The Hideaway

by Lauren K. Denton

  Giving up the futile attempt, I looked up to see a man pushing the dog out the back door. “Crawford, she’s headed your way,” he yelled before closing the door on Popcorn’s protests.

  “Sorry about the commotion.” He wiped his hands on his shorts. The room smelled strangely like raw fish. “I’m Charlie Mack. How can I help you? Or do you need directions somewhere?” His gaze drifted down to my dress and sandals, a few notches too dressy for an afternoon on the bay and the affections of an exuberant Labrador.

  “Actually, I do need some help. I’m an interior designer in New Orleans, but I’m in Sweet Bay working on an old bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Is it a tear-down?”

  “No. It’s an old house and not in the best shape, but its bones are good. It’s probably best to consider everything suspect—wiring, gas lines, the whole bit. It’ll need a thorough inspection first. From there, I’m thinking about taking down a couple interior walls, updating the kitchen and baths, and a whole lot of painting.”

  He nodded and scratched out a few notes on a piece of paper he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket. When he finished, he sat back in his desk chair, his heft leaning the chair back almost horizontal. He was two-fifty easy, maybe more. Older than me, but not by much. Did the plural on Contractors mean Popcorn and him?

  “I can tell you now, we’re the right people for the job. We do everything from new construction of massive bay houses to little old ladies who want their bathrooms to look like the one they saw in last month’s Southern Living. How did you find us, anyway?”

  “Yellow Pages. I started with A.”

  He laughed. “So you called A1 first, got Earl on the phone, and quickly went on to the Bs, then found us. That’s how it works sometimes. However clients come in, we’ll take ’em.”

  “So you’re a sort of one-man, one-dog operation?”

  He laughed again. “No, it’s my buddy Crawford Hayes and me. Popcorn’s just around for laughs. She’s the company dog. Crawford’s outside, banging around on something, as he usually is when he’s not on a job site.”

  “Banging around? Should I be concerned?” I peered around Charlie to look out the back window of the office.

  “Crawford builds things, or attempts to. He’s got a work space out back. He calls it his shop, though it’s not much more than a messy hardware store. Right now, he’s building me a boathouse. I just bought a twenty-five-foot Regulator,” he said proudly. He stood and gestured for me to follow him to the back of the house. “Crawford’s the best contractor in Baldwin County, so don’t think you’re getting a country carpenter.”

  We walked out onto a deck overlooking a tidy lawn. The scrubby grass mingled with sand at the edge, and calm water lapped the shoreline. He pointed to a shed off to the side.

  “I’m lucky he let me join in this operation. It was one-man and one-dog, like you said, before I came on. Now we can take on more work together, although Crawford’s probably the one for what you need. Point him to some old, falling-down house and he’s a happy guy. I don’t have the heart the historic places require, but he’s a different story.”

  Popcorn nosed her way out of the shop just before the door opened wider and Crawford walked out. It was the second time Coastal Contractors had surprised me. I’d expected another big guy like Charlie—well past college years, but still retaining the good-natured frat boy look of too much beer and not enough exercise.

  Instead, Crawford was slim, but not skinny, with thick brown hair sticking up in front like he’d pushed it off his forehead with the back of a sweaty wrist. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his checked button-down against the late-spring warmth. His khakis had a scuff of dirt at the bottom hem and a small hole near one pocket. A pencil stuck out of his hair, tucked behind one ear. He was a far cry from Mitch’s sleek suits and power ties. He looked more like a mad scientist—albeit a cute one—than a contractor.

  “Crawford, this is . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t even get your name,” Charlie said.

  “I’m Sara Jenkins.” I held out my hand and Crawford shook it firmly. Small calluses at the base of his fingers pressed into my hand. “I tried calling a few times before I drove over, but I kept getting the machine.”

  “Sorry about that,” Crawford said. “I’ve been out here all day trying to finish up the framing on this boathouse, and Charlie—well, it looks like he’s been out fishing.”

  Charlie grinned, unapologetic. If this was how they spent their days, how did these guys make enough money to afford the nice office and shiny trucks parked out front? As if reading my mind, Crawford answered my question.

  “This isn’t a typical week for us. I just finished up two big jobs over in Point Clear on the boardwalk, and Charlie is wrapping up a house in Spanish Fort and starting another one next week. We decided to take a few days before jumping back in.”

  We went back into the tidy office and sat at the table in the middle. I explained again, this time in more detail, what I envisioned for the house.

  “I thought we were dealing with just a big house,” Crawford said when I finished. “I didn’t realize it’s a bed-and-breakfast. What’d you say the name is?”

  “I didn’t. It’s The Hideaway. In Sweet Bay.”

  I waited, but Charlie just kept scratching Popcorn’s ear and Crawford wrote the name down on his notepad and sat back in his chair. I couldn’t believe I’d found the only two people in Baldwin County who’d never heard of the place.

  Then Crawford smiled. “I’ve always wanted to see inside that house.”

  Here it comes.

  “I saw it a year or so ago by accident. Turned down the wrong driveway looking for another job site. The house was obviously in disrepair, but I could tell it had been beautiful once. I’d seen the sign before but didn’t know anything else about it. Then again, I’m not a local. How’d you get the job? Didn’t you say you’re from New Orleans?”

  “I live in New Orleans now, but I’m actually from Sweet Bay. Born and raised.”

  “No way,” Charlie said. “Don’t see too many girls around here who look so classy. No offense,” he said quickly. “But you kind of stick out like legs on a fish.”

  I smoothed my still-damp dress over my knees and ran my hand down my ponytail, making sure nothing was out of place.

  Crawford’s gaze on Charlie was a laser beam, then he shook his head and smiled. “Please excuse my partner. Sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop. And he’s used to the taste of foot in his mouth.”

  I smiled, grateful for his easy removal of awkwardness.

  “The owner hired you to redo the place?” he asked.

  He really doesn’t know anything.

  I took a deep breath. “It was my grandmother’s house, and she just passed away. In her will, she gave me the house and asked me to renovate it. It used to be very different from what it is now. It was written up in magazines and everything. But over the years, I guess the clientele changed. People who checked in usually ended up living there. I know it sounds strange,” I said, seeing his eyebrows rise. “I have no idea how she ever had the money to keep the place going.”

  “Sounds like a beast of a project.” Charlie grinned.

  “I don’t know about that, but I do need professionals to come in and tell me just how bad it is. The place has always been a little wild. Four of my grandmother’s friends still live there, and I’m staying there for the time being, so the house will be occupied during renovations. We’ll need to work on it in stages, I suppose, rather than ripping it all up at once.”

  “You’re staying in town during the work?” Crawford asked. “I would have expected you to set the plans in motion, then hightail it back home.”

  I uncrossed then recrossed my legs, uncomfortable with his laser beam directed at me. I smoothed my hair down again.

  “I considered it, but there’s so much work to do. Rather than spend the next several weeks on the phone checking on things here, I’m treating it like a normal job. I’ll see it thr
ough to the end, then hightail it back.”

  Crawford held my gaze for a moment, then looked at Charlie, who nodded.

  “We’d love to take on the job,” Crawford said. “I’m biased, but I think we’re the best ones by far to do the work. As Charlie probably told you, old houses are my thing. I’d love to get in there and peel back the layers on this one. If you’ll have us, of course.”

  Charlie leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his considerable girth. Crawford sat closer to the table, fingers twirling a pencil, eyes on me. Popcorn whined at the door, waiting to be let out.

  “Sure. Of course. You’re hired.”

  “Okay then,” Crawford said, a smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “When can I see it?”

  That evening, in the purple dusk after sunset, I strolled out into the backyard. An old streetlight attached to a wooden beam marked the path to Mags’s vegetable garden. It wasn’t what it used to be—rows of tilled earth straight as an arrow, little markers noting what each row contained, tall wooden spikes to stake the tomato plants—but it was clear Mags had been doing her best to keep the garden up. The rows weren’t as obvious and some of the markers were missing, but from what remained, it looked like there’d be a bounty of snap beans, purple-hull peas, and cucumbers later in the summer.

  The garden sat adjacent to the house and overlooked the bay. Mags used to say that, sitting in the garden, she could see everything that was important to her—the house, her plants peeking their heads through the soil, the water making its unhurried way to the Gulf. She could listen to the voices of her friends and the laughter of seagulls.

  Memories surfaced as I settled down on the worn bench. I used to run barefoot up and down the deliberate rows of fertile soil, flapping my arms to scare away the crows. I’d squat over delicate strawberry vines, the aroma of dirt and life permeating the air, and carefully choose the plump, red berries that Bert would later use in his not-yet-famous strawberry pie. Even as a teenager, I welcomed the chore, eating at least as many berries as would end up in my basket. Sitting there in the falling dark, I could imagine the furry skin on my tongue, the tiny seeds popping, a burst of summer sweetness in each bite.

  I ran my hand over the surface of the bench next to me. It was a gnarled, weather-beaten thing, but beautiful in its own way. No frills, just cedar boards fastened with wooden nails and dovetail joints. It still bore remnants of an old coat of green paint.

  As my fingers rounded the edge, they found an indentation in the wood on the underside of the bench. I took it for another mark from a carpenter bee, but as I rubbed it, a shape began to emerge. I got down on my knees and peered underneath. As I tipped the bench back, the glow from the light fell across the wood and revealed the engraving of an old skeleton key.

  I recognized that key.

  Mags’s headstone had been simple—it bore her name and the dates of her birth and death. It wasn’t until after the graveside service that I noticed the carving at the very bottom. It was a small key, just like this one, along with the words, “You hold the key to my heart.”

  I never knew my grandfather, though I’d always referred to him as Granddaddy. My mom was only a few years old when he died, so her memories of him were few. Anytime I asked Mags about him, she just repeated that it was a tragic, too-early heart attack but wouldn’t offer any more information. She was single my whole life. No other romantic interests that I knew of. It seemed strange that she would have made such a public pronouncement of love for her long-gone husband when I’d never once heard her talk about him, other than the few times I’d asked. The sentiment seemed too romantic for my simple, often stoic grandmother.

  But she chose to add a last whisper of love on her headstone. Could it have been for someone other than Granddaddy?

  14

  MAGS

  APRIL 1960

  Mrs. DeBerry didn’t show up for her usual morning toast and pot of tea out in the yard. A few of us stood outside her bedroom door. I knocked but got no response.

  “Maybe she died in her sleep,” Starla whispered. “What? It happens,” she said when we shushed her. “She was old. Maybe her ticker gave out.”

  I knocked again. “Y’all were up late last night. Did any of you notice anything? Maybe she fell.”

  “No, nothing,” Gary said.

  “You wouldn’t have noticed a garbage truck if it had rumbled through the living room,” Starla said, laughing.

  “I can’t help it if—”

  I cut off their banter by pushing open the door. Inside, Mrs. DeBerry’s small room was neat and clean. And empty. The furniture remained, but every personal item was gone. The dresser top was bare, and pale squares stood out on the walls where frames had hung for decades.

  I backed out of the room and bumped into Daisy.

  “Oh, Maggie, I was just looking for you. This was on the kitchen counter this morning.” Daisy handed me a creamy envelope—heavy paper, fine stationery—with my name printed on it. “That’s Mrs. DeBerry’s handwriting,” she said.

  As Starla, Daisy, and the others talked over each other, trying to decide what exactly had happened, I retreated up to my room. On the way, I tore open the envelope and pulled out the card inside.

  Maggie,

  It just got to be too much. I hope you of all people will understand. I can tell you come from good people and you’ll take care of the house as it deserves. The spare key is under the pansies on the back porch and six extra sets of sheets are in the closet in my bedroom. Call Ned Lemon if the pilot light goes out.

  I sat on my bed and dropped the card on the quilt next to me. Mrs. DeBerry had said her good-bye to me the night she gave me the mink and I hadn’t even realized it. She’d gone through the house, taking what was important to her, and left everything else for us to figure out.

  “Who else would she have asked?” William said when I escaped to his workshop to give him the news. “No way would she trust the others around here who float in and out of the house all day and night.”

  “People don’t just go leaving houses to strangers.”

  “She must have seen what I see in you. You’re smart, hardworking, and determined. You do what needs to be done. Think of it this way—you want something different out of life, right?”

  I nodded.

  “This could turn out to be a very good thing for you. Maybe even for us.”

  I leaned into him and closed my eyes. “This is insane. What do I know about running a bed-and-breakfast?”

  He wrapped his arms around my back. “We’ll figure it out together. And anyway, what else do you have to do?”

  I could have thrown out a dozen reasons why I wasn’t a good candidate to take over the house, but as I stood there wrapped in William’s arms, the idea began to take root in my mind. After all, with no husband to support me, no formal job training, and no money other than the check from Daddy, I didn’t have much going for me.

  But there was something else. This house had offered me a respite, a shelter from the storms in my life. And it had given me William. If taking over the house would allow us to stay safe and undisturbed in The Hideaway’s cocoon, then that’s what I would do.

  That night around the dinner table, William and I told everyone about Mrs. DeBerry’s departure and the note she left behind. A stunned silence met us, then everyone began to talk at once. A few were angry and some were distraught, thinking they’d lose what had essentially become the ideal artists’ retreat. But most were satisfied and gave me their blessing, just as William had predicted.

  “It’s okay with me if you run the place,” Starla said. “You’ve turned out to be all right. At least you’re not wearing that pillbox hat anymore.” She grinned at me and I returned the smile.

  “I don’t exactly have experience running a business.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Starla said. “How hard can it be?”

  As the conversation around the table grew lively, I saw what The Hideaway could be under my care. Mrs.
DeBerry likely hoped I’d be the one to turn it back into the pillar of Southern hospitality it used to be. True, it would be a place for hospitality, but not the kind she had in mind. No ladies in hats and gloves and no dashing men—not unless they bore wood dust on their legs or carried a paintbrush in their hands.

  William carved a new sign for the house. He worked hard on it, making sure each letter was smooth and perfect.

  “This could be your ticket to fame and fortune,” he said once we pulled off the side of the road next to the old, faded sign. “People will come from all over just to see your Hideaway. You just wait.”

  I helped him heft the enormous wooden sign out of the back of his truck.

  “I’m proud of you,” he continued. “You can make something of yourself here—something that’s just you.”

  I stayed silent as we leaned the new sign up against the post of the old one. His insinuation that I hadn’t been my own person before didn’t sit well. But hadn’t I said it myself? Wasn’t it true? I’d been fit into a mold before, and I was only now experiencing life with full breaths of air and space to move.

  We stood back against the truck to admire the sign. It was perfect. It would guide just the right kind of traveler to The Hideaway. Not those looking for a resort or a game of badminton on the lawn, but those folks who needed a place to stay. A place to call home.

  15

  MAGS

  APRIL 1960

  The warmer spring temperatures allowed us to finally stow our blankets and heavy soup pots. When I wasn’t working in the house or helping William with odd jobs in his wood shop, we made light meals of sandwiches or grilled fish, listened to music, and spent long afternoon hours in the cove, our pale limbs stretched out on a towel to soak up the spring sun.

  One evening, I found a can of bright blue-green paint on a shelf in his workshop. On a whim I grabbed the can, a paintbrush, and a box of sandpapers and carried it all to the front porch. Using a firm hand and long strokes I’d learned from watching William, I sanded the peeling paint off the shutters and door, then covered them with fresh paint. Later, I blew my damp hair out of my eyes and stepped back into the driveway to examine my work.