asked anyone. In hindsight, I should have paid a little more attention to those rumors.”
“It’s always easier to ignore the things we don’t really want to know.”
“Yes, well, it would have saved me some tears if I’d listened.”
In my mind, I saw the twinkling lights hanging from the ballroom rafters as if they were etched in my brain. The men at the ball were in high spirits, drunk on liquor, excitement, and the look of their ladies in floor-length, sparkling gowns. Every so often, Mother would catch my eye and smile like everything was right wi
th the world.
And it was—until AnnaBelle Whitaker entered the room.
“What happened at the ball?” William asked.
I shrugged. “He had a problem being faithful. Even back then.”
“So you left.”
“It took me a while, but yes. I left.”
“And you could have gone anywhere. Gotten in that car and put a thousand miles between you and your cheating husband. But instead you ended up here, walking beside me. Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”
“Funny?” I asked. “I’m not quite sure that’s the right word.”
I married Robert Van Buren. Handsome Robert, who came home from Korea and wanted to get to know his neighborhood pal again. But by that time, I was a woman, no longer the childhood buddy. He courted me, romanced me, and asked me to the ball, then humiliated me in front of all of Mobile. But I married him anyway! Then he did just what I, and probably everyone else in town, expected him to do—and I kept staying! After all, good wives didn’t leave their husbands, however unfaithful they were.
Without warning, a snort of laughter escaped me. William stopped walking and stared at me, but I kept laughing, unconcerned with whether I was being proper. I laughed until my stomach ached and tears dripped from my chin. I wasn’t altogether sure whether those tears were from humor or grief.
“Feel better?” he asked when my fit was finally over.
“Tons.” I wiped my eyes.
“I think this place will be good for you.” He took my hand.
I instinctively tried to pull it away, but then I thought of Robert and AnnaBelle on the dance floor at the ball, his hand on her lower back, both of them oblivious to the openmouthed stares all around them. William’s hand was large and warm and it felt good.
“You can hide out while you figure out what to do next. But I should warn you: The Hideaway tends to make people want to stay.”
He squeezed my hand, and to my surprise, I squeezed back. Life already felt different.
The Hideaway Page 4
